A Threeway Tie Ch 03

Part 3 The Wife

Everywoman. I am she. I do just what she does and I feel just what she feels. And then, in a flash, I am No-Woman: not a woman at all, only me, the middle ground between the sexes and not quite either. And for you, for your love, I became that woman. One of those women. Now I can single myself out, point a finger at my own face and say the word dyke. Within all this I am your woman, the happy wife, the one you chose to stand with you while you screwed Everywoman you met.

I used to make notes – lots of them. Oodles, page upon page. Oh the pads I have filled just trying to keep track. Of you. Dates, times, names, faces, places. Suppositions and suspicions; obsessively, jealously, secretly. The receipts, the ticket stubs, your diaries and desk planners, filofax and phone. The places I followed you to on your lunch-breaks – all noted with analysis, each a little mystery to be unravelled for my own terrible fascination. And then one evening, when I had gone into the City for a drink with a gay friend to a bar I’d never visited before, I saw you. Working late – but not in the way I’d imagined. Across your table sat a girl, my age or even a little older, with long dark hair and an open, eager grin. I noticed she was holding your hand before I ran.

You found me in the passageway by the side of the building, doubled-up with sickness and the heavy, chilling burden that comes from learning something one already knows. You put your hand to me and I threw up at your touch. “It’s OK,” you said. “We can work it out.” And, to my eternal amazement, we have.

The one I am to finally meet this evening has been around for five months. Last night we decided it was time. “She’s desperate,” you said. “It’ll be easy.” I gave my permission. Strange how addictive these little games become. I never thought of adultery as a team sport until three summers ago.

We talked all night that night, through tears and recriminations, the accusations flying, our defences alternately raised and flattened, raised and flattened. We each went to our separate cupboards and rummaged in the back for the biggest sticks, and then we brought them out and beat each other until dawn came and neither one could stand for further assault. And so we went to bed, and the pain and the guilt settled lower in our bodies, congealing into an ugly mess of passions – wounded pride, spurned desire, butchered trust; possessive, jealous, hopeless, furious. We had the best sex we’d had in six years and we hardly left the bedroom for the remainder of the weekend. On the Sunday afternoon, I remember, she rang while you were making love to me (the long-haired girl, the one who changed our lives). The answer-phone on the bedside table picked up the call, her soft voice in my ear saying your name, talking to you quietly, urgently, as you pushed your fingers into me. It was then, as I was having the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced, that I knew what the solution must be. It was a kind of certainty I had never felt before. I think you thought your birthday and Christmas had come at once when I suggested it.

I know what this one looks like because you’ve shown me a picture – an amusing photobooth cliché with her on your lap. She’s very nice. Sexy. You always did have fine taste my love. I can feel the anticipation building up inside me and you’re not even here yet. It’s past time, I guess her train’s late.

We’re like a well-oiled machine now, you and I, but each one is different – that’s what keeps it interesting. The last one, for example, was far more butch than your usual conquests. Oh, it was a joy to watch her dominate you! The one before that was so delicate, like an elf, I worried she would break when we doubled up on her, and yet she took us both in as sweet as could be. And the one before her…well, I’ve never known a woman still able to do that at forty-eight!

I am waiting. Waiting. Waiting. My usual position, my usual stool. It’s loud in here tonight with the summer party crowd. At last, you bring her in. Our eyes meet briefly as you saunter past, high on the buzz, pushing your way through the obligatory rash of scene queens and mounting the steps to your usual position next to the cigarette machine. She comes to the bar a few feet from me, elbowing in in a short red dress. Suspenders too I see. Yes, very nice indeed. I can practically smell the desire seeping out of her. I can certainly feel her growing frustration; her absolute, all-consuming need for you. Now, tonight. Once again I applaud your impeccable sense of timing as she carries her two beers away.

I find myself hoping she’ll stick around for a while, after, as I settle back on my bar stool to watch you do what you do best. She looks so good I can’t wait to get her home. I have waited several months to meet her, wanting her from a single snapshot, willing this evening to arrive. And so tonight’s the night. I love this! Three is the magic number. I sip my drink and wait for my cue.

Concluded in Part 4...