We make relatively regular trips up to Toronto. It’s a nice change of scenery about once a year. We normally make a three-day weekend out of it, at some point in the spring. It wasn’t until this past trip that we realized that the drug laws in Canada are a little more relaxed than they are in the United States. Apparently, weed is illegal there, but a small amount for personal use is generally ignored as long as you’re not selling. So prior to our most recent trip, my wife did a little research. She found a café that doesn’t sell weed, but, for a small fee, will allow you access to their members’ area up on their patio, where you may smoke anything you wish to. Given that we don’t have any contacts in Toronto, this left us without access to anything to smoke, even though we had a decent place for it. We made the trip, and hit the café, hoping that we would befriend somebody who could help us out while on the premises. It didn’t seem like a stretch of the imagination that we’d be able to score something in a den of pot smokers. We bought the pass to the members’ area and inquired about etiquette. Would it be okay to try to buy from somebody there? In short, the answer was “no.” For legal reasons, the owners and management of the café couldn’t allow or condone that sort of activity. The man working the counter clarified that they could, however, sell us each a “Dutch-Style Milkshake” once we were upstairs. He assured us that they were worth their $13 price tags. Nudge nudge, wink wink. My wife and I each bought one and sat on the patio while we consumed them. They were good, and had that telltale grassy taste that betrays the presence of the special ingredient. At this point it’s important to note that hitherto, our experience with drugs had been contained to weed and alcohol. Given that the man preparing our milkshakes had to be cautiously vague about their contents, we simply assumed that meant that there was weed in it, and nothing else. Also important to note is the fact that when you eat something, it takes a little longer for it to hit your system than if you smoke it. However, once it hits you, it stays with you longer. It’s a trade-off of sorts. Once our milkshakes were completely drained, we went downstairs to leave. I stopped over at the bar to thank the man who had helped us out and tell him we were going to go get dinner and return later, perhaps for dessert. He looked at me a little crookedly, smiled, and said, “Give that thing about an hour to kick in.” I smiled back and said, “Cool.” It was 8:30pm, and our new friend clarified that they’d be open until about 2am. We walked out feeling nothing at all.
There’s an excellent restaurant in Toronto named “C’est What?” We’ve eaten there before. Their beer selection is expansive and they don’t stock crap. The food is awesome. The ambiance is cool. It’s a great place to eat if you’re a beer snob. As we ordered our first beers and then our food, the milkshakes had not yet begun to affect us. Almost at the same time as our food arrived, that familiar little head-rush began to wash over me. It was subtle, pleasant, and went well with the meal. I told my wife, and inquired about her state. She was still fine, and not feeling anything at all yet. We ate. It was good. I killed my first beer (a 6%abv oatmeal stout) and ordered another (a 9%abv imperial stout). It was heavenly. I began to feel slightly better, which might have been the beers. I’m not sure. Generally those two beers wouldn’t do anything noticeable to me, though given the circumstances I’m not sure what their effect may have been. After I was just about done eating, and beginning to think about dessert, I looked up at my wife. She had just asked me if the lights flickered. They hadn’t. She started laughing really hard, and she stared at me like I was growing horns. I asked her if she was okay. She said she was, and tried to subdue her uncontrollable laughter. Her eyes glassed over. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her pita, hummus, and Falafel sat on her plate. She struggled to compose herself, and decided to hit the ladies room. Upon her return she looked better, though it was short lived. It took about 30 seconds before the next laughing/crying fit befell her. I was still relatively straight, and I felt pretty good. It seemed like an eternity since we had seen our waiter. I assisted my wife in finishing her meal, and we decided that we needed dessert. In retrospect this seems counter-productive to our desire to exit the situation. We really wanted to get out of there, because we felt we were making a scene. The allure of dessert was too strong, however, and I felt like I still had the situation under control. It seemed like the waiter was leaving us alone. He may have seen my wife crying and given us distance to be considerate. He may have seen us both acting strangely and left us alone out of avoidance. He may have simply been busy. It’s also possible that our sense of time was beginning to distort. Later in the evening, we both had incredible trouble with time distorting. Our waiter finally returned and we ordered dessert. It arrived pretty quickly, and it was delicious. I felt my mental state changing, though I kept myself sufficiently together that I was able to pay the check, leave an appropriate tip, and guide us both out of the restaurant without difficulty. It’s important to note my atrocious navigational skills at this point. I cannot find my way around strange cities. When we go on trips my wife always prints out a map from the Internet and navigating becomes her responsibility. I impressed upon her that I had no fucking idea how to get us back to the hotel, which was clearly our only intelligent option. She assured me that she was feeling better. She was in control of her faculties again, and