Husband Turns Gay: Chapter 7

Abstract: The 7th of 16 chapters.
Amy and David's sex life stalls. Amy finds out he's exclusively into men and has been cheating on her.
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The garage door rattled open with a mechanical groan as Amy pulled her car inside. Getting out, her rollerboard thudding to the concrete floor. Six months had blurred by since Troy's reassignment. He was abruptly taken off Amy's crew and reassigned to Central and South American routes. No reason was given, but they suspect the airline found out about their ongoing affair and wanted them separated.

Troy's texts from Bogotá and São Paulo fading to polite check-ins, then nothing. No more layover hookups in sterile hotel rooms, no more that electric pull of shared flights turning into shared beds. Now, she was back after a long red-eye from Tokyo, her body clock scrambled. She kicked off her heels, padding barefoot toward the house door.

Inside, the kitchen smelled of stale coffee and something faintly metallic. David was at the sink, sleeves shoved up his forearms, scrubbing a pan with more force than necessary. His beard had grown bushier, threaded with a few more grays, and the button-down shirt hung looser on his frame—he'd been working overtime at the warehouse, coming home wired and distant. Amy dropped her bag by the fridge, put her arms around him and hugged his back as he faced the sink. "Miss me?" she asked, her voice light but probing.

David glanced up, his eyes flicking over her before dropping back to the suds. "Yeah, how was the flight?" He rinsed the pan, setting it on the rack with a clink that felt too final. No hug, no grab at her waist like before. Just that mechanical rhythm, like he'd rehearsed it.

Amy stepped back, crossed her arms, feeling the weight of the silence stretch. Their sex life had sputtered out like a faulty lighter—quick missionary under the covers when she pushed, or nothing at all. She'd tried talking, last month over takeout, her hand on his thigh. "What's going on, David? You seem... checked out." He'd shrugged, muttering about the increasing workload and a prick of a new supervisor, his gaze anywhere but her. But she knew better.

The shared desktop in the den, that relic from their early days, had become her quiet detective. While he was at work, she'd peeked—gone were the MMF clips that had sparked their wild nights with Troy, the ones where he'd confessed his fantasies in the dark, stroking himself as she rode him. Now it was all men: solo dudes with ripped abs pounding each other in dimly lit clubs, gangbangs where one guy took three cocks at once, leather straps and whips cracking across bound backs. S&M scenes that made her stomach twist—intense, raw, no women in sight.

She'd confronted him that night, heart pounding as they lay in bed, the sheets cool between them. "Are you turning gay?" she'd asked, half-joking, half-terrified. David had rolled toward her, his hand on her hip, voice steady. "No, babe. Just fantasizing more about sex with men. Doesn't mean I don't want you." But his touch had been perfunctory, and she'd faked sleep, the words hanging like smoke.

Now, in the kitchen light, she pushed off the counter, stepping close enough to feel the heat off his back. "Flight was fine. Turbulence over the Pacific, but nothing I couldn't handle." Her fingers trailed up his arm, nails grazing the dark hair there, testing. He stiffened, just a fraction, before turning off the faucet. "Good. You hungry? I can heat up leftovers."

She pressed against him from behind, her breasts soft against his shoulder blades, lips brushing his ear. "Not for food." It was bold, desperate even—their dynamic had always thrived on her initiative, her pulling him into the fire. Back when Troy was in the mix, once a month like clockwork, David's hesitation melted into that hungry edge, watching her with another man before joining in. But now? She needed to reignite it, drag him back from whatever rabbit hole his mind had burrowed into.

David set the sponge down, turning to face her, his hands settling on her waist. There was a flicker in his eyes—recognition, maybe lust—but it dimmed quick. "Amy, I'm beat. Long week." He kissed her forehead, stepped back to dry his hands, then walked out of the kitchen.

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Amy's suitcase wheels clattered over the airport tile like a bad omen as she stormed through the terminal, the early light filtering through the glass walls in harsh slants. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—David again, probably some half-assed apology text—but she ignored it, shoving the device deeper into her jacket.

The confrontation replayed in her mind: that silver bracelet, chunky links etched with a faint engraving she couldn't read in the dim bedroom light, caught up and tangled in the vacuum under their king-sized bed while she was cleaning. David's face had crumpled when she held it up, his initial denial crumbling under her barrage of questions. "It's nothing, babe. Must've been from a work buddy or something." Bullshit.

By the time she'd wrung the truth out of him—nights at some gay dive bar called "The Velvet Rope," where he'd met this guy, Gary, and yeah, they'd been fucking for months—Amy's blood was boiling. "You lying, pathetic, fucking, piece of shit! I fucking hate you!" she'd spat, slamming the vacuum into the closet. No more. She was done playing the understanding wife while he chased dick on the sly.

While in the ladies room at the crew lounge before boarding her flight, she sat on the toilet in the stall. Her anger turned into sadness, then betrayal, then gut-wrenching hurt as tears started flowing. She cried uncontrollably, quietly, trying her best not to be heard by the other ladies in the room. She managed to rise, go to the wash basin, wash her face, and redo her make-up as best she could. When she exited the ladies room, her crew noticed Amy was suffering some sort of emotional trauma. They said nothing leaving to board their flight.