Barbara and I were already too close before she ever made love to me. Looking back, I think there was always a current -- subtle but steady -- of something unspoken in our friendship. A quiet pull. Maybe even a trace of desire. She'd had experience with women before. She was drawn to me. And she knew enough, felt enough, to recognize something stirring in herself.
Within a few weeks, we'd found our rhythm. While the kids were at school and kindergarten, we started stealing an hour or two for ourselves -- regular, deliberate. Moments carved from the everyday, brightened by touch, laughter, and the secret thrill of it all.
Just the two of us. No men around. It felt like cheating -- real cheating. Like adultery. It bothered me. And it felt good.
No -- no, that wasn't the motivation. Of course not. I'm not that kind of person. At least... I don't think I am. That's something a 'normal peaople' might not understand. Or maybe no one would.
Of course you want it -- that sweet, happy little tickle. Thank God you never outgrow that. But if it were only about pleasure, you wouldn't need different people. Or different roles. Or different games. Hell, if that were it, you could just use a candle in the bathroom.
No -- it was the closeness. That's what we needed. That woman-to-woman closeness you simply can't get from a man -- not really, not completely. There's a quality to it. A depth.
When I tried to talk about this with Archie -- I don't anymore -- he didn't understand. I don't think he wants to understand. Some days, I'm not sure I understand either.
We gave each other something, Barbara and I. Reassurance. Comfort. We learned to use each other's bodies like medicine. Headache? Take aspirin. Tension? Take that little blue pill. Depression? Go down on the girl next door.
And it worked -- it did. But it also created this echo, this guilt pattern, and a few days later you're low again. And the cure is obvious. And suddenly you're caught in a cycle that makes you wonder: Am I basically a lesbian?
"This is ridiculous," she said one afternoon, laughing as we lay tangled together on the couch, the TV flickering in the background, forgotten. "I haven't watched a single show in weeks."
I kissed her shoulder. "That's because I'm far more entertaining."
"Oh really?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Then by all means -- entertain me."
Everything felt new. Even the simplest things gave us joy. Silly games we used to dismiss became thrilling again, simply because we were discovering them together.
We hardly ever watched television anymore. We filled our time with each other -- laughing, touching, trying new things just for the hell of it.
"I never thought something this... casual could feel so alive," she whispered once, her breath warm against my neck.
"And yet here we are," I said, pulling her closer.
That freshness, that freedom -- it made us open to anything. We found ourselves saying yes to almost everything, just to see where it might take us.
"Do you think we'll ever reach a point where we're doing things that seem too kinky?" I asked her one day. "I mean... doesn't that usually happen sooner or later?"
"It always happens," Barbara murmured. "The funny thing is... none of us really knows where our own line is. Not until we're already toeing it."
I looked at her, curious. "Have you ever crossed yours?"
She hesitated, just for a second. "Maybe once. Or... maybe I just thought I had, and then realized the line had moved."
There was a silence. Not heavy -- just thoughtful.
"I guess what scares me," I said quietly, "is not the kink itself. It's that once you open the door, you never quite know who might walk in."
She turned toward me, her voice lower. "Sometimes... that's the best part."
I raised an eyebrow. "Are we still talking hypotheticals?"
Barbara smiled, but didn't answer right away. Then: "Let's say... hypothetically... someone else got involved. Would it scare you? Or excite you?"
I took a slow breath. "Depends. Who's getting involved?"
She traced a finger along my arm, almost absentmindedly. "Maybe someone else's husband. Maybe... mine. Maybe... yours."
I blinked. "Are you offering Ken to me? And want Archie for yourself?" I tried to make it sound like a joke, but my voice came out huskier than I expected.
"Yes and No," she said, leaning in close. "I'm wondering what it would do to us. To you. And if we'd still want each other just as much... or more."
One afternoon, as we lounged in the kitchen sipping coffee, Barbara leaned back and said, almost offhandedly, "I'm on my period. Ken's been pacing around like a dog who lost his favorite toy."
I laughed. "Poor guy."
