Some itches simply must be scratched.
But sometimes you can't reach them by yourself.
That was the situation in which Winston and I found ourselves, or, to be more specific, the situation in which I involved Winston.
You see, I had a terrible urge to fuck my co-worker Martin. It was a strange, out-of-nowhere urge that afflicted me like a growing tickle in that part of your back that you can never quite reach, no matter how you twist your arm. And isn't that what husbands and wives are for? To scratch that unreachable itch, right? And so one day I asked him.
"You want to do what?" replied Winston with a rather dumbfounded look on his face.
"Just once should be enough, I think," I heard myself saying, though I couldn't believe the words were actually coming out of my mouth. "Yes, I think just one time would do it." And I meant that. Martin is just too attractive ever to be trusted for more than a one-night stand. He's can't remember the names of all the women he's left wanting. Any wench foolish enough to get emotionally attached to Martin deserves whatever sorrow she gets.
"Just once? Are you sure that will be enough?" Winston asked sarcastically, gathering his wits once again. He's a clever one, Winston. That is why I married him. He knew before I did that I could never love anyone but him, and waited patiently until I figured it out for myself. Then he had me for good. Of course, he is also clever enough not to take advantage of my loyalty. I might never love anyone but him, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't leave him if he betrayed me.
"Yes, I think you're right. Once will be enough." He said, and I thought to myself, that was easy, too easy.
And then, as if hacking into my private musings, he added, "Yes, once will be enough for me too. You get me Abby for a one-off and then you can have your Martini," which is what he dismissively called the playboy Martin. Yes, too easy. You see, Winston is also clever enough to know when being flexible pays dividends.
Not that I minded the tit for tat. I suppose I should have expected it. I mean, fair is fair. But I was a little surprised, because I would have expected him to seek something else in return, not my best friend's pussy. You see, Winston, though he is brilliant at it, is not motivated by sex, at least not by getting more than I give him. He has his appetites, but he does not go in search of exotic new dishes.
I am a lot more inquisitive about new sensations. Winston never begrudges me my new toys when they arrive in the post, never interrupts me when I disappear for some mid-afternoon delight. He never denies my requests for trying new things, but I have learned that we both get more out of it if I carefully ration them.
"Abby, you say?" I asked as I imagined my friend's sweet face, and brilliant smile. I may have been surprised he countered with pussy, but I can't say I was surprised he picked her. He has always been sweet on her. She is a lovely girl, inside and out, with long flowing dark hair, a slender waist, perennially perky tits, and absolutely beautiful feet. She should have been a shoe designer's model rather than a social worker.
"Yes, Abby," he replied, which presented a bit of a problem since I had a very hard time envisioning a scenario in which she would agree to get fucked by her best friend's husband. I don't think the work "fuck" is even in her vocabulary. She may or may not be a virgin, it's hard to tell, because she simply never talks about the sluttier side of life.
The fact that she is my best friend despite the divide in our sexual sharing speaks to her inner beauty as well. She listens patiently as I blather on about the virtues of the latest arrival in my collection, and politely moves the conversation on to other topics. I don't think she is irritated by it. I just think she is doing what I would do if knitting were her thing. That's what friends are for, right? Could I blame Winston for being attracted to her?
Winston had set the bar high, incredibly high, maybe so high because he knew it was next to impossible. So I would need both patience and a plan if I wanted my Martini. But neither Winston nor I had any timetable to follow. The itch was not yet unbearable.
"You have a deal," I said, and went to the bedroom, took out a handful of my toys, placed them in a circle around myself on the bed, and began to ponder Abby's fate. Abby, oh Abby, what itch do you need scratched?
* * *
Nothing much happened over the next few weeks. I was quite busy, Martin was off on some project overseas, and Winston was, well, Winston. He never caused a fuss.
I continued to see Abby a couple of times a week, and sent her a few more articles on the virtues of sex, but no obvious opening presented itself. Until she let slip about Jeremy.
