Life as Story Pt. 01

If my instinctive reaction to the husband was surprise, fear, fascination and compliance, to the wife it was determined and aggressive — I held that thought as I thrust into her: could this really be me?

It was. I thrust almost angrily, it was her expectation, her insistence, her impassivity — unlike her husband's pleasure, she was making me feel like I was servicing her and the spectator looking at me curiously only heightened the impression and then I remembered it and I wanted it, I needed it. I pulled out, insistently twisted her hips, demanding she turn. She did and in moments the elegant regal was lewdly on all fours in front of me, the gaping, hairy pudenda open for my taking and I took it and as I did her husband was standing next to the bed, leaning in with one hand balancing on his wife's back as I took him again in my mouth.

It was shame I was feeling when I fell face down on the bed and I would have stayed there like that if Sally hadn't coaxed me to turn over and my head was on her lap and she was leaning over me kissing me, friendly kisses, reassuring kisses as she caressed my chest.

I watched Patricia as she got dressed, watched her bend over to put on her panties, noticing that her breasts barely moved, noticing the light flimsy yellow material travel up the full length of her elegant legs, noticing the quick efficiency of the application of her bra and the donning of the dress like the closing of the curtains and then we were all on our feet, and I was being propelled out of the room and down the stairs and I was kissing her and shaking his hand and they were gone and I turned away and she was sitting on the stairs, crouching forward, her breasts on her knees. She was smiling, she was accepting, she was beautiful.

She wanted a drink, she didn't care that she ... we ... were naked in the living room drinking, saying nothing, both with our own memories, both replaying the evening, both, no doubt, arriving at the reality that while I was engaged physically with the visiting family, she was detached.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know how to handle that."

She grinned. "You handled that rather well, I thought. In fact, I thought you were the star."

"The star.' I chuckled at the absurdity.

She stood up facing me with her nudity, confronting me with her nudity, daring me with her nudity.

"You're a beautiful woman. Do you need this kind of thing?"

"Need?" She seemed to be deeply considering the word. "I had great sex in my marriage, I loved having sex with my husband ... I always intended to get back into it when I found the right guy. I never have. But I believe in the use it or lose it line; I've masturbated a lot, I've used a lot of porn — I wanted to be ready if the right guy came along." She started walking out of the room, taking her glass and the bottle with her. She has a very nice ass for her age and I never bothered trying to hide what her wonderfully full and heavy breasts were doing to me.

I followed her up, of course, and lay down beside her on the bed.

"Was that hard for you, sucking his cock?"

I answered, I didn't have to think about it and anyway, she was making this strangely easy to talk about. "Alas, no but I could never have done it without you two there ... at least I don't think I could."

She bent her knee and balanced her other leg on top of it as she sipped her wine, some of it escaping down her chin to soak her neck. I wiped it away with the sheet.

"So, are we starting a story together?"

I looked over. She was staring at the ceiling so I turned, snuggled into her and brought a nipple to my mouth as she said. "This is where you had sex with Clair."

I left for work early because I didn't want to face her, didn't want to talk to her — didn't want conversation to confuse my thinking. She had drifted off immediately after our ridiculously frantic end of the evening necessity but I lay awake wrestling with the slutty-ness of it all — her behaviour and Patricia's: they seemed so primitive, so demeaningly demanding, so ... slutty. My wife had been like that ... that one night in my dorm. She had shocked me, disgusted me and then even before I could come to terms with it she was standing beside me with rounded belly and I was having to say 'I do.' I wrestled with the baseness of it all for most of the night. It came down to this: is Sally's attitude towards sex expressive and healthy or is it morally repellant? And more, is sex way too important to her? I just didn't get it.

Sex had meant little to me throughout my marriage; sex had caused the marriage then the marriage, like the sex, became a nothing, worse than a nothing: sex had been lousy before the accident and non-existent after. So, maybe I'm due. Fine, I can make that argument, but is searching for my sexual boundaries a healthy diversion at this stage in my life?