would be able to get us back. I believed her, because I was without options. We began to walk towards the subway station. She honestly seemed pretty straight. My gentle high was becoming less gentle. It was no longer a familiar weed high, but an incredible full-body sensation. My skin was becoming hypersensitive. Generally I’ve got a pretty good cold tolerance, but in this case I could feel the wind on my abdomen though my coat and shirt. The cold seemed to run like an ice cube all over my body. The chill was relentless. I couldn’t block it. I began to shiver. I felt like I kept falling asleep as I was walking. My wife guided me along by my elbow. Once at the subway terminal, we waited for our train and boarded it when it arrived. We also had to take a second connecting train to get back to our hotel. I was having serious doubts about my ability to complete the journey. Had it not been for the now-intolerable cold, I would have been content to simply sit on a bench and wait for the experience to end. I can’t remember the rest of our return trip. I just remember ending up on the bed.
We gave up on the notion of going back out into the city to drink almost immediately. All of my things were still with me and intact. My wallet, money, credit cards, camera, wedding ring, watch and coat had all made it back with me. I cannot adequately stress how amazed I was at that fact. I got up from the bed to confirm that it was true numerous times by taking inventory of all of the above-listed items. Each time I checked, I laid back down and couldn’t determine if I had actually just checked or simply dreamed that I had. My vision never distorted, though occasionally I was just a little uncertain of what I was seeing, kind of like a waking dream. My sense of hearing became painfully acute. The subtlest pipe rattling in the wall or wind rustling against the building sounded like a rock concert. In the course of the evening I had quite a few conversations with my wife that I’m not completely sure really happened. I kept falling into and out of a sort of dream state. Time periodically slowed down immensely and later seemed to disappear in chunks. My dreams and my wakefulness were intermingling progressively more. The whole experience was frightening, because I didn’t know what I had actually done and what I hadn’t. It’s also noteworthy that I occasionally suffer from night terrors. The first time that I successfully fell asleep, I had a night terror almost immediately. I awoke standing beside the bed, yelling, with my wife calming me down from her side of the bed. Incredibly thirsty, I got a drink and went back to bed and back to sleep. Around 3:30am I had another night terror, this one even more intense than the first had been. This time I leapt up from the bed, ran around it, fell, and scurried on my hands and knees for a few feet before awakening, again yelling. I had incredible carpet burns on my left knee and all over my left foot. After that, I was able to fall back asleep and remain that way until morning.
Our best guess, given the description of our experiences and a little Internet research, is that the milkshakes had hash in them, not weed. Embarrassment prevented us from returning to the café to seek definitive answers. In retrospect, I don’t think the experience would have been bad if we had had any idea what the strength of it would be, if we wouldn’t have had to cross the entirety of the city at night via subway in that state, and perhaps if only one of us had done it at a time, with the other acting as babysitter. Perhaps most alarming is the fact that while we were on the patio drinking our milkshakes, we observed another table of people in their early 20s who also seemed to be new to the place. There were four of them, two couples. Each of them had consumed one milkshake and were working on their second when we were leaving. I can only speculate how their night went.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Cuckolded and Cold
I had parked my car at a meter on East Carson. They check the meters until 6pm. It was 5:50 with no meter cops in sight. I figured it was a safe gamble to save a quarter. I was on my way to meet my wife for dinner at a Thai place down the street and then see a show. It was well below freezing on the street that night. Single digits, with the wind chill factored in. About three car lengths down, sitting on the stoop of a closed storefront, was a homeless guy. He was dressed relatively warmly, and sitting upright. He had his knees tucked up to his chest, and he was politely asking passersby for anything they could spare. I walked off in the other direction to hit an ATM, because I’m an asshole and I needed cash for dinner and the show. I took out about $80. With 4 twenties and a single in my wallet, I walked back to my car to get my hat. I hadn’t thought I would need it, but walking a block to the ATM convinced me otherwise. As I returned to the car, I saw the homeless guy still sitting there. He didn’t say anything. I pulled out a dollar, walked over, and gave it to him. I suggested that he go get warm, feeling ridiculous as I said it…like my dollar was going to warm him up. He said, “Thanks man. I wasn’t gonna ask again. I’m holed up under the bridge tonight, just tryin’ ta get warm. I caught my girlfriend cheatin’ on me and beat the shit outta the guy. So she called the police and kicked me out. I spent two months in jail, and lost my job. I used to detail cars at Don Allen Chevrolet. I just need a new job. I’d rather be workin’. I’ll be all right though. I won’t be out here long. You have a good night, man.“ I thanked him, smiled, and repeated my suggestion of, “Try to stay warm.” It was all I had the energy to say. It was freezing fucking cold. I grabbed my hat and walked down to the Thai place.
