My Free Use Girlfriend

By the time I walked into the living room and saw her taking two guys on my sofa, there was no longer much room for surprise.

The exact circumstances of how we met are now a little hazy, but I can draw the contours. Sometime in a very cold month -- it must have been January or Feburary, I had been hoisted unwillingly to a party hosted by a mutual friend of a friend. The theme of the party was 'Pirates of the Caribbean.' There were some drinks spiked with cheap rum, flimsy eye-patches and dollar store tricorn hats floating around, but the conceptual execution was otherwise lacking. By that point, we were all out of college and starting to work or enter professional and graduate schools, and the enthusiasm for a tired franchise from our teenage years was just not there anymore.

We met in a little semi-circle of our common friends making light, bantering party chat. I said something about not watching the last movie in the series, and she said she had not seen the last few. That got us talking more about Johnny Depp, and all the movies he had made with Tim Burton, which provoked talking about our favorite movies of the 90's: Quentin Tarantino, Spike Lee, The Coen Brothers. Soon we had broken out of the semi-circle and were in full conversation mode. We exchanged cell phone numbers before she left for the night.

I think I first texted her to tell her some news I had learned about Johnny Depp's legal woes. Why I had to search for something related to movies to text her about rather than just telling her that I enjoyed talking, I don't know. She did not hold it against me though, and our texts gradually began to wind into a gamboling thread of jokes, memes and quips. It didn't feel awkward for us to then meet up for lunch, share a coffee and gradually the barriers began to lower and a deeper affinity set in. A month or so after that party, the first kiss slipped in naturally like a coda on our friendship and the beginning of our intimacy. We would see each other once or twice a week. We'd either go for a movie, dinner, and she would stay over at my place and we would cuddle up in bed, kissing and touching and stroking each other. We began to familiarize ourselves with each other's bodies, enjoying the sensations of the other's hands and lips on our most sensitive and sensual areas.

We were having breakfast late one Saturday morning in February when the big revelation occurred. I had poured out two cups of black coffee for us both, and she was munching on some toast with butter and apple jam. She looked very cute in my oversized t-shirt. Her hair was in a frizzy loose mess and one long smooth leg was sticking out, bobbing back and forth with her bites as she looked at me over the table.

"There's something that we should talk about" she said. "I really want to be intimate with you. I enjoy all of our time together, I find you really attractive and fun to be with. I want to be your girlfriend and I would actually like for us to take our relationship further, if you know what I mean."

I nodded along.

"But, before we do that, I really need you to know something about me. It's important that you understand this, because I'm worried that it could create some problems between us if I don't tell you ahead of time, and if you find out on your own."
 "What is it?" I asked getting increasingly curious. I had no idea what she could be driving at. Maybe she had some jealous ex that I would need to watch out for?

"I really don't want to ruin what we have, so you have to promise not to be mad if I tell you" she continued.

"Sure, I promise. What is it?"

"You're sure. Please don't be mad" she said.

I had no idea what this revelation could be. Did she have a secret love child? Did she sell bootleg DVDs on sketchy street corners? Or maybe it would actually be something innocuous yet bothersome, like, she gets headaches after sex?

"Just tell me what it is" I said.

"Ok, well" she hesitated. "I am a free use girlfriend."

I blinked at her.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means, well... Have you not heard of 'free use' before?"

I shook my head.

"It basically means..." she looked down at the table. "That I have to have sex with any man who wants to have sex with me."

I stared at her.

"It's not something that I can help, or change," she looked up into my eyes searchingly. "I've just been this way since I was 19. Every time I meet a man, if I sense that he is interested in having sex, or doing something with me, we end up doing it."

I was completely stunned. I had never heard of something like this before. "What do you mean you can't help it?" I asked.
 "It's almost like an instinctual reflex. Like the way you shiver when you are cold, or pull your hand away from a hot stove. When I sense a man's sexual interest in me, I have this incredible urge to satisfy him. It's completely overpowering. I can't stop it."

