1 comments/ 18847 views/ 0 favorites Dancing with Ian By: helena_snow_renn Note: for those of you reading this for its erotic value, be warned--it's at least as much psychology. It's all mind-fuck baby, yeah. ***** Likely as not my life is only about one-third lived, but there are times, a lot of them lately, that I feel so old. My body used to be beautiful--strong and lithe enough to do some meaningful squirming on the dance floor. It's been battered now, shows scars of birthing children, effects of years of mental torture by my chosen mate, and corresponding years and beyond of the resulting eating disorder. By the time I quit puking about everything, I didn't know how to quit eating. I still don't. Food was really my only creature comfort, for a long time; that and memories of my other former companion, sex, which is of course out of the question now. If men really do think with their penises, since when did penises grow eyes? But that's another story. By the time I was 21 I'd already acquired as many lovers as I'd ever have, minus one. I was rather proud of my record at the time, before I'd really had it pounded into me that men prefer virgins. Even though I'd been brought up being told "nice girls don't," I always figured nice girls were boring and what a man really wanted was someone to could fuck his brains out. That's certainly what I wanted. That, and someone who could fuck with my brain. Not in the way that people mess with each other these days, out of spite or boredom. I wanted to connect. It's too damn bad I wasn't born a lesbian. I've had a few women friends with whom there an honest meeting of the minds. As for the men, I seemed to gravitate to ones who KNEW they were better than me. There was one who wouldn't touch me with anything except his foot, although he did tie me up once (for an art project). One married me for the opportunity to prove his superiority to himself. Then there was Ian, who was never that way. Maybe I can be with him again, in words, like those in the song that we danced to so many times, right here, right now. It was during the summer, not surprising because it seems my sap runs the highest in summer. We were both 21. Young and dumb and full of cum, as the saying goes, thinking we'd arrived because we could drink legally in public. He was still in college; me, a drop-out. Met him at work, too, another no-no...but who cared? I'd half-assedly been eying him and chatting him up for a few weeks when I, always the aggressor, invited him to what we all considered neutral ground--girls' night out. As in, one guy and six chicks at the local heavy-metal watering hole. You can't say he wasn't brave. Maybe he was flattered, or looking for an opportunity to prove himself. After all, would anyone as obviously intelligent, well-mannered, soft-spoken, and to be honest, rather androgynous as he be straight? Nobody at work could figure it out. Unlikely, but I had to find out for myself. Whatever the case, talking to him a few times proved that we thought similarly. He was perceptive and sensitive. And nice, another rarity. He wrote; I wrote. To make a long story short, he was. Straight, I mean. I think. I still don't know for sure. In a way, it always felt unfinished. The problem was, I thought we were perfect together, but I was too scared to tell him. With good reason. Basically, ignoring all of "the rules" about (not) being a player before that term was ever coined, I was shackled mentally and soon to be more tangibly to someone else, who was looking for surcease of his own pain. Naively, I thought I could help this second man, but rather I became his bane. It brought out the worst in us. I was going down. In flames. I saw it coming like a fist to the jaw, but couldn't remove myself. Instead, every couple of days I disappeared down the road to Ian's place, to escape for a few hours at a time. In the calm before the storm, Ian and I danced around our issues and sought each other on a plane altogether removed from reality. So for maybe a total of two, two-and-a-half months: Idyllic, sweet, sexual-par-non, and then gone. It became a piece of personal memorobilia that nagged at me for years. I've sneaked bits of it into my work over the years. Once I got caught blatantly writing about it which provoked my by-then husband to have a fling in a fit of rage. Later, I'd use the memories to get me through endless days of being a stay-at-home mom.... So are we writing psychology or erotica here? I don't know; a little of both? It has to be to do anything for your mind, not to mention your not-so-cerebral parts. And he did. So let me tell you the short story of how we got together, before we really had to think about what we were doing. Cue the music, probably "Enter Sandman" by Metallica. Is this romantic? Hell, no. I thought I was after hot sex. The rest was subconscious at the time. I'll have another double screwdriver--gasoline with a splash of sour rinds in that joint--and le's (sic) dance. That particular night, Ian's black shoulder-length hair hung down in his face, not clubbed back like at work, and he hadn't shaven. 