It took a while, but I learned that Jeremy was a newcomer to her office, and "just dreamy" she said. He was always very well dressed but never in a pretentious sort of way. She liked that he shaved every day even though he didn't need to since their office was pretty laid back. He brought his own lunch everyday but not just a sandwich and chips, but always something a little special like pasta with pesto, or smoked salmon. Nothing over the top, mind you, but classy, just classy, she said. She said she felt a "tingle" whenever she was around him.
She was cute; I was all ears. I wasn't sure what this might mean for my Martini, but I didn't have much else to work with.
Each time we met for coffee, I inquired further about Jeremy and it was clear that she was more and more attracted to him. There were more details about how tidy he kept his cubicle, his helpful contributions in meetings, his way of bringing out the best in people. She spoke like a woman in love, or least one who had more than a passing interest.
"Is he married?" I asked one day. It was politer than asking if he was gay.
"Well, he doesn't wear a ring, but he never really talks about his personal life," she replied.
"Sounds like someone else I know," I said half under my breath.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," I mumbled. And then, in a moment of sheer brilliance, I said, "It is just that I know someone who might be perfect for him."
"Who? What do you mean?" She was suddenly flustered.
"Oh," I said, "I think my friend Janice would be interested in someone like him."
"Janice? What Janice?" she burst out urgently. And then I knew she was hooked.
"Never mind about Janice. Because if you are you interested in this Jeremy...You are, you know...interested, right?"
"I suppose I am," she said, as if it were just finally dawning on her. "Maybe I am. Oh, Violet, I am! Oh God, what do I do now?"
"Honey, I'm afraid God is not going to help you with this one," I said. "But unless there is something you aren't telling me, I don't think you are going to need divine intervention. It's really not that complicated."
"But I don't even know if he likes me." I was beginning to think I was back in high school.
"Listen, he's a big boy, and hopefully a really big boy, if you know what I mean. I am sure he could handle it if you asked him out."
"What do you mean by 'really big'?" she asked with some real uncertainty in her eyes.
"Um, do you not read any of the articles I send you?" I asked incredulously.
"Not really. They look kind of, you know, nasty."
"Well, of course they are nasty. Nasty is good." This could take a while.
"I guess I could read some. But what should I do about Jeremy?"
"Listen," I said, "you read those articles, and go pick out some lingerie. Then we'll talk about Jeremy."
And away she went.
* * *
Then one day while I was playing with a new toy, and just about to get off, the phone rang. It was Abby. She was sobbing.
"Oh, Violet. He's gay!"
Hmm. This could be a problem.
We met, and I learned that she had deduced this fact by his apparent lack of interest in him as she began flirting more heavily with some of her newfound information from those "nasty" articles. I was pleasantly surprised to see her dressed much more sensually, with her normally pulled up hair falling gracefully around her shoulders, and with a blouse that even if it wasn't showing cleavage suggested there was probably something pretty nice down there. She even had some makeup on.
"I mean, I think he might be gay. He won't even give me a second look," she lamented. "But I really like him." She emphasized the word "really" like a schoolgirl. Yes, another reminder of why Winston chose her. He loves that schoolgirl look. I play the virgin for him sometimes.
"Well, maybe you need to just come right out and say it. Say what you want. You do know what you want, right?"
"I do? I mean, yes, I do. I want to please him." She said that last part slowly, uncertainly. "I'm just not sure I would know how. Could you show me? You seem to know a lot about sex." Thank you, sweet Jeremy, I thought to myself.
"Abby, are you a virgin?" I had a hunch but I had to ask.
"No, but I might as well be one. It was just once and over pretty quick." Poor Winston. Only half his fantasy would be fulfilled now. But I knew I had her, and I was pretty sure he wouldn't be complaining about such a minor detail.
"I wouldn't even know how to bring the conversation up."
"Maybe you just need practice," I said cunningly, but in my most innocent voice. "Practice makes perfect, right?"
"What do you mean by practice?" I began to reel her in.