Friday, May 7, 2010
My Cousin’s Fourth Birthday
My little cousin’s birthday is on January second, which fell on a Wednesday in 2008. He was turning four, and my aunt and uncle elected to celebrate his birthday on Saturday the fifth, at their place at 5pm. We normally spend the entirety of our Saturdays in town. Their place is a 25 minute drive from ours, in the opposite direction of the city. Given that we already live about 25 minutes out of town, this would put us a solid 50 minute drive out of the city. Despite the interruption that this presented to our normal weekend plans, we went.
The event was nice. It was a typical family function, with lots of food and lots of people. My wife and I ate, and planned to stay until the gifts were opened, maybe have dessert, and then leave. About halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. My dad answered it, and I could see there were two youngish women at the door. There was a great deal of talking happening between them, and everybody was polite and smiling. I could see that my dad was using his amiable diplomatic persona. He’s the superintendent of a school district, and can become that character in an instant. I was curious what had brought that out. In a few moments my dad turned around and delicately announced that the girls had just backed into somebody’s car. It turns out that it was our car. There were so many cars at my aunt’s house that when we had showed up, we had had to street park. The women had backed their giant Isuzu SUV out of their driveway straight into my wife’s VW Jetta, putting a substantial crease in the rear passenger-side door. They were friends or acquaintances of my aunt. Apparently, one of them went to high school with her. My wife’s temper can be a lot to handle, and she was immediately muttering things under her breath. The girls were being very polite, and obviously had had the courtesy not to just drive off. Clearly they intended to pay for any damages. So I did my best to play the role of diplomat (a trait I inherited from my father), doing most of the talking for my wife. The woman who was actually driving the SUV never got out of the vehicle. The two women with whom I was talking were her friends who were riding with her. She remained in the vehicle with one other woman, and was digging frantically in her purse and glove compartment to produce her insurance information. After a while she shouted out the window that we should just call the police, and they could get her information for us. Her friends were visibly put off by this, but offered no objection. My wife went back in the house to call the police, while I waited on the front porch and memorized their license plate, watching, making sure they didn’t drive off. Eventually one of the girls ran back with the insurance card in hand. She apologized profusely, giving me the card to write down the necessary information. I immediately shouted back to my wife to cease calling the police, if she hadn’t done so already. While I wrote, she apologized for her friend’s curtness, explaining that she had just lost her three-year-old daughter to leukemia about two months before. This was the first time that they had been able to get her out of the house since then. That would have been good contextual information to have at the start of all this, as it may have helped subdue my wife’s reaction. Regardless, I took down the information, assured them that all would be fine, and wished them a good night. They smiled and left. My cousin opened his presents. We had dessert and left for our favorite bar.