'So, the cherub gets dirty,' I thought. I was wearing my old stand-by, a black silk tank dress hiked up as far as I dared, black ankle boots, and a smear of black kohl around my eyes. He had on a tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and black denim bib overalls (z. cavaricci, very 'in' at the time) with one strap deliberately left undone. He didn't fit in with the Levi's-and-leather crowd, this new-waver. I didn't give a shit--that would make it more interesting. Six women surrounded him and he danced with us all, one at a time. The regulars at the bar knew me as a hot dancer . I made Ian watch me, too, with whoever asked. It was all very laid-back but with an edge, buying rounds, bitching about work, drinking stories, the usual. Another of my favorites got played, probably "Hard to Handle" or "What I Like About You" --something with a fast beat--and off we went again, down to the main floor. Even his dancing was unique. He kept his head down and his feet moving in some kind of internal abbreviated fly-boy groove. Unable to help it, I was analyzing what he'd be like in bed; you can always tell by how a person dances. This one would be delicate, painstaking in his technique, and incredibly imaginative. After a few minutes he started sneaking looks at me from under his heavily fringed lids. I pretended not to notice, concentrating on my presentation. My moves combined force with fluid. No one knew if I was doing aerobics or about to break into a strip tease. My long blond hair made a good accessory to toss around too, or to head-bang with and I used it my advantage. The next song was a semi-slow number, "Sweet Emotion." Grabbing his arm, something real intelligent was said like, "How 'bout it, huh?" He weighed the possibilities in his mind as "Yes No Yes No Wanna Better not I don't know" ran across his face, then smiling he stepped up to me. He wasn't that tall, not particularly built, and there was that ongoing question as to his orientation, but he felt and smelled like "man" to me. By the end of the song we had wordlessly determined it was mutual, the way humans do with their eyes and gestures. Or maybe it was the dirty dancing. With hands around each other waists, hips pushed together, I straddled his leg and we circled our bodies around each other's toward the floor, and back up. Just like in that fucking movie, you know which one I mean. We seemed to have each other's rhythm memorized immediately. By then I was half drunk, in a euphoric, flying kind of way. Just seeing Ian think it over and come on to me in the same way was enough to get me wasted. After a while I let him get back to making his rounds at our table, but we both knew it was pretense from then on. The rest of the evening till last call went much the same, the other girls and I taking turns dancing with him and making conversation, there in the smoke with the colored gel-spots fairy-dusting the vibe and the suggestive laughter. Several hours later, as the sky started to lighten, the vodka had worn off. I'd spent the whole time sitting on Ian's kitchen floor, picking his brain. Let's not forget I wanted to find something more, besides various body parts. Ok, fine. It was all foreplay, and Ian played very well. Almost too well. I was starting to wonder what was wrong. The gay thing he'd laughingly denied; apparently it wasn't the first time the suggestion had been made. I couldn't stop staring; this man-child of cutting wit and guarded demeanor had me so jazzed and turned on, maybe through no fault of his own. While dancing, I'd felt enough of his compact body against my own that I knew I wanted more of it. The proverbial anticipation was killing me, but I gave it time, threw more words between us, all the time getting wet imagining his midnight blue eyes and his cock piercing me. Finally some kind of impasse was reached where all that needed to be said was said; there remained nothing verbal. Shifting to my knees, I pinned him with my own emerald-and-turquoise eyes, watching his face as I crawled across the eight feet of floor between us. He didn't move, except for his expression again. This time his guard dropped enough for me to see the animal creeping out from under the civilized effigy of "Ian, theatre arts/creative-writing major." Holy shit, he was as hot for it as me. But the drawn-out pace of the evening had caught us; it was not going to be over in five minutes. I reached him, face first so to speak, and we touched lips, brushed, flicked, tasted. The sharp, tangy taste of gin and tonic was still on his tongue as he pulled me astride his lap and tickled my bare arms and legs slowly. I buried both hands in that thick black hair, yanked his head back and took tiny licks and bites along the tendons in his neck up to his ears. He gave as good as he got. My whole body broke out in gooseflesh as he sucked on my earlobes, feathering his breath all over the wetness his tongue left in it's wake. His hands had found the black silk panties under my skirt and teased my ass through