07

Chapter 5

A month went by, six weeks. The sexual boost we'd felt after Molly's exploits with Keith and Colin wore off in the heat of summer, she no longer wanted to make love at the drop of the hat or in different places, such as the cabin of a boat I was sailing.

We talked about another lover for her, but she seemed hesitant. "It's not that I don't want to," she explained one night, "I'm just not sure about it. There's the moral issue, of course."

"That's silly," I argued. "I don't mind, you don't seem to mind, who else's business is it?"

"A point. But is it right for me to have other lovers when you don't? I know, you say you don't want a woman, but eventually I wonder if that won't change. And then what?"

"Would you mind if I went to bed with someone else?"

"Of course not," she repeated.

"Well then, if I change my mind I'll let you know, okay? Until then, don't worry about it."

"All right. But there are other concerns. What if it gets to be a habit. Like drugs. Maybe I'll want it all the time, and then what'll happen? I can't let myself get careless."

"I can't ever see you getting careless," I countered, "you're one of the most careful people in the world."

"That's what you think, but I know how I can be sometime. And there's one more problem, if we do go ahead, we've got to find a better way to get a man. This idea of picking guys up at the hotel is going to be a problem sooner or later. A guy won't be what I want him to be once I get up to the room, I worry about getting hurt or something, and what if somebody we know happens into the bar while I'm talking with a guy? Think of the rumors that would start! That's something we don't need."

The last point was valid, and so I looked for a solution.

The first idea I had was a craigslist personal. I soon convinced myself that was a bad idea. There's plenty of flakes out there, and anecdotes I read on forums told me that using that medium seemed to attract each one of them.

But the hotwife forum did have a good idea, use a swinger's site. So I went looking for one, and found SwingLifeStyle.com, which will be known forthwith as SLS. Although the site was mainly for couples, I found that within fifty miles of us, there were more than four hundred guys that wanted to 'play.' Surely, we should be able to find one that would be suitable.

I shared my research with Molly, and this time she was more positive, if not giddy about the prospects. "Let me take a look at it," she demanded, "I'll get back to you." I thought she was treating it like a project proposed by an intern - in retrospect, that's pretty much what it was. And so I waited, four days.

Over a dinner at home she told me, "Okay, SLS looks fine, maybe you can find a guy there, maybe you can't. Go ahead a create a profile, but make sure you don't use any information that anybody could identify us with, absolutely no pictures." She agreed that we should pay for three months of access.

Well I did what she said, I saw the wisdom in being cautious, and within a day we had fourteen offers. Most of them said things like, 'i wanna fuk ur wife,' not the most erudite fellows around, two were from guys that were frankly fat and one, perhaps, was from a man that knew how to spell and used more than one sentence. Molly and I talked about it. "Okay," she said, "It's got possibilities. Write up a real profile, but don't post it. Let me edit it first."

So I did, and this is what I came up with.

What we are looking for: A single gentleman, good looking

and fit, who is rather tall. He should be polite. If, after meeting,

we feel you are compatible, we may invite you into a situation

where you will please the wife while the husband watches.

Description: We are a couple in our fifties, she is quite fit. She

has some experience with men outside the marriage. We like

theatre, fine dining, sailing the bay and long walks in the

woods. She likes romance, candles and superb wine. A refined

man might find her quite receptive.

I left the fantasies section blank and in the other section I put 'If you've got any questions, please contact us.' She told me to lose the stilted language and the sentence about experience, and after another review she okayed it.

Offers continued to pour in, a lot of junk mostly, and when I showed Molly the ones I liked, she winnowed them down to two. "Are there any guys out there we should be looking at, ones that haven't sent us an email?" I did some searching, and within twenty-five miles, I found eight. They were based on height and weight, an interesting and well written profile, pictures we could see, and the fact that they were paid members on the site - we figured that guys who paid were less likely to be fake, and possibly experienced, although that wasn't a necessary attribute. Molly reviewed my list, vetoed two of them for no particular reason, and told me to write the other six, inviting them to enter a dialogue.

So I did. The exact phrasing was, "Dear

, we have seen your profile, and think you are interesting. We are relative beginners in this sport, and would like someone to show us the ropes. We hope you might be the one. If you are interested, please write and tell us more about yourself."

