The Weird Egg-Shaped Porch Swing

I drove into the woods with my wife and a trunk full of booze. We drove deep into the middle of nowhere. She was a mirror. I was all cream, froth, foam and insanity. I was overflowing, spilling out the car doors onto the road, leaving a trail. The sky was vibrant, plum purple. Everything that was not the sky stood neutralized, in humble contrast to it. We went far. We were running from everything behind us, though nobody was giving chase.

When we arrived at their place, they were happy to see us. The sun descended the rest of the way down. We fell right in. My wife went inside with my girlfriend’s husband, and I stayed outside with my girlfriend. We talked on their porch. They live on eight acres, surrounded by nothing but woods. Beautiful. It was a cool night, and the air got moist. It began to drizzle, and we retreated back under the overhang, though we didn’t want to give up the outside air and didn’t want to interrupt what was most likely going on inside. They had a weird porch swing. It was made of white tubular steel with one spring suspending the weird egg-shaped chair, just under the overhang. It was meant to seat one person. She sat me back on it, and pulled me out through the zipper of my pants. She lifted her skirt, pulled her panties to the side, and sat back on me. Neither one of us is very heavy, but nonetheless I was relieved to discover that the swing held us both without any problem. The drizzle picked up a bit, and the air smelled beautiful. Not a drink yet or any weed. We were just bouncing gently in the weird egg-shaped porch swing. We both came, her and then me. Then we remained right where we were for a bit. Neither one of us wanted to move. I had forgotten about everything I had been running from earlier in the day.

Skinny

Standing before me is some kind of creature – skinny, naked, and not mine. We have different circumstances, needs, and expectations. I am an emotional cripple and a living cancer. I don’t always like to be touched, though I will tolerate it like a well-trained dog. She is in love with life, and she is the embodiment of joy. She is all things buoyant, fun and absolutely absurd. Ridiculous poetry. She is a mouthful of pure white sugar, nothing but whimsy. She struggles to offset the old coffee filter full of used grounds that is me. And I just don’t think there’s that much sugar in the whole world. But she likes to try. We’ll meet halfway. I’ll fuck her like she’s a skeleton, and she’ll hold me like a piece of raw meat. We will do it well, hard, and often. I will be everything she needs me to be. I am an image, an animal, a bottle of Jägermeister, and a jackhammer. She’ll tear my back apart, pull my hair, and ask for it again and again until I can’t give any more.

Kneeling

This hotel room smells like every other hotel room in the world. She smells like cigarettes, Chap Stick, and lots of old buried abuses. I’ve poured what must be a gallon of beer into her, and fucked her silly three times already. That only seems to increase her appetite. She thrives on that, and I love her. My wife and this woman’s husband are back at the house for the night. Regardless, this woman’s head is overflowing with dream analysis and other whimsical things. She’s got lots of bad memories and good reasons. Her ass is perfectly round, and there is not one hair to be found around her anus. I can’t determine whether it is naturally that way, or if she has groomed it thus. Regardless, it looks cute when she’s bent over on her knees, and I pull her hips closer.

Since the four of us who had formed this group had all been thoroughly blood-tested for diseases and had all agreed not to stray from our tight little square, we had all quit using condoms. Both of the women were on birth control pills. It probably wasn’t the safest way to operate, but it made everything that much more intimate. The idea that we should actually spend this night in two separate places was mine. It started off as a lot of fun, though by morning I missed my wife and felt mildly ashamed of myself for hatching such a depraved plan. I didn’t feel badly about anything that had happened. We’ve each fucked plenty of other people in front of each other before. Jealousy really wasn’t a factor. I just felt like an asshole for wanting a night away from her. Thus far, we had only spent evenings in separate rooms, under the same roof, or all in one big pile. Our close proximity to each other had always been a point of security for us. My plan had compromised that, even if the only person bothered by it was me.

Wilted Bouquet

The garbage can beside my bed is a wilted bouquet of used condoms and wrappers. The woman in my bed is not my wife. My wife is out in the living room, on the fold out couch, fucking the husband of the woman in my bed. We met them at State College about a month ago. He’s a nice guy, good-looking, courteous, well-mannered, respectful, and polite. He’s the kind of guy that you can let fuck your wife without any apprehensions. Apparently, I am also that type of guy. We’ve made an unspoken game out of trying to make the other man’s wife cum louder and more frequently. I don’t think that anybody is actually keeping score, though.

Too Good to Be For Me

God never wanted me to have anything this good. If he had found out, he would have taken her away. I felt like I’d done something dishonest to have her. I felt like I was undeserving. She was bright traffic lights reflecting off the pavement on our way home, drunk in the backseat, enjoying the night. Her legs were tied around my head like a blindfold, and I drank in the night. She was a good buzz and a wispy brown mohawk wrapped around her pubic bone, leading down in between her legs. Hot and salty, she tasted like the meaning of it all, and I was her puzzle. I was 1,000 tiny interlocking pieces, all looking the same, but subtly different. I was a casual toy, a frustrating novelty that gradually revealed itself through sustained effort. Miles of complexity to recreate a simple image. I was (and still am) a colossal waste of time, disguised as an intellectual exercise.