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When I first SPOKE to Andrew, he was decked out for racquetball. I guess the sport’s heyday was back in the 1980s, before I was born, but we still have one court at the health club where I work, teaching adult swim lessons.
When Andrew walked up, I had just finished one of my beginner’s classes in the big indoor pool. He certainly looked out of place in his sweat-soaked t-shirt, shorts, bandana and court shoes, with a racquet in one hand and a little blue ball in the other. My students—men and women in dripping-wet bathing suits—eyed Andrew curiously as they filed past on their way to the locker rooms.
I climbed out of the pool, grabbed a towel and began to dry off. “Lost?” I asked, even though I knew he couldn’t be. I’d seen him around the club, a handsome older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a pleasant demeanor. We’d exchanged a few friendly nods in passing. He’d never come near the pool, though.
“The usual?” Lily had asked.
My bravery had blossomed that day, and it was anything but the usual. Lily only came to do my hair a few times a year, and I’d been carting around a crush on her for ages. For three years she’d been visiting to cut and color me, since no one else seemed to do it right, and she no longer worked at the salon where we’d first met.
“I was thinking something new,” I said, as she came around to stand in front of me, brushing my bangs down over my eyes to judge how long they were.
“How new?” she asked. Her brown eyes sparkled as she looked down at me.
“Really new. Really short. Really blonde,” I said, swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in my throat.
“Sounds good.” Lily smiled and stepped a bit closer to mess with my part. I could smell the cinnamon and spice scent of her favorite perfume, and under it, the pretty light scent that was all her.
These past few weeks have been the most exciting time in my marriage, and possibly my entire life. I have Emily to thank, as well as my husband, Jonathan, for being so understanding as I explore my bisexual urges.
Jonathan took a new position last year with a large national company. The job paid well enough for us to move into a much nicer apartment, but it required him to travel all over the country, often keeping him on the road for a week or more at a time. Our separation was easy enough to deal with during the day, when my teaching career kept me happily busy, but the hours alone at evening’s end would find me restless and bored. Time seemed to drag by with nothing to hold my interest, and nights without him would often find me sleepless.
All of that changed one Sunday evening last month when Jonathan was in Seattle; he always left on Sunday when traveling to be on site bright and early Monday morning. I had dropped him off at the airport that afternoon and stopped at a bookstore on my way home. Once home, I put on a pot of tea, and was just sitting down with a new novel to read when there was a knock at the door.
Digging in the garden doesn’t sound particularly sexy, I know. It can be, though. Trust me. Because that’s when I get to unabashedly watch my wife’s gorgeous ass as she crawls through the huge box of dirt we’ve deemed a garden. And by God, for some reason that woman almost always wears white. So she ends up with streaks of earth on the seat of her shorts—streaks that are just begging to be traced with my fingers.
It was a sticky, late-summer day the last time I lost my manners and acted on impulse.
“I can feel you looking at me, you know,” she said.
We’d waited very late in the day to harvest the blessed green onions that took forever to grow. The later in the day, the cooler it was. The sky was coming down to a nice purplish shade, and when the wind blew, it was almost cool. Almost.
Her ass looked damn near neon in the odd summer light. It was those white shorts; they practically glowed.
My wife and I enjoy your magazine, particularly the stories about swinging and group sex encounters, which up until last year we’d never dreamt of being a part of. Fiona and I don’t have an open marriage, per se, but we’ve been involved with a number of couples, who wouldn’t have thought about sharing their mates until we related some of our stories and curiosity got the best of them. But first, let me tell you the tale of the first time we invited other people into our bed.
For our vacation last year, Fiona and I went on a seven-day Caribbean cruise. Our first stop was St. Thomas. After breakfast onboard, we headed for Megan Bay, one of the most beautiful beaches in the Caribbean. Not only was the beach beautiful, but there were also a number of ladies sunbathing topless, which made the front of my swimsuit stand out. After a few rum drinks and some coaxing, Fiona removed her top and revealed her beautiful breasts.