Within a week, all but two had responded. I reviewed them, was fairly sure that two would be nixed by Molly on the basis that they were too crude in the reply, I was proved correct. So Molly said to write the remaining guys and see if they'd like to meet us for a drink without obligation for anything more.

In the three weeks it took for all this, Molly and I discussed a few other details we winnowed from various forums in which people discussed their experiences, deciding what might or might not work for us.

We thought that some of the restrictions other people had were just plain silly. For example, some people didn't mind screwing somebody, but they didn't want to kiss. "Hell," Molly said, "I went to bed with Keith simply because he was a good kisser." Some people didn't want to go further than a handshake on the first date, and we decided that if all went well, why not just go for it on the spot? On the other hand, if either of us was unsure, we should take some time to think about it.

Where to meet was a hot topic. We saw three options: a hotel bar where we could just bounce up and get a room if we felt like it, a restaurant near our place, or someplace near him. Molly didn't feel like the hotel, she thought it might be interpreted as a presumption that we would play, and said other than that the choice was mine. Did that mean that if things went well, we might invite him back here? "Why not?" Molly conjectured, "We have lots of people coming all the time, the neighbors won't think anything about it."

One guy never responded to our invitation, the other two wanted to meet. We found we had a weekend open two weeks out, and decided to invite Mark, who was six feet one, 185 pounds, a single gentleman for Friday night. Mark wrote back and said he was attending a concert that night, would Saturday work? We agreed. But Mark also wanted a picture of Molly. I told her the conundrum. "He has pictures on his profile, I'm sure he wants to believe you aren't a four-foot, 800 pound gnome." Since we had insisted on pictures of him, Molly let me take a few pictures of her at a park, then had me crop her head off before I posted them.

Since Mark couldn't make it Friday night we offered Steve, five feet eleven, 170 pounds, the first shot. He quickly accepted. "What are we going to do if Steve pans out," I asked, "and everything works well? Are we going to cancel Mark at the last moment?"

Molly just laughed. "I hope we have that problem. Maybe we should keep the Saturday night date, too, and have a really, really great weekend?"

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All this preparation, advance planning, making of plans had almost sucked the life out of a fling that was supposed to be fun, and Molly seemed nonchalant about her dates as they approached, nearly oblivious, I thought. She didn't want to play the what-are-we-going-to-do game in bed, and I wondered if perhaps I'd done something wrong. But during the days preceding the twin dates, I could tell that Molly was becoming fitful.

It didn't hit full stride until the night of the first date, and to make it worse Molly had a problem at work and had to stay forty-five minutes late. She rushed through her bath, threw clothes on, took little time with her makeup, but even if she didn't radiate sheer allure as we drove to the restaurant where we planned to meet Steve she was, at least to me, still fetching.

On the way I remarked, "You know, we need some sort of a code to figure out how we're feeling, without giving it up to Steve."

"I thought about that, too. Here's my idea: At some point, I'll bring up things we like to do, if we like the guy we'll say we like monkeys. But if he's a dud, it's elephants. What do you think?"

"As good as anything else, I guess. Monkeys good, elephants bad."

We entered the bistro, and I searched faces for someone I could recognize from the photographs. We were finally greeted by a man who almost whispered, "Anne? Don?" Cautious Molly had decided to use her 'stage name.'

"That's us," I agreed, as I was shocked by the diversity between what we were led to expect and what was presented. Steve's picture had to be taken at least twenty years prior, he wasn't as tall as he'd led us to believe, a couple inches shorter than Molly. He wasn't exactly portly, but he could have lost twenty pounds without missing it. His clothes were obviously purchased a few years ago, he needed a trim. Molly later confided that her first response was even harsher than mine. We sat at a table, I was continually jostled by other people trying to find a place to sip drinks before dinner, the noise was abnormally high.

That didn't stop Steve. Within a few moments he was loudly dropping sexual innuendoes, "Do you like the beach? 'Cause I really, really like to swim deep." We found out more about him but nothing that attracted him to me. He focused almost exclusively on Molly, never asking a question of me, when I tried to insert myself into the conversation he answered almost in a syllable then went back trying to impress Molly.