That's what I was trying to think through all day and all got was an endless loop of images and flashbacks: of Patricia's lithe body and severe face; that brief glimpse of her exquisitely gaping pudenda; the way her pubic hair lightly curtained her mound; her taut belly; her pink panties falling down her leg and off her elegant foot; her husband's prick; its taste; its feeling in my mouth and a veritable slide show of Sally: the way she sat on the stairs resting her breasts on her knees; the way she moved; her solemness; her noises; how we fit together and the feeling of her under me; the radiance of her rare smile; that smile, that smile, that smile, what I would do to earn that smile?

I was greeted by a hint of it when I got home — I got the impression I might have got the full radiance but she was uncertain of what my reaction was going to be about last night.

Clair must have had a good night because she was excited, even by her standards, and she was insisting we all go out to dinner, she had something she wanted to do with us.

We were just ready to leave when Sally came out to put her jacket on. "You're not wearing that" — for such a little bit of a thing Clair could look surprisingly fierce. "Go put on the blue one." Sally didn't hesitate, she turned like a scolded child and went back to her room and did as she was told. "I've learned never to argue," she said, as I asked her about it as she was putting on her jacket ... and showing a whole lot more cleavage in the process.

We learned what Clair had in mind for the evening the moment we ordered. She didn't, she had work to do. This business about us all having our own story which we create then reinforce with all our decisions and actions? It has a wrinkle. It can be created out of whole cloth — we don't have to let it play out over time we can simply decide on a story and force our actions and decisions to conforming to it; supporting it — making it real: make the concocted story come to actual life. That's what she wanted us to do, but not with our individual stories but with a joint story about us and our emerging relationship — our story. This was an experiment, she emphasized, she didn't know if it would work but why not give it a try? Not that we had a choice.

While we ate she peppered us with questions all designed to determine a commonality about a perceived relationship — I was too polite to nip the thing in the bud by stating firmly I didn't want a relationship. Sally, too, obediently played along. The questions weren't terribly original but they did incite some curiosity. Take the question about what kind of holiday would we want to take together. She let me go first. A walking holiday I answered hoping to put her off, lots of excise, outdoors, mountains, lakes, smells, sights, sounds — I loved to settle down for a few drinks after being physically spent. Where? Sally asked, getting into the spirit of the thing. I named a few places I wanted to visit.

"I'd go, that would be fun but I'd want to go someplace where there is history and a familiar culture, not just good weather."

We talked about that almost like we were trying to agree on a place ... without backpacks ... in Europe ... in the mountains ... in the Alps at first, then the Pyrenees ... we got into it like we were actually going on the trip. I was disappointed when we had to move on.

The house was another one. Would our story take place in my house or in a new one? I was about to answer when Sally beat me to it, and adamantly. It had to be a new place. Why, I asked a little pissed off, what's wrong with my house? Nothing, she said, but it's your place, not 'ours,' it is full of your memories, not 'ours.' We'd want a fresh start.

Curiously, over three courses a story did take shape and come into focus, an entirely fictional story of course but a story of compromises so I think it was possible for both of us to see ourselves actually stepping into our creation, the vacation for sure, but also more socializing — neither of us did much of it; a greater accent on cultural things — plays, classical concerts, etc; more volunteer work, especially as we got older, and finding a shared hobby. We didn't narrow that down much. I thought boating might be fun, she didn't, she thought studying architecture and visiting places of architectural interest would be 'enriching;' I wasn't so sure.

What did we accomplish by the exercise? Quite a lot, I had to admit. It subtly drew us together; it suggested we had a lot in common; it showed that both of us are flexible; it proved that the time was in fact right for us to connect ... if we wanted to. We had fun with it, maybe because it seemed to indicate that we both were interested in a new, broader story for ourselves.

But does she have a sense of humour? I hadn't seen it yet and it mattered: I had just spent a near lifetime with a woman who didn't have one, even before she had a reason not to have one. A sense of humour was a must for me, even in a fictional relationship. Not to have a decent sense of humour was a deal-breaker.

