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I get out and, using my fob, lock the car he didn’t bother alarming. Lagging several steps behind, I climb the steep hill with cinderblock shoes.
Why the hell did I agree to do this?
I’m getting cold feet in my cinderblock shoes and seriously considering sprinting back to the car, when the door decorated with an autumn-themed wreath opens. A tall man fills the doorway, his dark hair shiny under the lights cast from the porch and the foyer inside.
“Welcome!” His greeting is effusive and, knowing about tonight’s swap meet, makes me clutch my coat at the neck. Ridiculous. The man won’t pounce on me. I saw the “rules” for the night, and it’s all very respectful, actually. There must be consent and no one will ever be forced to do anything they don’t want to do. No protection, no action, so condoms for all. Watching is fair play. If I decide I can’t go through with this (and that’s feeling like a strong possibility), I can choose to watch.
Watch what? My husband give someone else pleasure when I can’t remember the last time he gave me any? Worse comes to worst, I’ll find some unoccupied corner and wait. When Trey first proposed this, though I was disconcerted, I’ll admit there was something adventurous about it. Now it just feels weird and wrong and like something I’m not sure we’ll be able to come back from. Not because I think it’s wrong for couples who want it, but because he wants this and I don’t. It never occurred to me, but apparently the idea of having sex with someone else had been living rent-free in my husband’s head given the quickness of his suggestion and finding this party in record time.
‘I’m Carl,” the man says, gesturing for us to come in. “Nice to meet you.”
Trey enters, pep in his step. I hesitate on the threshold, feeling like it’s not just a new home I’m entering, but the portal to something inevitable and irreversible. I was too nervous all day to eat, so there’s little in my stomach, but what is there threatens to come back up.
“You okay?” Carl crinkles his brows with what looks like genuine concern. He has a kind face, and my breaths even out.
“Yes. Sorry. Nice to meet you, too.” I step through the door. “Maybe just hungry. I skipped lunch.”
It’s a lie. I think I’ll vomit all over his nice checker board tiles if I try to eat a thing right now.
“Hunger I can handle.” He leads us to the living room where several people already gather. “We have a spread fit for a king and his queen.”
There’s maybe twelve people present, some standing, others sitting in a living room decorated in what I would consider French country. Lots of flowers and colors, balanced with a few chintzy solid patterns. I’m a minimalist, so this room isn’t what I’d choose to come home to every night, but I can appreciate the furnishings are expensive and tasteful. Small platters of food are strategically placed through the room for optimal grazing. Dishes ranging from meaty things wrapped in flaky pastries to buffalo cauliflower. Wine circulates through the capillaries of the group, casting a spell of languor. Eyes crawl discreetly over strangers’ bodies, and an illicit undercurrent cuts through the banal conversation and polite laughter.
I tuck into the corner of a love seat and nurse several glasses of chardonnay, waiting for the libation to do its job; to relax me and lull my inhibitions. So far it’s only proven to make me slightly fuzzy-headed, but still nervous as hell. I risk the occasional bite of a kabob with veggies and grilled chicken to keep the alcohol company in my empty stomach. Trey, on the other hand, works the room. Eyes glittering with promise, he floats from conversation to conversation, like a bee considering where to alight and whom to pollinate.
“First time?”
The husky voice comes from beside me and belongs to a pretty woman with shiny auburn hair that falls to her waist.
“What gave it away?” I laugh with more than a little self-deprecation. “The fifth glass of wine or the way I’m huddled in a corner clutching my pearls?”
She smiles, green eyes glowing under recessed lights. “This ain’t our first rodeo. I know the signs. Which one is yours?”
I search the small crowd and nod to Trey, in conversation with a willowy woman wearing a knit wrap dress and her lust on her sleeve. Blonde and slim, she could not be more my opposite if she tried. Happily plus-sized and healthy, I have no complaints about my body, though on occasion Trey has. If he fantasizes about a woman like the one standing in front of him, no wonder he encouraged me to shed pounds and wear stick-straight extensions instead of my natural 4A curls. She’s eye-fucking my husband so hard someone should slip her an eyeball condom, and his gaze back isn’t exactly abstinent. The man at her side, presumably her husband, seems to be assessing Trey just as hotly. I can’t blame them. At 5’10”, Trey isn’t much taller than I am, but he’s handsome and gym-fit, compact with pecs and biceps shown to advantage in a sweater I’ve always thought too tight. Too obvious. If this isn’t a night for the obvious, though, I don’t know what is, so good choice. If he pairs up with her, am I expected to pair up with her guy? I should have read the fine print more closely.