I mulled this over for a minute. "But what about me?" I asked. I had plenty of sexual feelings for her already. We had fooled around and she had stimulated me to completion a few times, but I had not yet penetrated her. If she was so overpowered by this urge, then why had we not had penetrative sex plenty of times by now?

She smiled at me. "That's different. We have a romantic relationship. When I first met you, I could sense that the interest was so much deeper than just sexual. That's why we can form a real, meaningful relationship. I'm really grateful for that. You don't even know."

"But," I said "if you meet any man at all who is sexually interested, you are are compelled to do whatever it is he wants."

"That's pretty much it." Her mouth was drawn into a line as she watched me processing this.

I looked at my coffee and thought. Any man who was "sexually interested." What did that mean? She might not be a model, but she was certainly very attractive. Her long black wavy hair fell haphazardly over her shoulders. She was taller than average, and her physique was petite and perky. Her breasts were large enough to lift up even the baggy white t-shirt she wore to bed. Her long bare legs dangled below the table continuing to bob in time to some imperceptible tune. She was the kind of girl who could look sexy fresh out of bed or dressed up for a night out. I couldn't speak for all men, but knowing myself, if I saw her as a stranger in passing, I would definitely check her out. I might even have private a lascivious thought to myself. How could she possibly have sex with any man who was sexually interested in her?

"There are some limits on it," she said as if reading my mind. "Like, if I cross someone on the street, I might sense the interest and feel an urge, but I can normally rein it in."

Normally? So there were times when she couldn't?
 "But, if it goes on for awhile, then I have a lot more difficulty."

"How often does this happen?"

She looked embarrassed. "It's not as common as when it first started. It really depends on a number of things."

"Like what?"

"Well," she looked at her coffee again. "It depends on how I am feeling at the moment. I don't have any urge when I am on my period for instance. But after this started, I had to get an IUD because otherwise I'd be at risk of getting pregnant all the time. So, I also don't really have periods any more as a result."

"I see."

"I can also control it to some extent now. When I first had these urges, I was kind of out of control. It would happen every day, sometimes multiple times."

"With strangers?"

She nodded. "I would have to take the subway to go to class or go home, and pretty much every day I could sense at least one or two men sexualizing me in the car. When I got out, I would approach them and take them back to the restroom or to a secluded alley nearby."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I should have been horrified, but instead I found myself getting strangely aroused.

"When it was really bad I started dressing in a way that would get more attention so I could have more sex. Sometimes it was more than one man at a time. Now I realize that what I was doing was actually pretty dangerous. I'm lucky I didn't get into a lot more trouble doing all of that."

"But this doesn't happen as much now?"

"It will still happen a few times a week. I'm a little more careful now. I carry some mace with me in case I need it. But it has never come to that." She sipped her coffee and took a wistful glance out the window. "It's not like they are all gentlemen. But when I am in that moment, I actually enjoy some of the rougher stuff they do to me."

After she left I continued to mull over this conversation. How could I have a relationship with someone who was literally having sex with random strangers on the street? I didn't think of myself as a conservative or prudish person, but the behavior she described seemed disturbing, dangerous and irresponsible. Not to mention she might be one of the last people that you would consider having a totally dissolute lifestyle outside of a literal nun. Not because she was priggish, but because it was so out of character. She didn't exhibit bad judgment or reckless behavior in other facets of her life. She was very dedicated to her job, had a nice tidy apartment and was always punctual, polite and thoughtful.

The way she described her actions made it sound more like a medical condition: a tic, a compulsion or an urge that straddles the border of voluntary and involuntary behavior. Something that could be bottled up with some effort, but must be let loose now and then lest the fastenings that hold in place buckle and break under the strain. Could I fault her for that? Could she even be held personally responsible?

After the conversation, things between us actually proceeded at about the same pace that they had prior. We continued to see each other regularly and would occasionally fool around at night. I didn't bring the topic of her libidinous activities up again. Why not? Well, it wasn't exactly an easy topic to broach -- and gradually it felt more like the whole conversation had not even really happened or occurred in a strange dream. Occasionally, when I was squeezing her breast or sliding my finger inside of her, I would think about whether I was the first one that day to do these things to her. As I thought this, I would feel a little twinge in my cock -- but I couldn't say if it was the feeling of her body in my hands or the thought of all the strange other hands that had been in the same place as mine that was making me feel that way.