Traffic into the city was minimal, because there was a Steelers game in progress. It was the first playoff game of the season, and everybody in the city was watching it. When we arrived at our favorite bar, it was relatively empty as well. Kumar and Greg were the only two people there, though they had the game playing on both TVs. It’s not really a place that people often go to watch sporting events, so it was odd to see sports on the TVs. Strangely, Greg and Kumar both follow the Steelers. I don’t understand it, though they’re not fanatical or obnoxious about it. Greg was clearly loaded already. It was about 8pm. He greeted us in his usual big-spirited style. He’s amazing. We asked him how his New Year’s was. He said that it had been terrible. On Monday, his best friend from high school had committed suicide. Greg’s about 33 now, and this friend lived in Seattle. He explained that they were still great friends, and had stayed in close touch ever since high school. When he returned to his day job, he learned that there was going to be a merger or something, and his whole office would be getting laid off at the end of the month. On top of that, his boss’s two-month-old niece just died of SIDS. At that point, 2008 wasn’t looking so good to any of us. So I ordered shots for the whole bar, all four of us. We drank to 2008. Conversation improved, and we got on to lighter subjects.
Eventually it came up that my wife and I are both atheists. Kumar seemed surprised by that fact. He and I discussed religion for a while, and it reminded me of a news clip that I had watched online that week. In California, a good-looking young surfer guy was attacked by a shark, nearly died, recovered completely, and subsequently found Jesus. He attributed his survival to God looking out for him. I think that’s just about the most self-serving, shitty logic there is. So God wanted the three-year-old girl to die of Leukemia, the two-month-old infant to die of SIDS, and Greg’s best friend to kill himself…but wanted to save the life of this surfer guy who was deliberately swimming in the ocean (which obviously contains sharks)? Am I supposed to believe that this is a decision made by an all-powerful and all-good, loving and benevolent God? I’m glad that surfer guy lived to surf another day, and I don’t fault him for enjoying what is a necessarily risky pastime. Life isn’t worth much if you don’t live it on your own terms. Calculated risks are part of that. However, the notion that God decided to intervene and save him, in the context of the thousands of people dying in Iraq, for example, is so self-absorbed it’s fucking offensive. Fuck you, and fuck your God. Kumar laughed when I told him all this. He was raised Hindu.
At one point the other bartender, whom we had only met for the first time on New Year’s, dropped by and dropped something off for Greg. He left quickly, with a big smile and a wave. Greg came over and showed us the bud he’d just been given. It smelled wonderful. He asked if we’d like to help him smoke it. We didn’t need much convincing. We just needed a location. We drank more. The bartender working the next shift showed up. She was mousy and quiet and totally straight. She was much more concerned about not getting fired than Greg had ever been. Her boyfriend showed up with her. Greg counted out his register and came around to the other side of the bar with us. He asked us if we wanted to see the basement, we said sure. The new bartender chick’s boyfriend came down with us. We locked the door and went down the steps into the basement. You could tell it was an old building, because the basement ceiling wasn’t high enough that I could stand upright without leaning my head to one side. The boyfriend had a bowl with him. Greg packed it and we all passed it around. When the bud was done, the boyfriend re-packed it with his own stuff. We passed it around some more. When that was done, we all went back upstairs to drink. From that point onward, my wife was done drinking. She had to be able to drive at the end of the evening. I didn’t have to worry about that, so I got hammered without restraint. Strangely, I don’t mind watching football when I’m drunk and high. Any other time, it makes me feel like my brain is atrophying. After we determined that she was sufficiently straight to drive, we left and went home without incident. Our dog was immensely happy to see us, and I poured myself a small glass of a 12 year old single malt Scotch, just to keep the buzz up. We played with Chalupa on the couch for a while, and only put her away when I felt like my passing out was imminent. Then we went up to bed.
