My hands shook as I held the phone. The screen was misty and faint - at first I thought I had dialed down on the brightness, then I realized tears were clouding my vision. I looked up again at the world around me: a nondescript little café, selling homemade cinnamon rolls over the counter that were my husband's favorite. He always said the taste reminded him of faraway home. Home was China, strangely enough, but there you had it: as it turned out his grandmother sold cinnamon rolls in a shop somewhere back in the heart of the mainland.
I continued watching the video. The video was of a room, a hotel room maybe, but certainly a bedroom. The lower half of the video was covered in white pristine bedsheets, slightly crumpled. There were pillows, which in any other time and condition would make the bed very welcome indeed. There was a screen - a huge television. The walls were gray, drab, plain, but what held my interest was not architecture.
There on the screen, my husband of six years, was planking above a man, fucking a man who was definitely not me. My husband, my dear beloved, my partner of six long-suffering years, years of lean and doubt and failure among others, was giving his undeniably large cock into someone else. I watched as his hips hit a strident tattoo into the ass of the unknown man, whose face was in those initial minutes of the clip was out of view of the camera. Shit. My man really got some moves on him, no wonder he scored that ass.
