Keeper of The Fruit Loops

The Night My Husband And I Had Sex With Another Couple. Sort Of.

April 26, 2023
The night my husband and I had sex with another couple.

When you are newly married, finding time for sex is a no-brainer. You can pretty much get busy anytime, anywhere (within reason, of course). All it takes is a glance from across the room and a “You wanna?” to find your way down the road of sexual connection.

However, after twenty-five years of marriage, two kids, and demanding jobs, making room for sexy time requires planning, scheduling, and just the right amount of magic. And, in the absence of the stars aligning (read: your teens simultaneously out of the house at the same time for a few hours), sometimes extra effort has to be made in order to properly scratch that long-overdue marital itch.

Enter the romantic getaway weekend.

A few years ago, fueled by a desire to finally have some “clothing optional” time, my husband and I planned a getaway to a quaint Northeast town on the water known for its picturesque streets and romantic restaurants. We were giddy as we waved goodbye to our teens and set out on the drive that should have taken two hours, tops.

Six hours later, however, bad weather, traffic snarls, and road closures found us pulling into our boutique hotel well after dark and much later than we’d planned. Both road weary and crabby, we settled for a quick meal at a local pub as we tried to salvage what was left of that “in the mood” feeling.

No such luck.

By the time we checked in to our hotel, dragged our bags to our room, and briefly admired the gorgeous, now darkened view from our room, the sexy train had left the station.

We both promptly fell into bed, exhausted, with a promise to rekindle in the morning after a good night’s sleep.

A solid plan, or so we thought.

About an hour after we fell asleep, I was awakened by the sounds of giggling in the room next door. 

A man’s voice, hushed and shushing his companion.

A woman’s giggle.

Water running, a toilet flush, and the sounds of a couple settling in for the night came through what I now realized were paper-thin walls.

And then the moaning started.

And the shrieking.

And the headboard banging.

Not knowing what to do and silently cursing my husband’s ability to sleep through anything, I bolted out of bed and took refuge in the bathroom to regroup. 

As I sat on the edge of the bathtub, I realized I could still hear the shenanigans next door. And things weren’t slowing down anytime soon, from the sound of it.

Desperate to escape my awkward embarrassment of being a third wheel at a sex party, I tried to watch Netflix on my phone. But, somehow, I couldn’t “Netflix and chill” while perched on the side of the tub.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened to reveal my husband, groggy and half-asleep. 

“Uh, are you watching porn in here?” he asked, with a confused look on his face.

In his sleepy state and upon seeing me with my phone, combined with the boisterous cacophony of noises next door, my husband assumed that I’d escaped our warm romantic bed to watch porn from a hotel bathroom.

I have never laughed so hard in my life.

After clearing up his confusion, my husband convinced me to go back to bed. He told me to try and ignore the couple going for gold in their sex Olympic games. With a pillow over my head, I tossed and turned, and no matter how I tried, I could not escape the sounds of the sizzling sex scene happening between me and the wall.

“They have to stop eventually, right?” I asked my husband. 

And then things went from bad to hell.

With a mix of shrieking and breathlessness, the woman began yelling her paramour’s name at the top of her lungs, over and over and over.

His name was the same as my husband’s.

Because, of course, it was.

With the sounds of my husband’s name reverberating from the next room and after three hours of trying to muscle through someone’s best night of sex ever, we’d given it our best shot. 

We quickly packed our bags and padded down to the hotel lobby at 230 am in hopes of being moved to a different room.

After hearing our romantic getaway story from hell, a very contrite clerk took in our middle-aged sleep-deprived faces and had mercy on us. She quickly upgraded us to a suite on the other end of the hotel. She told us that our new room was on a floor that was mostly empty due to renovations.

“You’ll have the whole floor to yourselves,” she said with a wink.

Just like that, our weekend went from hell to hello, lover.

And, in the morning, while we sat at breakfast after a much-needed romantic night in a suite, we spent the entire time trying to figure out who the couple was in room 227.

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