them till I was squirming and breathing like I'd just run miles. Our bodies fit together perfectly, same proportions and degree of slenderness, even fully clothed. That in itself lent to the ambiance. So did the way he'd flash his smile appreciatively, then get all serious in the next second as he touched a new part of me or I of him. I needed skin, unhooked his one errant suspender and pulled his shirt over his head, then shucked my crumpled dress. In those days I got by without a bra; my hard pink nipples demanded his attention immediately. Ian's skilled fingers stroked, outlined, cupped my aching little breasts, flicking and pulling at the tips. I ground my pubic bone against his straining cock and explored the play of the flat hard muscles of his arms and back. I also worked open the three buttons on each side of his waist and reached around lower to squeeze his tight round butt, at which point he caught my eyes again, wordlessly. He was still trying to keep a hold on himself, as I was, but more for his sake and curiosity than anything. Leaning forward, letting my breasts nudge at his chest hair, I went back to just kissing him. He was better at all of this than anyone his age had a right to be; I badly wanted the rest of what he had. I pulled my attentions into my eyes, kept them open as he did, running my fingers through his hair and up and down his spine. His arms tightened around me again, this time leaning, till he had laid me out on my back. Half covering me, he hooked one leg over one of mine and pulled it to the side. His hand dove down the front of my drenched underwear, one finger finding my clit, whose over-excited nerve endings screamed in appreciation. Another slid into my cream, to the knuckle, and I began to grind, pushing my hips up to meet Ian's hand. His other arm, which he was propped up on, cradled my head. Our eyes were wide open; it seemed important to observe every nuance of this. I licked my palm generously, snaking my hand through his remaining clothes to his groin. He was throbbing hard already; his erection seemed to jump into my fist. I jacked him slowly, following some exquisite rhythm I'd never known existed, which he was leading with his fingers in my hot box. Rather than rolling back in his head, his eyes stayed locked on mine, darkening to almost black. His eyelids half-masted. His smoldering expression started me moaning and involuntarily tightening both my grip on his cock and on my pussy muscles. He bucked two or three times into my hand, then froze, hissed in his breath, and, bending down, fiercely sucked on my neck. I had to have him on me, the weight, the pressure. Extricating myself from my underwear, I started to shove his clothes off. Then we had to laugh--he still had shoes on. The minute it took for him to get naked and roll on one ribbed, lubricated condom was damn near endless. "Where was I?" he murmured as I pulled him down. Ian teased me, kissing me gently, the head of his cock sliding into my slot. He poised above me, motionless, while I responded to his mouth. Everything intertwined, our tongues, our fingers, our legs. Liking as always the idea of being restrained, I let him hold my hands down over my head. My legs wrapped tighter around his waist. He looked down at me, achingly, asked "Ready?" wordlessly. Yes. Ian plunged, rammed me full of his thick cock. I yelped. His rock-hard tool stretched me wide and it nearly hurt. Deliciously. With his semi-long hair hanging down around our faces, Ian plowed into me roughly, the ferocity such a contrast from his usual considerate self. Fucking made him aggressive, heated. Something he kept locked up most of the time was out of its cage. His restraint dropped away as we egged each other on in an erotic staring contest. While he was pretty quiet, just breathing heavily, I moaned, sighed and whispered nasty compliments. Sweat dripped off his forehead and the end of his nose. The salt drops rained down on me. Everything in me was rising; I was dying to get off and come all over him and told him so. I wanted to feel him come, too, to watch him do it, to release himself into me. He gradually lengthened his strokes and tightened his grip on my shoulders. As for me, my impending orgasm was dizzying and steadying at the same time. I gave instinct free rein and let my lower body twist and arch and rub it's clit on him. It almost caught me unawares-- one second climbing, the next falling. My insides clenched, iron then water, while a hot tide spread from my clit to my core and roared up through my belly to now over-sensitive nipples. I growled and snarled and mewed. Ian studied me; he couldn't seem to decide if this was silly or sexy, but after his penis got a ride like that, it was demonstrating it's own mind. He pushed for his own cum, literally. I opened my legs wide, wanting him further inside. He banged hard against my cervix, shoving his ribbed meat in and out of me so forcefully I knew I was going to cum again. Soon. But him first. His pupils dilated so far I couldn't see the irises, and they glazed over as