have to pull the car over.
we’d been on a bus, I’d have yanked on the cord and
led him off, however short we were of our destination.
If we’d been in an elevator, I’d have exited regardless
of how not-our-floor it was. Maybe a restaurant would
have changed things slightly, as we'd already have
been stationary. But being in motion when he said
what he said, my compulsion was to regain control...by
stopping. So I pulled over.
that. Please.” “Yeah,” he sighed, staring off into
the half-completed subdivision, caught midway between
muddy field and gated community. “I know. I’ve been
thinking maybe I need to work on a presentation. Something
YouTubish. More user-friendly.”
do realize that if we were driving...if I even had
a car to drive...I’d be pulling over about now.”
I'm a big enough girl to know when to let a man run.
Especially when either sex or emotions are involved.
So I wait.
can't be serious!” he maintains, waiting for me to
deliver the punch line, the retraction, the stinging
smack of remonstrative fury.
Waiting just a few more heartbeats...timing is everything,
after all...I take his face in my hands and kiss him.
Not a ‘This is your first notice that I’m hot and
I want to go to bed with you’ kiss, it’s a distinct
‘I love you and I want to make things right’’ kiss.
“I am. Entirely serious,” I add, swimming about in
the knowledge that if he's been out of practice for
as long as he maintains...and he's still a good kisser...no,
I mean a great kisser, a fantastic kisser...then once
he's properly back in the saddle... Then I consider
that if he makes love with the same amount of instinct,
of adventure, of oomph...and I have to look away for
a second. And I shiver. Because then, if that's true
(and really, there's no doubt in my mind about it),
then nothing I've proposed to him is preposterous
at all. In fact, it all makes perfect sense. “Trust
you!? You, I trust implicitly. What I don't trust-”
Up go his hands. The Human Stop Sign, doubled. “I
appreciate that you're all close. Impossibly close
Half Dozen. That's us.”
'witchy-coven' rhyme with 'half-dozen'?”
you calling us witches?”
More bonus points for you.”
Shaking his head...shrugging his shoulders...dashing
off a series of facial expressions that I'm going
to have to indulge myself and believe are the manly-man's
equivalent of the fairer sex's 'weak at the knees'...he
finally manages to get something out. “My mouth is
dry...my mind feels like it's made of round building
blocks, I can't put thoughts together...”
this...?” I decide that grasping his crotch is the
best way to punctuate my question. No surprise there;
I do pride myself on being a communicator. I gaze
down at what I’m knurling between thumb and fingers.
Admittedly, here I go all goofy. “So the shock aside,
the notion clearly appeals.”
A roll of the eyes, then he responds. “You're asking
a man who may as well have taken an actual vow of
celibacy whether he wants to be re-initiated into
the world of prurience, of salacious endeavors, to
be given a tour of the multi-chambered mansion known
as 'Every Carnal Desire House' by a statistically-impossible
retinue of gorgeous, beguiling, scintillating women,
each to guide me through a separate room in this building,
with your blessing, the very week of wedding-”
Again, I kiss. I've a lot of faith in The Kiss. Perhaps
all my faith springs from it. I kiss him and I feel
both his ease and his erection increase. ”Actually,
I'm asking if you'd like to have your 'bachelor party',
your 'stag-night' spread out over six evenings. And
have it be a lot more engaging and interactive than
just about any ever thrown...”
fiancée choreographing it all, live-and-in-person.”
I never promised you conventionality.”
It was agreed that this 'progressive deflowering'
take place at each of my friends' abodes. Even with
the undeniably piquant aspect of it all, from a practical
point of view, keeping the marriage bed sacred seemed
wise. I would be giving my soon-to-be husband to my
closest friends before I'd received him myself, even
if this was a one-off deal. We weren't embarking on
a swinger's lifestyle, so best to set out clear boundaries.
'Locale' was the first.
Dillain's place suits her lifestyle. It's a high-rise
lakefront condo: sharp lines, chrome, and white. A
minimalist's playground. She's a quiet player in the
world of 'investments' (No, I've never understood
what she does and really, she's never been one to
share.), so there's something especially befitting
about a residence that doesn't reveal all that much
about its owner.
Cal and I ride up the elevator. Its speed, its motion,
the burr vibrating up through the soles of our feet,
everything about the brief trip reflects tonight.
This is proven by his confession as the doors close.
“I feel beyond nervous.”
I'm not expecting a frown in response.
on! This isn't supposed to be stressful! It's going
to be fun! Blowjobs are always fun!” I stare back
at the bright illumination migrating across the numbers
above the door. “At least they have been in my world.”
“You are not going to get all jealous on me now! I'm
the one who's going to watch you with another woman!”
off, it would be envy. Jealousy is insecurity within
a situation where you already have something. Your
sex-life occurred before we became 'us'. So 'envious'
would be more appropriate. Secondly...should you ever
want to have me watch you with another woman...”
A sonorous 'bing!' rings out, and we're no longer
in motion. I kiss him on the cheek as I hook my arm
in his. “Darlin'... Surely you understood that part
of the closeness of my 'coven'...”
Truth be told, I'm not sure who's more nervous.
Dillain waits for us outside her apartment, reminiscent
of what she was like in high school: Big Woman On
Campus. Leaning up against the door-jamb. Back straight.
One foot flat against that wall. Arms crossed. Looking
for all the world like some conquering hero. (Which
she always was.) “Hey,” she finally says as we arrive
in front of her. “I need to consult the form book
before we begin.”