The Betrayal of a Wife

Swapping wives—yeah, most folks would probably react with shock, fear, and then disgust or even contempt. But some people, after giving it a moral thumbs-down, can't help but wonder, "What if I tried it?" Curiosity kicks in, and maybe even a bit of longing.

I'm Kevin Smith, and I'm definitely one of those guys.

If you knew my wife, you'd probably wonder why I'd even think about swinging. My wife, Sophia Brown, is drop-dead gorgeous. The first time I saw her, she stole my heart. After chasing her relentlessly, I finally got to marry her, much to the envy of a lot of guys. She was perfect to me—looks, body, soul, the whole package. Four years in, I still loved her just as much. But love, as they say, isn't everything.

Someone smart once said, "The hotter the flame, the faster it burns out."

People say marriage is where love goes to die, but I don't buy that. If love is like a wild ride in a Mercedes-Benz, full of thrills and surprises, then marriage is more like a comfortable train – steady, reliable, but maybe a little… predictable. After we got married, my life felt like that train, going somewhere but stuck on the same old track.

And lately, it felt like that train was headed for a wreck. The economy was in the toilet, competition at work was cutthroat, and the pressure was insane. For the past two years, I'd been pulling constant overtime at my ad agency, practically living at the office. Sophia was in the same boat, teaching extra classes at the art center just to keep the lights on.

We'd come home exhausted, shower, and crash. Sophia would joke, "This place isn't a home anymore. It's just a place to sleep."

Yeah, I felt our love was getting dull, like our busy schedules were just masking it.

We still shared a bed and felt each other's love, but the passion was gone. Sex was a chore, maybe once every two weeks, sometimes even less. We were just going through the motions, not even bothering to mix things up.

Typically, when I initiated, Sophia would lie there, ready. Once I was inside her, she'd instinctively unclasp her bra. When I was about to finish, she'd close her eyes and moan along with me until it was over. When she was in the mood, it was much the same. She liked it when I spooned her, holding her breasts while I thrust. We'd kiss afterward, like closing a book on another predictable chapter.

It was all… perfunctory. Technically perfect, but the passion was gone.

I'd seen stuff about wife swapping online. Browsing adult sites, I'd click on those links, intrigued. But I never thought it would be something I'd actually consider.

This all started around Sophia's twenty-eighth birthday. Maybe the idea had already been planted, but I hadn't consciously acknowledged it. The night before her birthday, we planned to celebrate at home with dinner. To make sure I didn't disappoint her, I got to the office early, hoping to finish a day's work quickly. But in the afternoon, an urgent order came in. The group had changed the promotion policy due to budget issues, and we needed to redo a plan to present the next morning. I was stuck, and with time running out, I had to drag my team into overtime.

"Background analysis, market analysis, theme derivation, implementation plan..." When I dived into work, I silenced my phone and lost track of time, even skipping dinner, completely forgetting about Sophia's birthday. At 11:30 PM, I finally wrapped up the plan, feeling dizzy from the workload. I took a deep breath and suddenly remembered there was something important I had forgotten. When I realized I had promised Sophia to celebrate her birthday, I quickly checked my phone and saw over a dozen missed calls. I cursed myself, said goodbye to my colleagues, and rushed home.

By the time I got home, it was already 12:30 AM. The dining room lights were still on, probably left on by Sophia for me. Seeing the unopened cake and the table full of dishes, guilt washed over me. I opened the bedroom door, and the bedside lamp was on, but Sophia seemed to be asleep.

But I knew she wasn't really asleep. I lay down beside her, hugged her, and gently said, "Happy birthday." I was about to apologize, but she immediately pushed my hand away, sat up, and let all her pent-up emotions explode. She said I made her feel worthless and that I clearly didn't care about her birthday or her feelings. Years of pent-up frustrations came pouring out.

I held her hand, kept apologizing, explained the sudden work emergency, and admitted I was a jerk for not calling her. But Sophia wasn't having it; she vented everything at once. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't calm her down. Exhausted from the day, I lost my patience, and we ended up having a huge fight. She pushed me out of the room crying, and I spent the night on the couch.

For the next few weeks, she gave me the silent treatment. The breakfast she usually made for me disappeared, and every day when I got home, she'd be reading or pretending to sleep, treating me like I was invisible.

Once, I tried to initiate sex. I reached for her, and she recoiled like I'd burned her.

After a month of this, I was at my wit's end. I tried to apologize, but her icy glares made me feel like a criminal in my own home. I thought, 'This is my house too! Why am I being treated like this?'

So I started ignoring her back. The days blurred into a cycle of high-pressure work and icy silence at home. I felt like I was about to collapse, thinking this marriage might be coming to an end.

I started staying out after work, wandering around the park, which was full of happy couples, only making me feel worse. I was suffocating.

The bar became my refuge. I'd sit alone, nursing a drink, watching everyone else's happiness from a distance. I drank until I couldn't tell if I was drunk or just bone-tired, and then I'd drag myself back to that cold, empty apartment.

And that was when she walked in.