The event was nice. It was a typical family function, with lots of food and lots of people. My wife and I ate, and planned to stay until the gifts were opened, maybe have dessert, and then leave. About halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. My dad answered it, and I could see there were two youngish women at the door. There was a great deal of talking happening between them, and everybody was polite and smiling. I could see that my dad was using his amiable diplomatic persona. He’s the superintendent of a school district, and can become that character in an instant. I was curious what had brought that out. In a few moments my dad turned around and delicately announced that the girls had just backed into somebody’s car. It turns out that it was our car. There were so many cars at my aunt’s house that when we had showed up, we had had to street park. The women had backed their giant Isuzu SUV out of their driveway straight into my wife’s VW Jetta, putting a substantial crease in the rear passenger-side door. They were friends or acquaintances of my aunt. Apparently, one of them went to high school with her. My wife’s temper can be a lot to handle, and she was immediately muttering things under her breath. The girls were being very polite, and obviously had had the courtesy not to just drive off. Clearly they intended to pay for any damages. So I did my best to play the role of diplomat (a trait I inherited from my father), doing most of the talking for my wife. The woman who was actually driving the SUV never got out of the vehicle. The two women with whom I was talking were her friends who were riding with her. She remained in the vehicle with one other woman, and was digging frantically in her purse and glove compartment to produce her insurance information. After a while she shouted out the window that we should just call the police, and they could get her information for us. Her friends were visibly put off by this, but offered no objection. My wife went back in the house to call the police, while I waited on the front porch and memorized their license plate, watching, making sure they didn’t drive off. Eventually one of the girls ran back with the insurance card in hand. She apologized profusely, giving me the card to write down the necessary information. I immediately shouted back to my wife to cease calling the police, if she hadn’t done so already. While I wrote, she apologized for her friend’s curtness, explaining that she had just lost her three-year-old daughter to leukemia about two months before. This was the first time that they had been able to get her out of the house since then. That would have been good contextual information to have at the start of all this, as it may have helped subdue my wife’s reaction. Regardless, I took down the information, assured them that all would be fine, and wished them a good night. They smiled and left. My cousin opened his presents. We had dessert and left for our favorite bar.
Traffic into the city was minimal, because there was a Steelers game in progress. It was the first playoff game of the season, and everybody in the city was watching it. When we arrived at our favorite bar, it was relatively empty as well. Kumar and Greg were the only two people there, though they had the game playing on both TVs. It’s not really a place that people often go to watch sporting events, so it was odd to see sports on the TVs. Strangely, Greg and Kumar both follow the Steelers. I don’t understand it, though they’re not fanatical or obnoxious about it. Greg was clearly loaded already. It was about 8pm. He greeted us in his usual big-spirited style. He’s amazing. We asked him how his New Year’s was. He said that it had been terrible. On Monday, his best friend from high school had committed suicide. Greg’s about 33 now, and this friend lived in Seattle. He explained that they were still great friends, and had stayed in close touch ever since high school. When he returned to his day job, he learned that there was going to be a merger or something, and his whole office would be getting laid off at the end of the month. On top of that, his boss’s two-month-old niece just died of SIDS. At that point, 2008 wasn’t looking so good to any of us. So I ordered shots for the whole bar, all four of us. We drank to 2008. Conversation improved, and we got on to lighter subjects.
Eventually it came up that my wife and I are both atheists. Kumar seemed surprised by that fact. He and I discussed religion for a while, and it reminded me of a news clip that I had watched online that week. In California, a good-looking young surfer guy was attacked by a shark, nearly died, recovered completely, and subsequently found Jesus. He attributed his survival to God looking out for him. I think that’s just about the most self-serving, shitty logic there is. So God wanted the three-year-old girl to die of Leukemia, the two-month-old infant to die of SIDS, and Greg’s best friend to kill himself…but wanted to save the life of this surfer guy who was deliberately swimming in the ocean (which obviously contains sharks)? Am I supposed to believe that this is a decision made by an all-powerful and all-good, loving and benevolent God? I’m glad that surfer guy lived to surf another day, and I don’t fault him for enjoying what is a necessarily risky pastime. Life isn’t worth much if you don’t live it on your own terms. Calculated risks are part of that. However, the notion that God decided to intervene and save him, in the context of the thousands of people dying in Iraq, for example, is so self-absorbed it’s fucking offensive. Fuck you, and fuck your God. Kumar laughed when I told him all this. He was raised Hindu.
