Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Floridian

We found a new single bisexual female online and met her for drinks on Friday evening. Conversation was pretty safe and polite. Nobody got drunk. My wife was on her period, so nothing could happen anyway. Everybody knew this beforehand, so there were no expectations to be dashed. We sat and talked and drank in a very crowded restaurant. The topic of sex never even arose. She was a very good-looking girl, very curvy. She’s got some very cool, well-done tattoos on her legs, left arm, and the back of her neck. We had to call it a night pretty early, because it had been a very long week. My wife and I were both falling asleep at the table. It went well, and we promised to see her again.

The next day there was a message from her, and we didn’t have any particular plans. My wife was still on her period, but we agreed that there would be no harm in hanging out for beers again. We promised to broach the subject of sex this time. The evening started out at the Lava Lounge. That might have been a mistake, because we know way too many people there who don’t know that we swing. We were, however, able to get a booth and speak freely about whatever subject needed to be discussed. The Floridian is a fantastically dirty girl. She talked a wonderful game, and left me anxious to determine the accuracy of it. We shared nearly every gritty sex story we had in that booth, at least all the ones we could think of on the spur of the moment. Once the bar began to get crowded, we headed down the street to the Tiki Lounge, and found a semi-hidden little room downstairs. We told more stories, and I began to get buzzed. The tension was incredible. She was showing a great deal of cleavage, and I couldn’t look away from it. Eventually we decided to call it a night, before anybody got too worked up. My wife had to hit the ladies room one last time before we left. As soon as she departed, leaving us alone in this secluded room, the Floridian and I locked tightly, groped, and kissed deeply for a few short moments. It was nice. It was brief. It was just a sample. We composed ourselves just in time for my wife to return. Then we walked outside, down to the corner, and parted ways for the night, with solid plans to get together when everybody could fuck. During the car ride home, I told my wife about the brief interlude that the Floridian and I had had back at the booth and she seemed generally amused.

Two weeks elapsed. The following week, I had a few paintings in a group show that was opening in a Boston art gallery, and I was going to be there for it. We had plans to meet up with her on the following Saturday evening for whatever might happen. As the date approached, my anticipation grew. My wife didn’t really speak of it. I knew that she wasn’t quite as excited as me. She and the Floridian didn’t click especially well, but they certainly didn’t clash either. I thought that if she had any serious reservations that she’d voice them.

That Saturday morning, my wife told me that she wouldn’t be having sex with the Floridian. She said that she just wasn’t into it, but that I could still proceed if I wanted. We’ve never swung that way before. We’ve always swapped evenly. Any time that we’ve had sex with a single woman, we’ve done it together. Any time that we’ve had a single man involved, I’ve always been present and participated. The only times we had ever slept alone with other people had been with our friends from State College, and that had been a strange and unique arrangement. I explained that it had never been my desire to fuck the Floridian alone, and would never agree to my wife sleeping with another man without me present. I wanted to make certain that she understood that I hadn’t planned on such an arrangement, and would not be able to make the same concession that she was making. She insisted that she was fine with it. I explained that if she didn’t want me to have sex with this girl, then I wouldn’t. I double- and triple-checked to confirm that she meant what she was saying. She did.

That evening we met the Floridian for drinks. My wife didn’t waste time explaining the change of plans. She faked illness to avoid any bad feelings, and told the Floridian that she’d still like her to fuck me. She asked if that would be okay. The Floridian replied that she would. After a couple beers, we left the bar and headed back to our place. The Floridian had never been there before, and had no idea where we lived. It was December, and the roads were terrible. It wouldn’t have been easy for her to simply follow my wife and me the whole way home. One of us needed to ride with her. Since my wife drove that evening, we had her car. Thus, it would be me who rode with the Floridian back to our place. When we got to her car we groped and kissed heavily for a few moments, then drove off. We did this each time we hit a traffic light.

Back at our house, we all sat in the living room downstairs and talked and drank some more. After a while, my wife excused herself and went up to bed, betraying no indication of misgiving. She even took the dog with her so we wouldn’t be disturbed. As soon as my wife had ascended the top step and turned the corner, I was upon the Floridian. Things escalated quickly. Clothes were shed in an instant. Remarkably, none were ripped in the process. We fucked aggressively and in every way that a man and woman imaginably can, for about an hour and a half. She was even more dirty than I’d anticipated. We were done around 12:30am, and the roads were getting worse with the mounting storm. The Floridian dressed and left. I had given her directions back to roads that she knew. I agreed to leave my phone on and beside the bed in case she got lost or had any trouble. I went upstairs to bed. My wife asked if I’d had fun. I replied, “Yes.”

In the morning, I awoke to go to the gym. I still smelled like the Floridian’s perfume. Interactions with my wife seemed a little tense. At one point I hugged her and asked her if everything was alright. I could see her hesitate. I suspect it was the smell of the other woman on me. We talked about the previous night, sparing the gritty details. It was somewhat strained. I felt bad, but I hadn’t done anything that I hadn’t had explicit permission to do. I did nothing wrong, aside from taking my wife at her word when perhaps I shouldn’t have. We came to the conclusion that we wouldn’t be sleeping with any more singles in the future. We decided that couples were the only fair and balanced way to go.

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