I figured there were a number of fellow boat passengers at the beach, but I didn’t recognize any right away. Soon a couple of guys strolled over and introduced themselves as Chad and Jack, and said they had the cabin next to ours. Funny, I hadn’t noticed them, but they sure were noticing my wife, which was a turn-on for me.
Kaylee always obliges me when I tell her I need it. I don’t need it as often as I used to, but sometimes when the urge is strong, it’s like an itch under my skin that can’t be scratched—no matter how hard I try. The only thing that works is seeing my wife with another man.
“I need it,” I said, over dinner the other night.
Her answer was the same as always. “Okay, I’ll set something up.”
Then back to homemade pizza on focaccia bread and a kick-ass Chianti to wash it down.
It only took her a night to set things up. Kaylee is a looker. She’s tall and lean, with hair the color of wheat that sways down along her back. Her legs seem to go on forever, and her toenails are always painted an unusual color, which adds a bit of intrigue. When she’s naked and there’s nothing on her insanely hot body but navy blue polish on her toes—it adds something.
Mack and I have been known to hook up whenever we can. It’s rarely planned; it tends to be a spur of the moment deal. I know his big secret: He likes it a bit rough. And he knows mine: I love anal. Always have. Together, we make a mighty fine pair, especially when we’re horny.
The last time our attraction had a chance to spark into an encounter was when we closed up the restaurant after a big holiday weekend.
“You wanna grab some linens from the storage space? There are two things left on the list. Swap out the linens and grab new candles for the tables. I’ll get the candles.” His eyes tracked over me for an instant, and I swore I actually felt his gaze on my skin.
I’d always sort of wondered what cock tasted like, but being a generally straight guy, that’s not the easiest thing to discover without putting yourself really out there. I’d considered asking girls about it after they’d sucked my dick, but it seemed strange to ask them and I wasn’t certain if their answers would satisfy my curiosity. Same thing went for my few gay or bisexual friends; it just wasn’t the sort of thing I could see myself bringing up. Yet, deep down, I knew it was something I wanted to experience for myself.
Then, as fate would have it, I met Kenny. He was a good friend of a coworker who started meeting us for after-work drinks, and he was very vocal about his bisexual proclivities. One night, after everyone else had left the bar and I was a little buzzed from one beer too many, I decided this was finally my chance to ask what it was like to suck off another guy. Though my voice cracked when I asked him, he seemed perfectly comfortable—and somewhat amused—about my choice of conversation and asked what exactly I wanted to know.
We still talk about it. It’s become something of a legend to us when we’re naked and kissing—on the verge of fucking. Our trip one year to Mardi Gras—the crowd, the smoke, the booze, the beads. All of it crushed around us as I lifted her skirt.
Olivia’s ass is a thing of beauty, and in the midst of copious forms of drunken debauchery, I’d let the mood sweep me away.
“What are you doing?” she yelled in my ear. Though in the noisy throng, it was barely a whisper.
“Just looking.” I palmed her ass and smoothed my fingers over the butter-yellow fabric of her panties.
“People will see.”
“Go for it, man,” a guy shouted as he drifted by in the crowd.
The encouragement from a stranger made what I was doing that much better. I yanked her back toward me, with her skirt still flipped up. Pushing my cock to the split of her ass and feeling her heat, I groaned.
Did you hear about our orgy last weekend?”
I wasn’t the only one to turn my head at the word, and immediately the women lowered their voices. I moved closer. The woman who had initially spoken was one of my neighbors, and she was talking to her friend in line at the deli. I could overhear delicious tidbits of the conversation, enough to know that a party they’d had on Saturday had taken a turn for the debauched—enough to go home to Gregory and say, “We didn’t get an invitation to the orgy.”
“There was an orgy?”
“Yeah. At Charlene’s house.” I felt pouty. Why were we never on the guest list for parties like that? We always heard about them after the fact. Gregory says it’s because people think we’re more conservative than we actually are. Just because you don’t wear your fetishes on your sleeve doesn’t mean you don’t have erotic desires like everyone else.
“Well, you know what we have to do,” Gregory said, looking at me.
“Feel left out?” I asked. “Mope?”
“Stage our own.”