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The seeds of cuckoldry truly took root under the predatory neon of the city’s club scene. I began pushing Kristen to dress with a calculated, “slutty” bravado—outfits that felt like a dare to every man in the room. I’ll never forget the night she wore the “silver slip.” It was a micro-mini dress made of a fabric so thin it looked like liquid mercury, clinging to her athletic thighs and offering a frequent, teasing glimpse of the black lace underneath whenever she moved. I didn’t hold her hand that night. Instead, I stood five feet back, a silent observer, watching the room realize she was “available” for the gaze.
I watched as the “vanilla” Kristen tried to navigate the attention. I saw a man, broad-shouldered and smelling of expensive gin, lean into her space at the bar. Usually, she would have retreated to my side. But I caught her eye from across the room and gave a slow, deliberate nod. I watched her stay. I watched her laugh as he placed a hand on the small of her back—his fingers inches away from the skin I had claimed for years. The adrenaline was a physical weight in my chest, a pulsing, rhythmic heat as I watched another man “mark” her with his attention. When we got to the car, she was trembling, her breath hitching as she recounted the way he looked at her chest. I didn’t comfort her; I fed the fire. I told her he was right to look. I told her that seeing her through his eyes was the most honest I’d ever felt.