Ian finally let go, gasped twice, and unloaded what must have been a healthy measure of semen. His cock spasmed and twitched powerfully half a dozen times. It jumped inside me as he ground deeper into my pussy. I went over the top again, more quietly this time, squeezing my eyelids shut, seeing little dancing sparks. He released his hold and rested full-length on top of me as we caught our breath, kissing and touching each other lightly. The connection between us felt stronger. The idea of having to go back to just talking seemed strange. Ian looked down at me and remarked, "You have beautiful orgasms." For the time being, that was a good enough place to start. Dancing with Irene Note to the Reader: I always get grief when I post a story with no sex in it, so this is fair warning: There is no raw sex in this story. It's a sexually-oriented romance about the consequences of swinging. * * * * * I had not seen Aaron Lerner in five years. Six years, once I stopped to think about it. I was at the Home Depot at Milestone Center, looking for a replacement thermostat; I ran into Aaron at the end of an isle. It took two looks to convince myself that it really was Aaron, and then, I almost walked away. "Hello, Aaron," I said, sticking out my hand. "How are you?" He looked just as surprised--and just as put off--as I did. "Hey man! What's going on?" There was a toilet repair kit in his hand. I shrugged. I looked around for Irene. "You alone here?" He nodded. "She's out with her mother, shopping. Like that isn't news." We both laughed. Aaron hated the woman. "So," I said. "Life treating you good?" He held up the replacement float. "Just like this," he said. Then: "How's Dee?" Dee's my ex-wife. Irene and Dee worked together for a long time. That's how I knew Aaron. I had it bad for his wife. Irene was not a beautiful girl, not by any stretch of the imagination; glancing at her, most guys would not look back. She was of European descent--Greek, I think-with dark brown hair, very dark eyes, an olive complexion and features just a bit too full. She was also a bit too full around the waist (at least, the last time I had seen her), and had a habit of whining whenever Aaron gave her shit. And she was from Brooklyn. All of which did nothing to explain her appeal to me. "Still racing?" I asked. Aaron had owned thoroughbred horses and stabled them Charlestown Racetrack in West Virginia. We used to go down on Friday nights, occasionally with the girls, but most of the time just him and I. Now he owned five horse. "Any of them winners?" I asked. He just laughed. Then he asked if I wanted to go down with him to Charlestown Friday night. I should have said no. Later, I would fervently wish I had said no. But I wanted to see Irene and I said yes. * * * I met him at his house. It was a two story, vinyl-sided affair, on a nice-sized lot; Irene had laid out a pair of flower beds beneath the two front windows. Beside the fences bordering her yard she had planted pansies, mums and impatiens; impatiens ran along the sidewalk. In the side yard was a Home Depot brand shed and in back, a Home Depot brand swing set and sandbox. Irene had two children, Aaron Jr. and Angie. I rang the front doorbell. My stomach was knotted. When Aaron answered, all I could manage was, "Hey." "Bring plenty of money?" I looked beyond him, wanting to see Irene. "I brought my wallet," I said. "It better be full." "I left my credit cards home," I said, which in fact, I had. Betting horses, especially with Aaron, could be dangerous. I waited in the living room while Aaron got his things. Most of the furniture was new from the last time I'd been there. The dining room suite--where I had once kissed Irene during a drunken game of Truth or Dare--was the same, and so was the recliner in one corner. Everything else was new. "Where's Irene?" I asked. He blinked, as though unsure whom I meant. "Upstairs," he said, before yelling her out her name. "Don't do that! For Christ's sake, Aaron." "What?" "She doesn't have to come down." But I did want her to come down. I also prayed that she wouldn't. I heard her footfalls on the floor above, followed by her footfalls on the stairs leading down. They were not light and happy footfalls, but the clump-thunk of anger. I thought, Why the hell did I come here? Irene wore a cream-colored sleeveless top over blue jean shorts. She had New Balance sneakers on her feet over white ankle socks. She had not gained any additional weight, but neither had she lost any. She wore her hair loose across her shoulders. "Hi," she said. "Hello, Irene." She made no effort to come forward to shake my hand, hug me, or anything else. She just stood under the living room arch, holding a child's school book in her hand. Her hair had some gray in it. I noted the wedding bands on her left hand, the rings on her right hand, the pair of small stud earrings in her ears. Like a Polaroid photograph, I recorded it all. She said to Aaron: "When will you be home?" "When I get back," he said. "I need to get the carpet cleaned," she said. "Win us some money, okay?" The