A half hour after we'd sat, Molly said, "You know, one of the things we like to do is go to the zoo. Steve, what's your favorite animal?"

"Oh, I guess the anteater. He's got a really long tongue."

I laughed out loud. Molly turned to me, "Dear, I don't really know what your favorite one is."

I admit it. Although I wasn't fond of Steve, I was still excited about the chance of seeing my love laid, and I dodged the issue. "Well, I like monkeys but I think the elephants are cute, too."

"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. Elephants are just so big!" Steve nearly split a gut on that one, I'm sure he was thinking Molly was returning it as good a she was getting. It took us another fifteen minutes, but Molly finally swallowed the last of her wine quickly and said, "Steve, thanks so much for meeting with us. Don and I need to think about this - you know it's something we've never done, and we need to be sure."

For having been shot down, Steve was certainly composed. "I figured it was going to end this way. It's not the first time. But, listen, if you guys decide you want to get together . . ." He laid a few dollars on the table, barely enough to cover his two beers.

After we got in the car, Molly and I had a good laugh. "Did you see the indentation on his finger? I wonder what his wife's doing tonight!" It was still early, we decided to grab a sandwich and then see the new super-hero flick. It wasn't a good movie, we decided the protagonist's name should have been Steve.

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Chapter 6

I was down about the failure with Steve, but Molly has an outlook that things can always be better. She woke me up with the announcement, "Tonight, we're gonna meet Mark. Do you know what I want to do with him?" And she showed me. By 9:30 I was worn out, Molly was just starting.

"Come on, I'll buy you breakfast." And at a restaurant I was treated to waffles and bacon and eggs, she had a fruit cup. "Now," she demanded, "you're taking me shopping."

"But . . ."

"But nothing. Let's go."

And it was into the mall. The first stop was Frederick's. She shopped first for a dress, and although she solicited my opinion, the choice was clearly hers, a garment that the salesgirl referred to as a tube dress, metallic teal, of a pliant material that hugged her curves. Sans shoulder but with very definite cleavage, by some sorcery it seemed to add two sizes to her breasts, her already thin waist became minuscule. She also found a pair of panties that were held at the sides only by strings, a black lace band at the top, meager mesh that would slide between her legs. "I can't wait to put these on. Bet you can't wait until they come off." Then at the shoe store, she found a pair of white sandals with intricate strapping, heels more soaring than I'd seen her wear in a decade. "I don't need jewelry, dear, I've got just the item." Later, as we were having an iced coffee, she whispered, "If I don't get laid tonight, my love, it won't be my fault."

She took a run that afternoon while I puttered around the house, and when she returned at five, sweating and bedraggled, she told me to leave her alone until it was time to go. I complied.

Two minutes before we needed to depart, she appeared, fresh, stunning. The gown fit her perfectly, the heels added at least three inches to her already stunning height, the hair had additional curl, the eyebrows were black and thin, the eyeshadow matched the teal of her outfit, the ears were punctuated by diamond earrings, a diamond heart pendant accented her neck, silver and stones at her wrist and finger. Yes, she was gorgeous. On the half hour drive to the restaurant where we'd meet Mark, I couldn't keep my eyes off her legs, skin uncovered by stockings, the hem failed to cover two-thirds of the area above her knees.

We entered the wine bar, mahogany and leather, crisply air conditioned, to be met quickly by a suave - that's the only word for him - gentleman, taller than Molly in her heels. He wore, from the bottom up, boat shoes, beige trousers, knit leather belt, azure dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sports coat of an undetermined yet matching subdued plaid.

"Don? Anne?" We agreed that we were, he said to my wife, "I'm glad you got the memo about colors."

She laughed, answered, "Actually, my name's Molly. You don't mind the ruse, do you?"

"Of course not, I completely understand."

He escorted us to a table he'd obviously pre-arranged, deep leather club chairs scattered around a timbered table at knee level, perfect for placing glasses while providing views. A waiter followed and offered drinks. "What are you having?" Molly asked Mark.

"Rex Pinot Noir, Willamette Valley."

"That sounds fine." I ordered one as well. Mark took the opportunity, after asking if we had diet restrictions, to order three plates of hors d'oeuvres, shrimp and beef, a platter of cheeses.