Things continued this way for another month or so. It was Spring now and the little shoots of dormant flowers were starting to pop out of the ground and buds were appearing on the trees. We went for walks, got coffee and would have dinner together every Friday night, usually spending the Saturday together in bed. This whole period of my life had an airy quality to it -- like a piece of silk blowing in a light breeze. I hoped it would go on like this forever.

On one of those Friday nights, I invited her back to my place for dinner. I promised that I would make a big meal for us: capellini with fresh pesto and shrimp, garlic bread and a fresh spring salad with cherry tomatoes, slices of pear and toasted walnuts. My roommate Jeff hung out on the kitchen island talking with me while I worked on prepping the food.

I had met Jeff through a mutual friend a year before graduation, and since we had both decided to stay in the city after graduation, we agreed to rent an apartment together to save money and benefit from sharing our meager supply of kitchen equipment. Despite living together for almost a year, we did not exactly spend a lot of time together and were not that close -- but we understood each other and never had any conflict over things like cleaning, having other people over or sharing food. It was an amicable, but also mostly unremarkable living situation.

As I was making a garlic and herb butter to spread over the loaf of Italian bread I bought, the buzzer hooked up to the front door of the building sounded off loudly like something from an old game show. "That must be her. Can you let her in?" I asked. Jeff sauntered off of his kitchen stool and hit the button that opened the door at the front of the building and turned the lock.

"The two of you are going to eat all of this?" he asked.

"You'd be surprised how many carbohydrates two people can put away," I replied, cutting the loaf down the long way with a bread knife.

From the hallway, I heard the doorknob turn and the squeak of the hinges. "Hello!" rang out a friendly, sweet female voice. My girlfriend entered with her jacket open, wearing a pair of tall black boots with heels, skinny jeans and a tight fitting black turtleneck sweater. Her hair was down and framed her face in wavy, stylish curls. Two small silver earrings glinted on her ears. She had clearly spent some time fixing her makeup before coming over -- her mascara gave her eyes a deep and luminous quality and her lipstick was a bold shade of deep red strawberries.

"Hello," I called back, "you look great!" I always appreciated how she would put in that little extra effort in her appearance on our Friday dates.

"Thank you," she said, beginning the laborious process of removing her boots. "Hey, Jeff!" she acknowledged my roommate.

"Hey," he replied waving from his perch on the kitchen stool.

She walked into the kitchen and examined my preparations. "Wow, this is quite a spread," she remarked

"I hope you are hungry," I replied while slathering the garlic butter and herb mixture onto the freshly cut loaf.

"He said you eat a lot of carbs," Jeff chipped in.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked with faux indignation.

"I just said that two people can ear a lot of carbs," I corrected with a laugh. "I did not single you out."

"I see," she said. "Well, it is also true: I can eat a lot of carbs," she said covering her mouth a little as she laughed.

"Do you want a glass of wine?" I asked, nodding at the fridge to indicate the bottle of white wine I had bought for us.

"Oh yes, absolutely." She went to the cupboard to retrieve a glass. "A glass for you too, Jeff?" she asked him.

"No, I'm going to be heading out soon," Jeff replied, playing with the bread knife I left on the counter.

"Just have a glass," I insisted.

"Ah, alright," Jeff smiled back. He did not need much convincing.

My girlfriend poured out three glasses for us. "Cheers!" she said raising her glass up. I hurried back from the oven where I had just dropped off my bread in time to clink glasses with both of them and take a hefty sip of the delicious white I had picked out.

"That's really good," my girlfriend remarked. There was a little crimson stain left on the rim of her glass.

While the bread toasted, I started preparing the salad. I cut up the pear and threw out the seeds, and started washing the mixed greens. Jeff and my girlfriend made some small talk about our apartment and the strange behavior of our landlord who lived downstairs. My girlfriend had met Jeff only a few times before in passing, but was very adept in finding topics of conversation to engage with when she needed to pass the time or mediate some awkward situation. As someone who was a bit more socially awkward, I admired that about her.