carpet looked spotless. "Two million, with Rob, here. How's that for you, babe?" She smiled crookedly. "When did you ever win?" she asked me. "Never." "I didn't think so. Be careful, both of you." And then she went upstairs. * * * We headed south on Route 340. After a while, I asked, "So, you still go down with Jonathan?" Jonathan was Aaron's co-worker. Sometimes he had accompanied us to the track. "He moved back to Brooklyn . . . you didn't know that? Anyway, lately, I've been going with my neighbor, Tom." He shrugged. Tom and I didn't get along. "Any winners in the stable?" I asked. Aaron had terrible luck with his horses. He looked disgusted. "I lost so much money last year I made money on my taxes. I damned near got rid of the lot of them. Damn bastards." "She go with you much?" "Irene?" He laughed. "Never. Not once in the last three years." He gave me a querulous look. "Not that I mind, you know." I knew. "Still after the girls?" "Of course." I passed a lumbering eighteen-wheeler going up a hill. "That girl at your office . . . Molly? You ever get to her?" His grin grew really big. "That was a long time ago, but yeah. She ended up quitting. Her husband found out." He laughed, jabbing my arm. "I thought for a while he'd come after me--big son of a bitch. Not a nice guy at all. Met him at one of the Christmas parties. But she got her down on her knees for me, five or six times, so it was worth it." Same old Aaron, I thought. "What about Irene? She ever catch on?" He gave me that querying look again. "What??" I asked. "Did I miss something?" "You don't know?" "Know what?" "About Irene." I was suddenly very wary. "What about Irene?" "Dee never told you?" "Never told me what?" I demanded. "That Irene and I are swingers." * * * It was some time before I trusted myself to speak. "What are you talking about, Aaron?" I slipped the car around another big truck. He laughed. "I can't believe you don't know." "Enlighten me," I said. For once, he was not flippant. "Before you and Dee broke up--shit, I'd say for a good two years before--I had Irene fucking other men." I said nothing. "It started out with another woman. Then another woman. Then the first woman again and I got to watch. After that, well she only let me set up men and always in a motel room or alone at our house." He grinned, though not happily. "She made me stay away until after they'd left. Then we'd have sex and I'd screw her fucking ass silly, you know?" "Jesus, man." He looked at me intently. "She did Tom, our old neighbor, two guys from my work, and a guy or two from her own work. She even took two guys at once, Rob." "Aaron," I said, pained. "Believe me," he said. "She's no angel." He had no idea how close he came to getting punched. "So why are you telling me this? Now?" "Thought you'd like to know. What you missed out on." He almost got punched again. "For Christ's sakes, man. I thought you and Irene were . . . " "Happily married?" A pair of fire engines and an ambulance with lights flashing and sirens wailing approached from the opposite direction; I slowed and drifted onto the shoulder. "We were never that happy, man. You know that." "Yeah, but Aaron . . . swinging?" "Actually," he said. "The swinging part was hers. I just took pictures and then fucked her good and hard afterwards. That was my part." I ground my teeth and drove on. "Don't be so judgmental," he said after a while. "At least we're still married." I said, "I got news for you, Aaron. All the swinging in the world wouldn't have helped Dee and me. And why just her? Why not you too?" He shrugged. "Just how it happened. I would have liked fucking her in a threesome, you know, maybe even a foursome, plug all her fucking holes--" "You are so perverted," I cut in, unable not to laugh. He laughed back. "Things needed shaking up, man. She didn't like to fuck anymore and didn't even like to kiss. And you could forget getting a blow job. Getting her swinging changed all that. Besides, its been years anyway. The kids got too old. We had stop." "Thank God for that," I said. "And if it's all the same to you, I think I've heard enough for now." "Fine. Just so you'll know, though, she said no." "No to what?" I asked. "What do you think?" I honestly didn't know. Then I did. "Don't say another word!" I threatened him. "One more word and I'm turning this car around." "You don't understand," he said, beginning to laugh. "I don't want to understand." "I think you do." "Fuck what you think, Lerner! One more word and I'll pound your face in!" He said simply, "She said no, because she likes you so much." * * * I had lost forty dollars. Aaron had won eighty. His horse was running next. "Do I bet him?" I asked. "I'm betting to win, but that's your call, Rob." I put down twenty dollars to Place. What could I lose. So far, I hadn't let him say anything more. Now I did. "Tell me what you meant in the car." He said, looking at the odds-board, "She never came right out and said it, but I always knew. Remember that night you kissed her? Playing Truth or Dare?" I shrugged. "She was like, in