by Roya Carmen
It is not very sexy.
“I will wear a prophylactic at all times when with Mirella, no exceptions, as will Gabe when he is with Bridget.”
A what?
“And in addition to this, both Bridget and Mirella will be on a form of birth control,” he informs us, his words monotone. “I assume you’re taking the birth control pill or a similar contraceptive, Mirella.”
Oops.
“Um…no,” I say, feeling like a third grader at the principal’s office who has done something very naughty.
Weston studies me with a curious look.
“I got the old snip-snip last year,” Gabe clarifies.
His gaze travels from me to Gabe, and back again. “Oh…I see,” he says. “Well, in that case, you’ll have to make arrangements. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“No,” I say. It really isn’t. I’ll probably gain five pounds…but on the plus side, my breasts will be a little bigger. I just have to remember to take the darn things—I can be a little flaky sometimes.
I am officially no longer turned on. I was a little at the start of this meeting, but he’s made everything so damned technical.
God, I hope he’s not like this in bed.
Weston pauses for a moment and takes a drink, and it seems we all mimic him and down a sip—I think we all need it.
“We know this is a lot to take in,” Bridget tells us, her expression warm. I get the impression she would rather approach the whole thing a little less formally.
“Secondly,” Weston starts again, “we’ll discuss discretion. Discretion is of utmost importance. For example, my relations with Mirella will be completely private.” I find myself unexpectedly aroused by his words and looking into his eyes—they’re so serious and intense. His gaze falls from mine again.
“I will not discuss our relations with Bridget, under any circumstances, nor will I discuss them with anyone else.”
Good.
“Conversely, Mirella will not discuss our relations with Gabe or anyone else.”
Damn, I can’t even talk to Gwen about this. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I tell Gwen everything.
“Trust us. Talking only leads to jealousy. I really don’t want to know what you two are up to,” Bridget comments.
It makes sense. It makes a lot of sense. I wouldn’t want to hear the details concerning Gabe and Bridget. And I really don’t want Weston telling Bridget what my breasts look like.
“Number three is simple,” Weston continues. “We treat each other with kindness and respect at all times. I do not speak ill of Bridget or Mirella or Gabe. And likewise, Mirella does not speak ill of Bridget or Gabe or myself and so on. This isn’t about judging or complaining about our spouses. There needs to be a positive, respectful energy at all times.”
Seems simple enough, I think. I like this rule. I glance over at Gabe who seems to be stifling a smirk. I know this because I know him too well. He’s doing a rather impressive job looking attentive and serious, when all he probably wants to do is laugh. I glare at him and nudge him with my foot, just to keep him in his place.
“And of course, we respect each other’s boundaries and do not force or coerce our partners into doing, or performing any act they don’t want to do. Participation, desire, and gratification must be mutual at all times,” Weston goes on.
I’m happy about this rule because, the truth is, I don’t know Weston very well. I study him—the intense green eyes, the dark thick brows, the hard line of his jaw, the strong nose, and I wonder what he’s like in bed, what he likes, whether he’s kinky or domineering. The scary thing is…I don’t know what to expect at all.
“Another rule we like to adhere to concerns the contact we have with each other,” Weston adds.
I’m confused. I guess he can tell because he leans in and clarifies. “What I mean is,” he explains, his words deliberately measured, “we cannot see each other outside the scheduled dates, in any other circumstances,” he says, addressing Gabe. “For example, Mirella and I cannot contact or see each other any other time. We cannot call or text, or e-mail each other for any reason.”
Gabe nods.
“And likewise, you and Bridget cannot contact or see each other outside of these agreed upon dates.”
“I get it,” Gabe says.
I’m confused by this rule. “How are we supposed to get together if we can’t even contact each other?”
“Basically, all communication and correspondence will be done through a third party, my assistant in this case.”
The woman sure has a lot on her shoulders.
“Poor Kathryn…does she ever go on vacation?” I can’t help but ask. Everyone laughs. I really wasn’t trying to be funny.
“Yes, Kathryn does go on vacation occasionally,” he answers, a huge smile lighting up his face. He’s so gorgeous when he smiles. I wish he’d smile more often. “Marilyn is her temporary replacement. And she’s quite efficient and discreet as well.”
“Can I ask why you have this rule in place?” I ask. “I mean, what’s the big deal if I give you a call here and there.”
He sighs and smiles at the same time. “Well, it brings us to the final rule, possibly the most important…emotional detachment.”
“Yes,” I say. “We’ve discussed that.”
“Basically it comes down to this,” he says, addressing everyone. “This is about sex. Pure and simple. There’s no other way to spin it.”
The room is completely silent.
“What I mean is it’s a casual thing…it’s about fun, excitement…desire. There’s no room for emotional attachment here or intimate relationships outside of the agreed-upon dates. There will be no personal gifts or gestures. We will not introduce each other to our friends and families or even our children for that matter.”
