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A few months ago, I told my wife that my buddy Jake, a tall, ripped gym rat, was coming over to crash at our place for the weekend. I figured it’d be chill. My wife has always been solid, or so I thought.
The day Jake shows up, she decides to dress like she’s out to wreck me. She’s wearing a tiny skirt, so short her ass is practically hanging out, showcasing every curve as she moves. Her top is a flimsy, low-cut tank, no bra, her breasts nearly spilling out with every movement. It’s not just sexy; it’s in-your-face, like she’s daring everyone to stare. I’m sitting there, my stomach twisting, while she prances around our living room.
We’re drinking heavily, the night blurring into a haze of wine and music. She’s serving drinks, bending over right in front of Jake, inches from his face, lingering just long enough to make it awkward. “Whoops,” she laughs, spilling wine on her chest, then wiping it off slowly, her fingers grazing her cleavage while locking eyes with him. She keeps tugging at her top, flashing more skin than necessary. I’m right there, but it’s like I’m invisible.
Then it gets worse. She cranks up the music, some thumping club beat, calling us boring for not doing anything fun. She tries to get me off the couch to dance, but I refuse, and immediately, she turns to him, grabs his hand, and starts dancing with him. Not just dancing, but grinding, her ass brushing his crotch. Jake’s hands are on her waist, pulling her closer, and she’s giggling, tossing her hair. They’re moving like I’m not even in the room, her body pressed against his, all slow and deliberate. I’m on the couch, gripping my drink, feeling my face burn while they laugh and whisper about “dance moves.”
Later, she’s glued to him on the couch, her thigh pressed against his, her hand resting on his arm like it’s her territory and his hand resting between her thighs. They’re deep in conversation about gym routines, and she gets up, turns around with his face inches from her ass, and asks, “Jake, how do I make my ass even bigger?” with a flirty little pout. He’s grinning, telling her she’s already “fucking perfect,” but he’s happy to “show her a few moves.” His hand’s on her ass, not just resting, but squeezing.
She grabs his phone, types in her number, saying she’ll “text him for tips,” winking like it’s their little secret. Jake says he needs before and after pictures, especially when they start his training, and also every day.
I was so trashed I crawled to my room and passed out cold, leaving them to do God-knows-what while I was out. I woke up the next day feeling like I’d been kicked in the balls. I confronted her, my voice shaking, about the grinding, the touching, and the way she was basically throwing herself at my friend in our own house. She snapped back, all defensive, saying I’m “overreacting” and she was “just having fun.” Fun? You were practically dry-humping my buddy in front of me.
Am I losing it, or did she cross a line so far it’s basically cheating?