And the sex thing had to be reconciled — the blouse she was wearing was a constant reminder. Is our story supposed to be all about sex? I knew I wasn't ready for that: I hadn't had much sex, I seldom masturbate and I had trained myself not to think about sex. Now, I was supposed to ... all the time. And have it ... with strangers.

We were in the living room having a drink after coming home. It was getting late, time to decide whether two adults were going their separate ways or going off to the same bed. To avoid the issue I asked Sally how it went for Clair last night, neither had said anything to me about it and I was afraid to ask.

She smiled. "There is a genetic flaw in our family that never made it into that neat little story Clair created for us. She and I appear confident, resolute, sure of ourselves but we aren't, we have a mask that we don't let slip. Clair is brash and pushy and insistent and ... any number of pushy things but more than anything she is highly sensitive." She saw my reaction. "I know but take my word for it, she is ... we are. I don't know why but she's never wanted to connect with anyone but she does with Susan, maybe a case of opposites attracting. I've met Susan; she's tall and blond and composed and intelligent — she's an associate professor of sociology at the university. She cares for Clair; when we were together her eyes followed Clair all around the room, she seems fascinated by her but it might be more than that. She has a boyfriend, a long-time boyfriend but Clair doesn't think he's much of a factor. Anyway, she was on her best behaviour at Susan's place last night and, yada, yada, yada, she stayed the night."

"I can't see Clair with a partner." I mused.

"You probably can't see me with one either."

"You both seem totally independent ..."

"Alone, cocky, unwilling to share ..."

"I didn't say that."

"No, but it's true." She almost jumped to her feet, took the few steps towards me lifting her skirt with one hand and pushed down her underwear with the other. "If you want Clair's story to come into better focus you should probably know this about me. I have the ugliest pussy on the planet."

All I saw was a a large muff of hair. "What makes it ugly?" I fought to control my shock that she was doing this.

"I have a huge clitoris and enormous labia." Her point made, she let her skirt fall.

"No, no, no," I said lifting it, "I want to see."

"It's a huge deal to me, don't make fun of me."

"How huge, how enormous can they be, anyway I can't see any of it through the hair."

"Is that a problem too?" She was lifting her skirt as high as it would go.

"My wife had a friend when we first met who hated her labia. She had them surgically fixed. Wendy, I recall, was totally appalled — but then she didn't really approved of breast enhancements or reductions either." I poked into her hair gingerly. "Are you sensitive about ..."

"Of course I'm sensitive, I've always been sensitive that's why I'm showing you, that's why I'm trying to get it out of the way."

"Get what out of the way?"

She pulled away now and pulled up her underwear, smoothed out her skirt and went back and sat down.

"Who does that, pushes her pussy into a face to show how ugly it is?"

"Women who are fed up, that's who."

"If you hadn't told me I would never have known: I wouldn't know one clitoris or one labia from another ... or from each other, for that matter."

"You didn't notice Clair's were a bit large?"

"Nope."

"Well, ours are."

I waited for more but nothing came. "Well, I'm glad we've dealt with this," I said as wryly as I could ... then I had a flash of brilliance and quickly fished out my penis and looked at it. "I've never known we could hate our genitals." I moved it around, holding it delicately by the foreskin. "I've never liked the cut, always thought it should have left it more even — you can see it kind of bunches up on the left quadrant ... and the little urethra slit, I've always thought if it was a tiny bit wider it would facilitate a more even flow." I pulled it long. "The size, of course, is truly impressive and for that I've always been most thankful — some are too large I'm told — they can cause pain, happily mine is only in it for the pleasure."

"I don't think this is funny."

"And I don't think it's funny that you haven't bothered with men for 20 years because you think your genitals are a bit off."

"That's not why ..."

"Do men ever even notice? Do we really care about that kind of thing — a lot of women grow up to get fat, what do their genitals matter then?"

"So I'm fat, too?"

I thought she was kidding but maybe she wasn't, maybe she was just this emotionally delicate. I continued deliberately playing with my penis because I was getting a mild thrill out of the exhibitionism and getting more than a mild thrill that I was getting the mild thrill. I've never talked about sex with anyone, never mind done this. It wasn't interesting her so I somewhat reluctantly put it away. "OK, get it out, from the beginning; tell me, I want to hear it."