heaven, man, the rest of the night." What I remembered was a warm, wet mouth, soft lips and a so-what attitude afterwards. Dee cared more about the kiss than Irene did. Or so I thought. Aaron shook his head. "You're the only guy I ever tried to set her up with, that she said no to. What's that tell you?" "That she dislikes me?" He burst out laughing. "You are so dumb! You are so fucking dumb, Rob." I had heard enough. I told him so. And for the rest of the night, although he occasionally flashed me an inquisitive grin, he never broached the subject again. Until we got back. * * * He said: "I'll prove what I was saying." "Aaron." "She never waits up. Never. Wanna bet she's waiting up tonight?" He nodded toward the house. There were lights on downstairs, and in one of the windows upstairs. "What's that prove?" I asked. "She's not waiting up for me." I pulled into his driveway. "Wanna make a bet?" "I lost enough already tonight." "Double or nothing." "God Dammit." I saw a shadow cross one of the downstairs windows; a blind tipped up. "That means nothing," I said. Aaron only grinned. "Coming in?" "Not on your life." "She'll be disappointed." "Fuck you, Aaron." Leaning over, I opened the passenger-side door and told him: "Out. Now. Get out." "Okay," he said, removing his seat belt. "But you're making a mistake." "The only mistake I made," I said, angrily, "was stopping to say hello to you in the store. Now, get the fuck out of my car." He got out, shut the door and stood back. He wore that same inquisitive smile. I gave him the finger, though I too was now grinning, and backed out of the driveway. As I drove away I felt, rather than saw, Irene's eyes following me. * * * It was Monday noon. I sat at my desk, eating lunch. I tried not to think of Irene, just as I'd tried not to think of her all weekend. The telephone rang. "Hey man," Aaron said. My heart clutched. I sat upright in the chair. "What do you want?" I said. "Remember our little conversation of the other night? Well, I gave her a choice," he said. "Either she sleeps with you, or she sleeps with somebody else. Either way, she needs a good fucking and she's going to get it." "You know, Aaron, I've had about as much of you as I can take. One more word and I'll come over there and bust your face. I swear I will." "Rob!" he said, laughing. "Do you want to fuck Irene or not?" I wanted to fuck his face. I wanted to fuck the phone. I tried to strangle it instead. "Look," I said, once I had calmed down, "leave me alone, Aaron. Don't call me, don't e-mail, don't--" Matter-of-factly, he said: "It's you or someone else, Rob. You really want Irene to fuck someone else?" I hung up the phone. He called back. "What is the matter with you? I'm offering her to you and you say no?" He stopped talking and I heard voices in the background. When they were gone, he continued. "Things are like they were when I did it before. I can't stand it, man. Either she fucks someone, or our marriage is over." "Then it needs to be over," I said. "Have you ever considered a marriage counselor, Aaron? If ever counseling was meant for someone, it was meant for you." He laughed. "Christ man, she fucked him too." I dropped the phone on the hook. I shook my head. When the phone rang again, I got up and left the office. The next day, Irene called. * * * "Hello," she said. I sat bolt upright in the chair. My heart lurched and every neuron in my brain fired. "Rob?" "Wait a minute," I said. I got up and closed the office door. "Irene?" "Yes. Can we talk?" I couldn't believe this was happening. "About what?" I said. "About Aaron," she said bitterly. "I--I don't like this," I said. "I don't like it either." "Aaron is crazy. You don't have to do this." She laughed very softly. "I like how you can say that, Rob. I really do." "Irene, listen--" "No, you listen," she said. "He hasn't brought this up in three years and suddenly he wants me to do it again? After seeing you?" "Irene," I said hurriedly. "This is not what you think." "How do you know why I think?" she screamed at me. "You screw up your marriage and you run out on your wife. Five years later you want to ruin mine! Where the fuck do you come off Rob Gerry?" "Irene--" She screamed unintelligibly at me and the line went dead. For the second time in twelve hours, I tried to strangle the phone. * * * "Hello? Rob? Are you there?" I stood staring at the telephone with the refrigerator door open. The answering machine had it picked up. "Rob, this is Irene." She paused. She wasn't expecting me to answer, just composing her words. "I wanted to talk about this afternoon. Maybe you don't want to talk about it, and I certainly wouldn't blame you." She paused again. "I shouldn't have said what I did. It wasn't your fault and it certainly wasn't true." "No," I muttered. "It wasn't." The line went dead. I closed the refrigerator door and stared at the handset. I looked at the caller ID. It wasn't her home number; perhaps a cell phone. I considered calling her back. Instead, I went to the bathroom and started the shower. I shaved, which made me feel better and