At one point the other bartender, whom we had only met for the first time on New Year’s, dropped by and dropped something off for Greg. He left quickly, with a big smile and a wave. Greg came over and showed us the bud he’d just been given. It smelled wonderful. He asked if we’d like to help him smoke it. We didn’t need much convincing. We just needed a location. We drank more. The bartender working the next shift showed up. She was mousy and quiet and totally straight. She was much more concerned about not getting fired than Greg had ever been. Her boyfriend showed up with her. Greg counted out his register and came around to the other side of the bar with us. He asked us if we wanted to see the basement, we said sure. The new bartender chick’s boyfriend came down with us. We locked the door and went down the steps into the basement. You could tell it was an old building, because the basement ceiling wasn’t high enough that I could stand upright without leaning my head to one side. The boyfriend had a bowl with him. Greg packed it and we all passed it around. When the bud was done, the boyfriend re-packed it with his own stuff. We passed it around some more. When that was done, we all went back upstairs to drink. From that point onward, my wife was done drinking. She had to be able to drive at the end of the evening. I didn’t have to worry about that, so I got hammered without restraint. Strangely, I don’t mind watching football when I’m drunk and high. Any other time, it makes me feel like my brain is atrophying. After we determined that she was sufficiently straight to drive, we left and went home without incident. Our dog was immensely happy to see us, and I poured myself a small glass of a 12 year old single malt Scotch, just to keep the buzz up. We played with Chalupa on the couch for a while, and only put her away when I felt like my passing out was imminent. Then we went up to bed.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Toys “R” Us
I have to get drunk before I set foot inside a Toys “R” Us. It’s a just a matter of fact. Some things in this world are more terrifying than one can handle sober. Every man has his limits, and Toys “R” Us is beyond mine. Five minutes inside a toy store is enough to make me want to cut my nuts off with a spoon, just to ensure that I’ll never accidentally reproduce and commit myself to even more time inside those kinds of places. With two days until Christmas, we still had to get a gift for my cousin. He was three years old, a great kid. I like getting him stuff. I’m just not good at understanding what kids like. I’m really not much good at gift giving until the recipient is old enough that I can buy him music, literature, or alcohol. Regardless, we were inside a Toys “R” Us, and I had a good buzz. Most of the women whom you see in a toy store are moms. It’s not a bad place for looking at women, because you do know for a fact that these women put out. They’re definitely kind of scary, though. The younger ones generally look angry. It seems like most of them really didn’t plan on being mothers at their current stage in life. They don’t really have the resources or patience to be parents yet, but they’re dutifully shopping for their kids. That’s love. They smell strongly of cigarette smoke and speak tersely at the men who accompany them. It occurred to me that they’re much stronger people than me. They might be ten years younger than me and they’ve already suffered more. My buzz was still holding me together, though not as well as I’d have liked. We looked at godless, battery-operated toys that had blinking lights, motorized parts, and made horrible noises. We looked at a fantastic-looking box full of drums, tambourines, bells, shakers, and other miscellaneous percussion instruments, and we both laughed out loud while commenting that this would definitely be the perfect gift to get my cousin if we wanted to really irritate my aunt and uncle. Ultimately we decided that we’d like for them to still speak to us after Christmas, so we kept looking. I noticed the older women too. It’s clear that most of them have surrendered any ambitions of maintaining their bodies into middle age. I can’t imagine what that must feel like. It must be agonizing when life breaks your spirit like that. It must hurt to give up completely. Age doesn’t necessarily have to destroy the shape of your body. I’ve seen stunning-looking women their age and older. Men can sustain it, too. I’ve seen older guys at the gym who lift heavier than me. I know it takes lots of vigilance. You have to have time for yourself to get to the gym, and discipline to diet properly. I’m sure it’s incredibly difficult, if not impossible, with kids. I really began to feel like a selfish, vain asshole, and my buzz was dwindling. I think kids are great. I’m just terrified of them and the responsibility they bring. I felt like I must be the weakest thing under this particular roof, and I just wanted another drink. Eventually we found a thing that looked like a complicated, updated Etch-A-Sketch. It had lots of extra junk on it, and I guessed that toymakers need to add that sort of crap to remain competitive in the marketplace. It’s one of the reasons that I hate the marketplace. The purity and singularity of a good idea gets trampled under the goose-stepping boots of short attention spans and profit margins. The soul of this thing looked like it was still intact, though. It seemed like the best option in the store. As a child, I had loved my Etch-A-Sketch, and I became an artist. It seemed like the most fitting gift that we were likely to find, so we got it. The line at the register was enough to make me want to die. My buzz was almost completely gone. A pimply-faced adolescent male rung us up, and I could see the pain on his face. I wanted to tip him. It must have been a long night. When we got home, I thanked my wife for not wanting kids. Then I fell asleep on the couch.
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.
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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