I think people assume that because I’m a horny fuck and a willing cuck, I automatically enjoy every single aspect of my relationship. That’s not really true. Most of it? Absolutely. I love being involved. I love serving. I love helping. I love seeing my girlfriend happy, desired, and having the time of her life. But there is one particular situation that always leaves me feeling cheated, and that’s when she goes on a date with another guy and everything happens somewhere else.

Now before anyone accuses me of getting jealous, that’s not really what’s going on. I want her to go out. I want her to have fun. I love that she has experiences that don’t revolve around me. The problem is that I’m a participant at heart. If she’s home, I can help. I can serve drinks, give massages, fetch things, clean up afterward, or just enjoy watching her have a great time. Even when I’m not the center of attention, I’m still part of the experience.

When she’s gone, I’m just left imagining.

And unfortunately, my imagination is a dangerous place.

The entire evening turns into me wondering what they’re doing. Are they at dinner? Are they flirting? Are they making out in the parking lot like teenagers? Did he say something funny that made her laugh? Did she wear that dress I like? Did he get them a hotel room? Which panty and bra set did she choose? Every little detail becomes something I obsess over while I’m sitting at home trying to pretend I’m watching television.

Then she comes home.

And that’s where the real torture begins.

She’ll walk through the door with that look. You know the look. The one that says she had a fantastic evening and knows exactly how curious I am. I’ll immediately start fishing for information, trying to act casual while asking questions that aren’t remotely casual.

How was dinner?

Did you have fun?

What was he like?

What did you guys do afterward?

She always answers just enough to keep me interested while withholding enough to drive me completely fucking insane.

I swear she enjoys that part more than the date itself.

The funny thing is that she knows exactly how my brain works. She knows I want details. She knows I want stories. She knows that if she gives me ninety percent of the information and keeps the last ten percent to herself, I’ll spend the next three days of my pathetic life trying to fill in the blanks.

And honestly, she’s probably right.

So while everybody assumes the difficult part of being a cuckold is watching another man with your woman, I’ve found the opposite is often true. Watching means I know what’s happening. Watching means I’m included. Watching means I get to see her smile, hear her laugh, and enjoy the moment with her.

It’s the not knowing that gets me.

The mystery.

The curiosity.

The fact that somewhere out there is a story I wasn’t allowed to see.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself over the years, it’s that I’m apparently willing to do an awful lot of service in exchange for a few extra details.