then got under the spray. The telephone rang and I jumped out of the tub, raced into the bedroom and grabbed up the handset off the nightstand. "Hello?" I was too late. I got only a dial tone. The phone number was the same, however, so I waited there, dripping water on the carpet, but she never called back. * * * A week passed. A cool front moved in, replacing the ninety-five degree afternoons with something a little better. I began to emerge from my funk. I discovered the best way to deal with Irene was the same way alcoholics deal with their affliction: "Today, I won't think of Irene." Saturday I worked in the yard. I watched two movies in the evening and Sunday morning I slept in. Irene did not call. Monday morning, she did. "Hello." It took one word to convey her misery. "I should have called back," I said. "I wish you had." "I'm sorry," I said. She hesitated, then pressed ahead. "I apologize for what I said." "Don't," I said. "It wasn't your fault. Aaron needs no one but himself to fuck me over. I hate that word. I shouldn't use it." I said, "Why do you stay married to that . . . that . . ." "Cocksucker?" "Yes!" I exclaimed, laughing. "Exactly!" Irene laughed then and suddenly I felt a hundred--a thousand--times better. I said, "You are crazy not to leave that bastard, Irene." I sensed her shrug. "He's my husband." He's not your whoremaster, I wanted to say. "You do believe me when I say I had nothing to do with it. I need you to believe that, Irene." "I do." "I didn't even know. Aaron told me on the way to the racetrack." "I wish he hadn't, but I guess wishing is useless." "The truth is," I said, realizing for the first time what the truth really was, "he planned this from the very beginning. The day I saw him at Home Depot . . . it just fits so nicely." "I'm sorry," she said again. "Don't you be sorry for me. I'm not the one being victimized here." She waited a moment, then said, very softly, "I have to do this, Rob. I can't say no to him. He won't take no for an answer." I said what I thought. "You don't want to go to bed with me either, Irene." "I don't want to go to bed with anyone." "Then just say no. Make him stop it. Leave him, if you have to." She started to cry. "You don't understand! I have kids, the house, all my friends and relatives--" "No courage?" She cried out: "Thank you very much, Rob! I call you for help and you --" "I'm sorry. I get mad and things just come out. I won't criticize you again. Sorry," I said. She was silent. "When?" I finally asked. In a very low voice she answered, "This Friday night." "Is there someone else picked out? In case I don't show?" She didn't answer. "Where and when?" I asked. * * * The agreement was this: Dinner out, followed by a movie, and then back to her house for sex. Aaron arranged for the kids to be with hiss and had booked himself a room at the Red Horse Inn. He would stay there until three o'clock; I would be gone by three-fifteen when he got home. Irene would then . . . well, that's what had my stomach in an uproar. I paced the living room floor, back and forth, muttering to myself. "She doesn't want to sleep with you, Rob." "I want to sleep with her." "Think how much fun she'll have fucking you, gritting her teeth and staring up at the ceiling." "It won't be like that." "Sure it won't." "Irene," I had asked her Thursday afternoon in my head. "Have you ever enjoyed this?" "No," she said, flatly. "Never." * * * At six o'clock, I headed to Frederick. I sat for ten minutes at the end of the street, tapping my fingers on the wheel and muttering curses. At seven o'clock, I pulled into the court and parked in her driveway. I couldn't get out. "Jesus Christ, Rob. If she doesn't fuck you, she's just going to fuck someone else." I opened the door and got out. "I am someone else," I said, and went to the door and knocked. * * * I drove and we remained quiet most of the way. The reservation was for eight o'clock at Dutch's Daughter; the crush of people pushed that back a full forty-five minutes. Irene, dressed nicely in a blue summer dress and no stockings, fidgeted continually. "Relax," I said. "It'll be fine." She studied her watch. The show was at nine o'clock. "There's things to do besides go to a movie," I said. She fretted anyway. "I told him nine o'clock. What if he's waiting there? What if I don't show up?" She had informed me this was Aaron's habit: keeping watch on her. "What's he gonna do?" I said. "Call the cops?" "You don't understand, Rob. All it takes is one thing out of order and all I hear for days is how I screwed up." "Irene--" I indicated the packed lobby. "We most certainly will not make the nine o'clock show. Just get your cell phone out and call him. Things have changed. Things always change. The world is fucked up." Dancing with Irene She grimaced. "You don't know Aaron," she said. Even fretful and pouty-mouthed, she still looked good. "Whether Aaron likes it or not," I said, "there are three people making decisions here. I'm not some remote-control toy he can stick batteries into and run around at his leisure." "I know," she