I studied the man. Handsome was not quite the right word, perhaps stately would be more apt. Hair not quite grey, yet the original brown had faded slightly, it was flowing without being long. Elongated nose, thin lips, firm chin, extended neck. I was sure that physically, Molly was sweltering.

The conversation was quiet, gracious. Mark discovered what colleges we had graduated from, what our professions were, paying as much attention to me as he did to Molly. We easily discovered Mark had his undergraduate degree from an Ivy-league school, Yale law. He was working as a consultant for an environmental concern, assisting the legislature in drafting regulatory policy. We ran on to pastimes, Mark enjoyed golfing and skiing, Molly said we enjoyed the zoo, particularly the gorillas. I chimed in that they were my favorite as well. Molly scooted her chair closer to Mark than I, and I witnessed the magic she had with men once more. Mark's arm was suitably petted, if he held her hand once or twice it was unobtrusive, yet pointed. An hour passed, quite pleasantly, and Mark scanned the environs, assured himself that no other customers were within eavesdropping range.

"Don," he began, "I'd like to inform you, assuming you don't already know, that your wife is quite beautiful, and you are a very lucky man. I wish I could be in your shoes for just one evening."

I looked at Molly, allowed her to respond. "Mark, I think that can be arranged."

"Well, I live not ten minutes from here, I have a fine bottle of Hermitage that I've been dying to open, would you like to try it?"

I looked at Molly, made sure she was positive of the decision, in that unspoken way that long-time couples have, saw the fervor in her expression. "Should we follow you?" I promised.

Don lived in a second floor condominium, we entered into a marble foyer decorated with antique lithographs. The kitchen was just past the living room, beige shag carpeting, wheat fabric on Mackenzie sofa, matching chair a few feet away. The very first thing Mark accomplished was to open that bottle, and my first taste told me it was exquisite, perhaps the best wine I'd ever had.

"Shall we sit for a few moments, or would you like a tour?" Don queried.

Molly spied the bait, nibbled, "Oh, I'd really like to see the other rooms." 'Including the bedroom' was an implicit augmentation.

He started by pointing out a few curios in the living room, gauging our interest, lingering no longer than necessary, then pointed us to a hallway, photographs on the wall of family and friends. The den was entered, a workspace full of topical books, computer, papers, but it defined neatness. A guest bedroom, bright and breezy, a bathroom was pointed to, and then we entered the ample master suite, a king size bed, neutral rug and comforter, navy pillowcases and sheets tucked with military preciseness. A long chair, not quite a couch with one end armed, was placed appropriately. Another door was obviously a closet, it remained closed, but Mark led us into the master bathing suite, double sink, enclosed lavatory, whirlpool bath, free standing shower, and a small wooden enclosure that Mark informed us could function as a steambath as well as a sauna. Two could lounge comfortably, four could cause pleasant congestion.

The tour complete, we exited to the bedchamber, and Mark suggested, "Let me show you this." He led us to a niche, turned on a spotlight, and there was a wonderful sculpture of a woman reclining on an angel. "Canova's Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss, of course." In the act of explaining the sculpture Mark placed his arm around Molly's waist, his hand on her hip, the first time he'd touched her other than the innocent brushes at the bar. Standing behind them a little, I watched as Molly snuggled into the embrace. "It's a reproduction, but I found it in an collectable shop off a backstreet in the opera district of Paris, perhaps you know it?" He half turned to Molly, she half turned to him, I sensed what was to happen next, but Mark looked to me. "Don, it appears that your wife desires a kiss, do I have your permission?"

"Certainly, and I consent to any thing else she'd like."

"Very well. You have my thanks. And now, dear woman." He turned to her once more, her wrists surrounded his neck, in her heels he had only to bend a bit, their lips met. I could see Molly's mouth open for him, I was sure their lips entangled. They disjoined, a breath was taken, and Molly pulled his head down again. It was a kiss of epic proportions, eyes closed, his hands at her back unmoving, hers stroking the scruff, his hair. Molly's torso was pressed against his, I could almost feel her breasts merging into his chest. Then, without breaking the kiss, hands commenced to move, hers against his back, arms and face, his in the same places and more. Moments later, the fingers of her hand were twirled in his locks, the other dandling at the curvature which marked the transition from the small of the back to his rump.