“Then it’s a ‘no’. You’d remember if they had.”
“Honey,” said Susan, in case I was now feeling insecure. “You’re really good at it. Marci knows that.”
“No complaints here,” she said. “Okay, my turn. I think I blew maybe a dozen guys in high school. Most of them were one-offs.”
“One-offs?” asked Susan. “I didn’t have any of those.”
This was strangely comforting to hear. I realized there were actually two numbers in play here. One, the number of boys they entertained that way and, two, how many times they did it with each of them. I decided I would let the second number remain a mystery.
Susan had blown two boys in high school. That gave me enough information to formulate imaginary scenarios of my wife bent over boy’s laps in cars, palpitating cocks quivering in her mouth, the ensuing ejaculate and disposal thereof, either via a retching swallow or ejection into hand tissue. Was this why women always carried Kleenex in their purses? What had I learned here? As Harold had said, learning of a new paramour in your wife’s past felt like it had just happened, say, while you were out mowing the lawn. These thoughts produced an erection, but after this week, they almost felt normal.
After ruminating over Susan’s question about one-offs, Marci replied.
“I went through a really insecure period, so I guess I did it to feel wanted or desirable, something like that. Don’t ask me about handjobs.”
“Oh, those aren’t so special,” said Susan. “I mean, those are just a courtesy if you liked the boy. You don’t want them to suffer.”
I never expected to hear Susan say handjobs were a courtesy women offered men, like holding the door for them. In my opinion, handjobs were on the same tier as blowjobs.
“So those don’t really count, huh?” said Marci. “That’s good to know. Good talk.”
“I think so,” said Susan. “It was definitely interesting dinner conversation.”
“Ryan, have we covered everything?” asked Marci. “Do you have any other weird, demented stuff you want to dump on us?”
“I think we’ve covered everything. I can say I didn’t realize you two viewed it all so casually.”
“Viewed what so casually?” asked Susan.
“Handjobs, blowjobs.”
“Oh, that’s now how I view them.”
“Neither do I,” said Marci. “I’ve got to like the guy, at least most times. Sometimes you just want to get off, you know? So your standards might slip a little. But that’s later. In high school you’re just a bundle of hormones. You’re looking for affirmation anywhere you can find it.”
“That’s right,” said Susan.
Marci continued. “Being a girl makes you feel like you’ve got special powers too. You see a boner and think, I did that! So you’re real appreciative. It’s only later you learn a man can get one looking at produce.”
“I get it now,” I said. “Thanks for putting up with me.”
“Anytime,” said Marci. “I can talk about sex stuff all day.”
“Should we wrap this up?” I asked, after noticing most of the other tables were empty.
“Good idea,” said Marci. “Big day tomorrow.” She winked at Susan, who seemed to agree.
“That’s right! It’s Saturday, and the weather is supposed to be hot and clear.”
“So you two are going forward with your little scheme, eh?”
“Is it still okay, Ryan? We won’t if you don’t want us to.”
“You get to see me naked again, Ryan. Aren’t you excited?”
“Going all the way, huh?”
“Maybe,” said Susan. “We’ll see.”
“I’m sure Ryan’s already excited,” said Marci. To prove her point, she reached under the table and felt me up.
“Yup, hard as a rock,” she said.
I was.
“Did you just feel my husband’s cock?” Susan attempted to sound alarmed.
“If I’m going to be honest, then yes. I felt your husband cock.”
I looked at Susan, not sure what to expect.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” She laughed.
I would never have expected her to say that.
Chapter 10: Like Any Other Weekend
I’M DOING THIS FOR US, RIGHT?
Saturday broke with a distinct flavor of normalcy. Lying in bed, I heard the two-cycle chaos of a lawn mower competing with the sonic whine of a leaf blower at some further distance. The morning air felt fresh, but already a bit thick. Whoever invented humidity was no friend of mine. The sun was already high, suggesting I’d slept-in longer than usual. There was no sign of Susan.
After a quick fresher-up in the shower, I descended to the kitchen and made a double-barreled espresso. As it brewed, I noticed Greg making a pass through his yard, his arms full of clipped shrubbery. So, he was definitely home and perhaps for the day. This gave me a shiver as I remembered a scheme was afoot. It would not be one of our typical Saturdays.
I sat at the kitchen table. We’d canceled the morning paper, which I hated giving up, so I grabbed Susan’s iPad intending to scroll through the news.
When it flickered to life, the screen displayed an article from Psychology Today titled “Having An Affair? There Are Six Different Kinds”. Usually, when I borrowed Susan’s iPad, I’d see tabs open for recipes or travel pieces. I wasn’t the type to pry into her browser history or cache and never read her emails. I began to suspect they might be more interesting than previously assumed. Regardless, I opened a new tab and plugged in the New York Times.
As it loaded, the kitchen door banged opened and produced the unmistakable shape of Marci holding two bursting bags of groceries. I assumed it would have been Susan and was surprised. I hadn’t yet looked at a clock and wasn’t wearing my watch. According to the microwave, it was well after eleven, assuming we’d remember to switch it to Daylight Savings Time.
“Hi, Ryan!”
“Hey there. May I help?”
“There’s another bag in the car.”
I got it and put it on the counter. It held a large bottle of margarita mix, a small bag each of lemons and limes, and a half gallon of tequila. I was crumbling the now empty bag to put it in the trash when Susan joined us. She came