I notice his hands fidgeting a little as he speaks. He pulls his palms together again. “We can still socialize, the four of us, go for dinner before dates, or we can dine separately. It’s important that we are all comfortable with each other before we become intimate,” he carries on, his words measured. “Bridget and I are quite traditional…we like to converse over a nice dinner, build desire, loosen up. That’s all part it. If it was just about the act itself, we’d all be better off going to sex club,” he adds with a whisper of a laugh. “But that is definitely not our inclination, and I imagine it isn’t yours either.”
I nod, my gaze glued to him.
“However…having said that,” he goes on, “we don’t believe we should become the best of friends or enter each other’s social circles.”
His words get to me a little. He makes us sound like a “big dirty secret.” I understand the need for discretion and distance as much as anyone, but…
“All this might sound harsh,” Bridget chimes in. “But it really does work better this way. Our previous relationship ended because of social politics.”
Interesting.
“And what about the first relationship you had? Why did it end?” I realize I’m being extremely nosy, but I’m dying to know.
Bridget hesitates. “The woman got emotionally attached. She became just about obsessed with Weston.”
“Oh, I see,” I say softly, looking down at my pencil skirt. I can see how that could happen. I do not want to be that woman.
I look up at him slowly, wanting to know, “Were you attached to her?”
“No, I wasn’t,” he replies. “Not in the least.” His words ring true. And I can’t help but think…he’s a very cold man.
“And as mentioned before,” he goes on, “all dates will be scheduled and coordinated by Kathryn.”
“It makes things so much easier. Otherwise, we’d all be playing phone tag…it would be an absolute nightmare. And we’d be breaking rule number four,” Bridget adds with a grin. And I get the distinct impression she’s making fun of Weston a little.
But he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Our dates will take place at our respective lofts,”
he says, addressing Gabe. “Both Bridget and I have places we stay, here in the city.”
Gabe nods. I’m amused by the fact that Gabe hasn’t said much at all so far, which is completely unlike him. I think he’s just too shell-shocked.
“And we will pay for all dinners and related expenses,” he adds. “In fact, we don’t want to discuss this at all. It’s our pleasure.”
I’m glad he’s clarified this because there’s no way Gabe and I could afford all these extravagant dinners. I do feel a little strange about it—it occurs to me Gabe and I are officially “sugar-babies.” The thought nauseates me a little. Not in a million years, would I have ever imagined myself as a sugar-baby.
“Finally, to sum it up,” Weston says, his words matter-of-factly. “We have five basic rules. One is monogamy, the second is discretion, the third is respect, the fourth is appropriate contact, and finally, we have emotional detachment.”
I nod obediently.
Got it, sir.
He’s going over this like we’re at a board meeting, and honestly, I’m very surprised he hasn’t passed around a handout. I almost want to ask him where the coffee and donuts are.
But, I’ve learned to accept this as his style—it’s just the way he is. And I find myself wondering for the umpteenth time what he might be like in bed. Will I have a checklist to follow? Will he make me sign a liabilities waiver? A confidentiality form? Will I go through a metal detector? I really don’t know what to expect with this guy.
The thought concerns me a little.
And again, those same old familiar doubts show their worried faces.
Chapter Ten
Right now and right here.
WITH THE “MEETING” OUT OF THE WAY, the atmosphere lightens considerably. And we surprisingly find ourselves falling into easy conversation. Bridget is so cheerful and outgoing—she’s a great catalyst for on-going dialogue. Weston orders a bottle of red for the table, and we order our meals. I decide to stick with a light shrimp salad, thinking I should really indulge in a steak. But I just can’t…I’m still not very hungry.
Weston catches my gaze here and there, but his eyes always pull away. He can’t seem to maintain eye contact. He can’t even look at me, and he wants to have sex with me? I suppose we’ll have to get over that if we’re going to be intimate. But then again, I think, pushing my salad around, maybe we don’t. If all he wants to do is screw me, he really doesn’t need to look at me at all.
I look up at him, wondering if that’s what he wants. He’s said as much.
This is about sex. Plain and simple.
Maybe he’s just nervous because of the strangeness of the situation—it’s not every day you have a “swapping” discussion dinner-meeting. I think he’s handled himself pretty well. I think I’ve handled myself relatively well too, considering I was so nervous, I thought I might be sick the whole time. But somehow, I managed to not hurl or suffer a panic attack.
When we say our good-byes, Bridget hugs us both. And Weston shakes Gabe’s hand. I consider going in for a hug, but I respect his boundaries. As he offers me his hand, I can’t help but think, we’re going to have sex soon, and I don’t even get a measly hug.
As we walk away and wave, I wonder how this is going to work.
And again, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
“Wow, that guy’s a few sandwiches short of a—” Gabe starts.
“Stop it right there.” I cut him off mid-sentence. “You’re already breaking rule number three.”
He laughs out loud. “Oh yes¸ God forbid I break rule number three. Which one is that again?”
“Respect and kindness. You’re being an asshole.”
He looks at me, a smile still on his lips.
“Weston is pragmatic,” I explain. “He needs order. He needs to have these concrete rules in place. I think it’s a good idea. I can see how this whole thing could become a disaster if we didn’t have these rules.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to defend Weston, but I do.
I go over the rules in my head. I know there are only five, but I’m afraid I’ll forget one of them. I go over them in a way I can relate to a little better.
