"You're not my type," he said, not meeting my eyes.
I scowled at him, trying to discern whether he was truly lying or just being ignorant. At 5'3, blonde, and curvy, I'm EVERYONE's type. "What do you mean?" I asked, confused and insulted.
"You're not my type. Plain and simple."
Uh-oh, I thought. He sounded more resolute with that one. "And what IS your type, then?" I probed further.
"You're the 'my best friend's girlfriend' type, a type that I avoid like the plague," he responded sounding 100 percent sure of himself this time.
"We've been through that already." I was getting tired of that argument. "Your best friend and I are swingers. Get it? Non-monogamous. WE FUCK OTHER PEOPLE!" I punctuated this last line by wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing up against him.
"And does he know that the other person in this case is me?" he asked, incredulous still.
"For the last time, YES. We've discussed it, and we've decided that it would be okay for you and me to fuck. Just once, you know, for the fun of it." I smiled up at him, pressing closer. Considering my point made, I stretched up to kiss him, pulling his face down to meet mine. At the very last possible second, though, he pulled away, much to my chagrin.
"I just can't. For God's sake, I'm going to be the best man in your wedding!" His eyes were pleading, and I felt a moment's pity for him, but then my lust rose again, and I remained firm in my resolve.
"How long have we said that we've wanted to fuck each other? Since the beginning, right? Remember 'if we'd met each other first,' and all that? Aren't you the least bit curious?" My voice became huskier as I spoke, resolving in a purr, "Don't you ever wonder what it would be like with me?"
"All the time, but goddamnit, I just can't, okay? Lay off!" He pushed my hands away from their position around his neck, and stomped away from me, back inside, back to my engagement party, from which I had been conspicuously absent for almost half an hour.
I lit another cigarette, and took my usual place at the banister of the porch, shivering in the cool February breeze. I took a deep drag and tapped the ash away, watching the sparks scatter out into the night air. I decided that I had pushed him too far, been too insistent.
The fact was that I had been lusting after my fiancé's best friend for almost the whole of our year-and-a-half courtship. Wandering eyes had never been cause for concern between us; my lover had been more than accepting of my lustfulness. We regularly engaged in three- and foursomes, and even occasional trysts. In fact, his acceptance of my multiplicitious bisexuality had been one of the many reasons that I had fallen for him.
Not that the sex between the two of us was lackluster; on the contrary, he was the most outstanding lover I had ever had. He fulfilled me in ways that no man or woman ever had before or since. Ours was a relationship that included swinging, but did not depend on it. It was a source of great pride between us that we knew we could leave the lifestyle any day and still be just as sexually fulfilled by one another. No, the problem wasn't with my love, but with his counterpart.
From the first moment I met him, I had been deeply repelled by my lover's best friend and former roommate. This beast of a man was loud, obnoxious, and coarse—everything that my sweet, gentle lover was not. He was an animal that reeked of sexual prowess, boastful of his many conquests, and yet still able to capture the attentions of any female he came in contact with. In short, he was a tall, hairy, more masculine version of myself, and I wanted to conquer him the way he had conquered so many women. I shudder to say that a deeper part of me wanted to be conquered BY him, to surrender to his virility and manliness. But the great conquering lion had turned into a simpering pussycat the moment that I had finally voiced the idea of our having sex, and that made me mad as hell.
Who the hell was he to turn me down, I wondered bitterly, as I drew sharp tobacco smoke into my lungs then released it with a sigh. I had seen some of the girls that he had fucked before. He claimed to have standards, but apparently those standards included just about everything that even looked like it might have a pussy. I was prettier, trimmer, and far more lively than most (if not all) of those bitches. Furthermore, I was just as sexually charged as he, if not more so. I could more than keep up with his sexual appetite. What did I care for his supposed friendly fidelity? It wasn't as if I wanted to go off and marry the fucker.
I wouldn't be hung up on him if it weren't for his own words, I reasoned further. After all, it had been he who first admitted our mutual attraction, he who had held me a little too closely when we hugged, he who had kissed my neck, sighing over the perfume that he smelled there, right? I shivered, remembering the soft warmth of his lips as they parted to caress my sensitive flesh, and the orgasmic flash of his teeth scraping against my skin in one small, but intensely sharp bite. Hadn't he even told me that, finding the aroma of my perfume on his jacket, he had been forced to masturbation, driven mad by my scent?
And if I had myself been driven to self-pleasuring at the thought of him, so what? I was committing no crime. My lover knew full well of my fascination with his friend, deigning even to sit in the room with me when I first propositioned the beast. So why did I try to push thoughts of him away whenever I spoke to his friend, feeling like I was committing treason all the while?
Having found that my musings had outlasted my cigarette (as I held only an empty filter), I had just decided to go back inside when I became aware of a presence behind me. I turned around, and was startled to discover that the subject of my yearning had rejoined me on the porch.
"Come to yell at me some more?" I asked, only half joking.