I pulled a bottle of apple cider vinegar out of the fridge to dress the salad and noticed that it was just about empty. Just a few drops left at the bottom. "I'm going to run out to the corner store to get some more vinegar," I told my girlfriend. "Can you just watch the bread. It's just got 10 minutes left."

"Do you want me to go?" she asked.

"Nah, it's okay. I wouldn't want you to go through all that trouble with your boots again."

She smiled, "ok, thanks! I'll make sure to take out the bread."

I gave her a kiss on the cheek and headed for the door. "Be back soon." I said, slipping on my shoes.

I headed out down the stairs and out the front into the nippy Spring evening. It was a beautiful day with a clear sky. Perfectly pleasant for a quick walk. I headed two blocks down the street and came to the corner store. It was a crowded little store, but stocked to the brim with goods, some of which had probably been placed there during the Clinton administration. The shelves were loaded with lots of household basics: cleaning supplies, toilet paper, tampons. I moved into the food section and started searching among the dusty jars of peanut butter, bread, cans of soup. At last I found a small and very generic bottle of apple cider vinegar. I swabbed it for dust. Not too bad. The best by date had passed a few months ago, but could vinegar even really go bad? I took it to the checkout.

Working at the front was a chatty Iranian man who owned the store. He had moved here many years ago to escape some form of political violence. In his previous life, he had been an intellectual or professional of some importance, which is what had made him the target of violence in the first place. In search of the kind of stimulation he could not get selling dusty peanut butter and packs of cigarettes to college students, he would try and engage some of his customers in debate. He pointed to the TV playing on the wall: a news segment about interest rates and the sluggish economic recovery. He wanted to know what I thought, I wanted to buy my vinegar. However, he made sure there was no quick way out by holding my change ransom until he was satisfied. I tried to give my pseudo-informed opinions on macroeconomics. These were clearly inadequate as he closed the cash drawer fully and proceeded to launch into a lecture that seemed to have been prepared for a college class. For the purposes of our current story, it suffices to say that I was delayed.

When I finally made my way home, I could smell buttery garlic and toasted bread wafting through the stairwell. I made my way up and let myself into the apartment, announcing my return with the loud familiar creek of the door. I was in the middle of explaining why I was late when my eyes made contact with a scene in the living room that ground my feet to a halt and shoved the words back down into my throat.

Jeff was sitting on the armchair, facing away from the door, his head leaning to the side over the back of the chair, eyes closed. In front of him, was a curly black mass of hair was bobbing up and down between his legs. Red crimson lips were pursed around a long shaft erupting from the seat of his pants. Long black eyelashes demurely pointed downward, eyes fixed on their work. Blue denim rose up behind her head in a beautiful and sensuous arch tightly pulled around her shapely waist. I heard Jeff curse and groan slightly under his breath between eager slurping sounds.

I froze on the spot as the image burned itself into me. Then, without thinking, I turned around and walked straight back down the hallway to my room, closing the door behind me. I dropped the plastic bag with the apple cider vinegar down on the floor and fell unsteadily into a chair. I was in a cold sweat.

What was it that I just saw? My girlfriend was down on her knees giving my roommate a blowjob. That was obvious. I could not have been gone for more than 15 minutes. How could this have happened so quickly? Did they not hear me come in? The hinge of the door was so loud and I was talking as I walked into the room. I watched them for more than a second, and they still showed no sign of stopping. Just what was going on?
 I wiped my forehead and looked at my watch, thinking that it might reveal that I had fallen through some kind of spacetime warp. No such luck. I thought back to the conversation we had those weeks ago -- my girlfriend's explanation of her sexual disinhibitions. I supposed that maybe I should have realized that it was just a matter of time before something like this might happen? It seemed so unlikely and out of character at the time that I had written off the whole thing -- yet, here was indisputable proof burned deep onto my retinas.