said, defensively. "But--" "But nothing. One-third of what's going on here is me. One-half," I corrected. "Aaron is a bystander." She groaned, "You're going to get me in trouble, Rob." "You already are in trouble." She jammed her hands between her knees and pressed her lips into a flat line. * * * "What do you want?" I said, looking at the menu. "Nothing. I don't want anything." "Irene." "Nothing looks good." "Irene, everything looks good." A waiter passed with a lobster dinner and I followed him across the room with my eyes. My stomach rumbled. Irene closed her menu and said, "I just want to go home." I leaned across the table. "Have you considered lying and telling him we did it?" "No!" she said, as though that were preposterous. "Why not? It would certainly solve the problem." She looked at me, flummoxed. She shook her head. "Aaron would know." "How?" I asked. She blinked "Fake it," I said. "I can't." "Why not?" She turned beet red. Ordering for us both, I chose the lobster dinner and an order of Calamari for Irene. We small-talked through salad and the bread, mostly about her children. I wondered if every time was like this for her. The Irene I remembered was an incessant chatterbox, going on for hours, mostly about nothing. I could listen to her forever. Suddenly, I said: "I'd like to take you out dancing, Irene. What do you think about that?" She stopped mid-bite. Her eyes went wide. "Lucas McCain's," I suggested, "over on Forty. Or maybe Donavan's?" "No!" she said, almost explosively. "Are you nuts?" "You like to dance, Irene. I know you do." "No." "Why not?" "Because." "Come on." "No!" She put down her fork in frustration. "Aaron would have a fit. Don't you understand that?" "I understand it's you who should be having a fit, not Aaron." "Please," she said, motioning with her hands. "No more." "Then what?" She shrugged. "Go back to the house. Do it. Get it over with." What a great night, I thought. * * * "I should be paying for this." "Not on your life," I said, giving my Visa card to the waiter. "The tip, at least?" "Forget it." Outside the restaurant, I said to her, "It's two minutes after ten. We can get a newspaper, see what's playing." She shook her head. "I'd rather just go home." She started across the parking lot. I stopped her half-way. "I want to ask you something," I said. "What?" "I want you to kiss me. Right here." She opened her eyes wide and looked around. "Here?" "Right here and now. In front of the whole world. In front of your stupid husband, if he's looking." She backed away a step, looking ready to flee. "I won't make love to you Irene, unless you kiss me right here." "But--" I reached out and grabbed her by the biceps, drew her tight against me. She hung motionless for a time, lips frozen like a statue's, almost as cold. Then her arms were around my neck, her breasts pressed hard against my chest, her groin letting me know it was there. Her lips parted to release her tongue and she kissed me with a sudden, tremendous fury. Her purse hit the ground. If her husband was watching, he certainly got an eye-full. * * * I lay with my eyes closed, breathing peacefully, my right arm across Irene's back. Her right leg lay snugged between mine. She pulled up the covers. "You're awake," I said. "Ummm." "Go back to sleep." She lifted her head. I brushed hair away from her eyes. I could just make them out in the dark. "I am really confused," she whispered. "You don't have to be," I said. She looked at the bedside clock. "You have to go." "Soon," I said. "Not yet." She sought out my eyes. "Aaron will be here, soon." "Screw Aaron. Aaron's a prick." She sighed, lay her head down on my shoulder. "A couple more minutes, then," she said. I touched her shoulder gently. Despite our lovemaking, twice now, touching her was still new. "Look," I said. "I'll say this once and then I'll go. You have to say no to any more." She started to object, but I cut her off. "You said yes just to get him off your back. Now that it's done--" I shushed her again "--you have to say no to any more." "I told him that a billion times," she said. "He refuses to listen." "He will if I refuse." "No!" she said, almost in a panic. "Then he'll—" "Do nothing at all." She sat up in bed. "The only way Aaron would do nothing, Rob, is if I left him. And I can't do that." She covered her breasts, wonderfully full and swaying. "You can say no, that's your decision. I have a family to think about." I sat up to face her. I kissed her gently on the mouth. I said to her softly, "I'm getting up now. I'm getting on my clothes and I'm getting in my car and I'm going home. I want you to come with me. You want to come with me." I slid off the bed and stood up. "Family is where you make it, Irene. What's keeping you here is fear." She watched me get dressed. She tried to speak but I wouldn't let her. "You either come, or you don't," I said, standing at her bedroom door. "That's your decision." A very long five seconds went by, during which she took a deep breath. "Tell me again," she said, "how much I love to dance." And I did. THE END