She asked me if I had ever seen the TV program Toddlers and Tiaras. I hadn't, but she just pressed on. She was one of those, a pretty little toddler who her mother wanted to dress up and put on a stage. She was always an obedient kid, the opposite of Clair, she did as she was told — she allowed her mother to show her off until she grew to old for it and her mother started to groom her for beauty contests, only she wasn't that kind of beauty, it could never work.

Her mother told her about her ugly labia really early, she started to obsess about them because her mother did — she thought they should be operated on. Sally objected, they weren't on display, so why do it? They will be, her mother warned her: men hate 'floppy pussies' was how she put it.

Then her breasts developed early so she was naturally the centre of attention. She hated that, too so avoided boys from the beginning; she never made friends with them; she never went out with them. Instead, she hooked up with a horny, not very attractive girl next door who just made everything worse.

They had quite a lot of sex together because the girl demanded it. Never mind the boys and her mother, it was Gretchen who did the most damage. It was from her she learned just how freakish her labia really were and that her clitoris was twice the size of normal. And her breasts were unusually heavy and because of that they would droop a lot really early.

By the time she got out of high school she was a pretty girl riddled with flaws and just about ready to fall apart.

She met Denis in a coffee shop where she worked. They were both 19, she fell under his spell, that's the way she described it. He liked all the things she had learned to hate about herself but he made her feel even worse about them because he had been around a lot and while he really liked them he had never seen anything like her labia and her clitoris before and yes, her breasts were already starting to droop.

She was pregnant less than a month after they met. Her mother kicked her out; she moved in with him ... with them. There were eight of them crammed into an old house, a core of 4 and 4 others who changed all the time. That's were she learned how unusual she really was, word got around, they all wanted to see her and Denis had no problem showing her off.

Commune life lasted almost three years when Denis just up and left. She and Clair found a place of their own and basically removed from their lives all the variables they couldn't control.

"I got the job at the department store and climbed the ranks, slowly. I'm 44, I've never actually been in a real relationship ... then my daughter up and asked me to visit her to check out this guy who came to her rescue, a guy she slept with to make certain he had a strong enough libido to be worth my while."

"Seriously."

"Seriously."

"How fragile are you?" I would have thought not at all but I was wondering.

"Not very ... actually I'm kind of tough, I've had to be."

"You're pretty."

"In a washed out kind of way."

"Not a lot of self esteem."

"Don't deserve to have a lot." She stood up. "Anyway, I'm tired and I'm sure tired of talking about myself. See you in the morning ... that was fun, I don't know how you felt about it but that story we created ... well," she shrugged her shoulders as she walked away.

It was so abrupt and it was so unlike the way I thought the evening was going to end, I sat their speechless and not just a little pissed off — this sure wasn't in the story I was thinking about. But what was?

I wrestled with that into the early hours — had a couple more beers as I looked at my blacked-out ceiling. Never mind her, what did I want from the rest of my life? I had never asked myself that question and asking it now felt a bit like when I started praying after the kids died: I tried to connect but realized I didn't have the language or the thought process to do it. I stopped trying. In fact I've never bothered to think about my life — beyond reaching business goals; do that and life would take care of itself has always been my attitude. And it has. I am the owner of a large manufacturing business. Period. That is it ... that is me. I have been successful but only as a guy running a business, nothing else, I mean absolutely nothing else: I have no avocations, no real friendships, certainly no non-business relationships — no intimacies of any kind. I was once thinking of getting a dog but I didn't, probably because of the necessity of commitment.

As for getting a girlfriend, I haven't had the time or the inclination. But accepting one who is being written into a story I myself, in part, am writing? That has intriguing possibilities.

I didn't consciously decide to do it, I just, without thought, got up, went into her room and slipped into her bed and when I did I was fully prepared to be sent packing. I wasn't. The moment I spooned into her and wrapped my arm around her belly, she backed into me, let out a loud, totally approving moan then reached between her legs and guided me into her.