"He just can't wait for it to be over," she added with a grin. Then, after a beat: "You know, we really ought to have a mutual agreement -- when I'm out of commission, Ken sleeps with you. And when you're out of commission, I take care of Archie."
I froze for half a second, caught between amusement and surprise. "That's... efficient," I said, matching her tone.
"All very practical," she said with a wink. "We'd keep everyone happy. No downtime. Like a proper support network."
I laughed again, a little more slowly this time.
It was clearly a joke. Delivered with a smile, no pressure, nothing overt. But I knew Barbara. Jokes like that were never just jokes. They were trial balloons. Thought experiments with heat.
And the worst part? The image stayed with me longer than I cared to admit.
Naturally, I didn't tell Archie. But the idea lingered.
It wasn't just the words -- "Ken sleeps with you, I take care of Archie" -- it was how she said them. Breezy. Confident. Like she already knew I'd laugh, maybe roll my eyes. Maybe even imagine it.
And I did. More than once.
I'd heard of arrangements like that before -- when a woman gets too far along in her pregnancy and gently, almost gracefully, steps aside. A little practical. A little indulgent. Variety, wrapped up in necessity.
But this wasn't about pregnancy.
Still, the idea stuck. Once planted, it's hard not to turn it over in your mind. That's the thing about forbidden thoughts: the more you try to push them away, the deeper they sink in. And the more familiar they begin to feel.
Archie mentioned once, casually, that Ken told him Barbara really liked him. "She always says she feels safe with you," Archie said, drying dishes beside me. "Comfortable."
I raised an eyebrow. "Safe? That's an interesting choice of word."
He shrugged. "Ken joked about it once. Said, 'I don't think I'd trust the two of you alone for too long.' Then he laughed." A beat. "Only... I don't know. Not sure it was a joke."
The four of us spent more time together. Dinners that turned into game nights. Weekends when no one seemed in a hurry to go home. And somewhere along the way, the conversations changed.
Sex crept in.
First it was jokes. Then stories. Hypotheticals. A shared smirk. A curious glance across the table.
"I mean, you two must've had wild days before marriage," Barbara once teased, swirling her wine. "Still do, I hope."
Archie smiled politely. I said nothing, but I felt her eyes on me.
Sometimes it was subtle. Sometimes it wasn't.
"You know," Barbara said another evening, "I think the couples who last are the ones who let each other breathe a little." She leaned forward, her voice a purr. "Don't you agree?"
It was another way of breaking the ice, I realized. Of normalizing what might have once felt unthinkable. Double meanings laced in every sentence. A quiet, growing permission.
It didn't mean anything, not yet. But it didn't mean nothing, either.
And maybe that was the point.
It was after midnight when I stepped outside, needing air. The evening had unraveled into something soft and loose, like silk slipping from bare shoulders. Inside, I could still hear laughter -- Barbara's low and throaty, Ken's mellow and amused, Archie humming along with a half-forgotten song.
The night air was warm. Almost too warm.
"Can't sleep?" Barbara's voice was behind me before I heard the door slide open. She stood barefoot, a glass of something golden in her hand, robe barely tied. Her hair was undone. Her face calm. Too calm.
"Just needed a break," I said.
She nodded as though she understood something I hadn't said. "You know," she began, her voice soft, "Ken thinks you're beautiful."
I turned. "Does he?"
"Oh yes. He doesn't say it often, but I know how he looks at you."
She stepped closer, and for a moment I wondered if I was dreaming. There was a drowsy rhythm to the night, a thickness to the air that made everything shimmer. Or maybe that was just her.
"He's never said no to me," Barbara continued, eyes steady. "Not once."
She let that hang in the air like incense. And then, as if commenting on the weather: "I'd never ask him to do anything that might upset you."
My mouth felt dry. "You make it sound like you've already decided something."
Barbara smiled, slow and luxurious. "We're just... exploring. Preparing the ground. That's what you do before planting anything serious, right?"
Inside, the song changed. A slow jazz number, velvety and full of shadows.
"I think about it sometimes," she said, leaning on the railing next to me. "You and Ken. Me and Archie. But not like a trade. Not like that." She turned her face to me. "More like a mirror. A little shifting of angles."