1. Don’t sleep around.
2. Don’t kiss and tell.
3. Be nice.
4. Don’t text or call.
5. Don’t fall in love.
Simple enough.
I don’t think I’ll have any problems with any of them. Normally, rule number five might be a problem because I’m a romantic. But it shouldn’t be a concern with someone like Weston—he’s so detached, hard, and cold.
“It’s too bad about the privacy rule,” Gabe says. “What is that…rule number four?”
“Rule number two.”
His mouth stretches into a wide impish grin—trademark Gabe. “I was looking forward to hearing about all the kinky things he’s going to do to you.”
I laugh out loud. “You couldn’t stand it. You would hate hearing about it. It would drive you insane with jealousy.”
“You’re probably right,” he admits. “But I’m curious to see what he has in mind for you. Probably some wild stuff, babe,” he warns me. “You might not like it at all. I know you’re not really into that.”
He’s right.
What if…
“It won’t be like that, I’m sure,” I say, trying to convince myself.
But hell, I really don’t know what to expect.
Gabe has me a little worried.
“It’s always those strange, quiet, uptight types who like to do all sorts of weird shit,” he says.
“Stop talking like that,” I snap. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And you’re breaking rule number three again, by the way.”
That night, Gabe and I make love. Actually make love. He’s gentle and soft. We look into each other’s eyes. It feels foreign…making love. He tells me he loves me, and I tell him he’s the only one.
I think both of us know, deep inside…our relationship is about to change.
I study the magazines on the coffee table as I sit in Dr. Fisher’s waiting room. It’s quite the selection, news magazines, women’s magazines, trash mags, and Sports Illustrated.
But I’m in no mood to read—I’m on edge. How am I going to address all this with Dr. Fisher? I’ve known her for so long. She was the one who first prescribed me birth control when I was just seventeen. She was the one who took care of me through my pregnancies. She’s almost like family.
An old man sitting across from me, waiting for his wife, stares at me intently with what almost looks like disgust. He’s watching me, studying me like he knows something, like he knows what I’m up to. He has big, dark out-of-control brows. I try to look away, but those big scary caterpillars keep drawing me in, and it turns into a staring contest.
What is his problem?
I close my eyes, thinking I’m losing my mind. I’m probably just projecting—he doesn’t know anything about me—he’s not judging me. I open my eyes to look at him. The scowl of disgust has disappeared. It was probably just the big crazy eyebrows.
The truth is…I’m ashamed.
I feel like a sexual delinquent. I’ve officially entered into a strange sexual arrangement. I would have never imagined myself capable of this. If someone had told me a month ago about the situation I find myself into today, I would have laughed and told them they were insane.
How do I talk to Dr. Fisher about this?
How are you?
I’m fine, thank you.
How are the girls and Gabe?
They’re wonderful and growing up so fast, and Gabe and I are pretty good too, and having sordid swinging sex with sizzling-hot almost-strangers, which is why I’m here, in fact!
I walk up to the pamphlet display—breastfeeding, osteoporosis, tuberculosis, flu vaccine, herpes, HIV testing, HPV vaccination.
Oh shit!
Should I get the HPV vaccine? I’ve never had to worry about tha
t before. There are about a gazillion pamphlets about STDs, and it kind of makes the whole thing a lot less sexy. If there was ever anyone trying to stick hard to abstinence, this is the exact spot where they should stand.
I feel my doubts creeping up again. I can still change my mind, can’t I?
The receptionist calls out my name, and I’m a little hesitant. My feet drag as I make my way to the reception desk.
She walks me over to Dr. Fisher’s patient room.
I’m comforted by the familiar room—the whimsical, colorful fish border lining the wall, a painting of a mother and child, the angel fish statue, and the cozy pink covers on the stir-ups. I quickly get out of my clothing, put on the paper robe the receptionist has given me, and sit on the patient bed.
And I wait.
I feel hot and a little sweaty…and I’m not breathing quite right. My blood pressure is probably through the roof. I try to organize the thoughts in my head—exactly how I’m going to go about this.
I hear a knock on the door.
Dr. Fisher looks cheerful. Her graying reddish hair is up in a severe knot, and she wears her usual white jacket. She looks exactly the same every time I see her.
“How are you, Mirella?” she asks, adjusting her dark framed glasses.
“Uh…good. How are you?”
“Great.” She’s always so cheerful—this is someone who truly loves her chosen profession.
“How are Chloe and Claire?” she asks.
It always amazes me that despite all the patients she sees, she remembers my daughters’ names. “They’re great.”
“We’re here for a physical today?”
“Yes,” I say, hesitating. “Also,” I pause for a second, trying to figure out how to say this. “I need to discuss…something.”
“Sure. Let’s discuss it.” There’s a hint of curiosity in her expression.
I think about it for a second. She knows I’m in a monogamous marriage. And she probably remembers Gabe got a vasectomy last year, since we discussed it at length at my last annual physical, when I got off the birth control pill. I can’t very well say, “I need a bunch of STD tests and birth control pills,” without offering an explanation.
