it happened as casually as anything, one of last week’s warm sticky nights, over the solicitation of a cigarette. the brushing of fingers, habit changing hands. the intimate act of bringing a stranger alight. four eyes meet each other across the flick of fire, then each set subsequently turns, looks directly toward us.
before she said it we could tell exactly what she wanted; could feel her eyes running over our skin, her precursor to much more. there was no dance around it, free from hints, absent of entendres. she leaned in close, breathed both of us in, looked down where our bodies were pushed together. she looked up at him, she looked back down at brasandranties, she smiled out one side of her mouth, and she suggested a menage a trois.
in truth we’ve never had one, yet to have the opportunity arise, and we weren’t about to start that night. frankly we’d always envisioned being the guest, the supporting actress who can slip out when it’s over, just part of the fantasy. unscathed from flashbacks of flesh burned into memory. away from any insecurities, arguments that may haunt a couple after having shared. seems a rather messy business, both literal and figurative. but that’s just us.
would we share our own man, invite another woman to have him too? we just can’t fathom it, most especially this one. seems the jealous sting of a scorpio is one of our fundamental traits. besides, we’ve never been one to share. he, of course, defaults to us, but would probably jump in should the situation arise. and what guy wouldn’t?
the interaction got us wondering, pondering again the differentials between guys and girls, between guys with girls. men have the ability (the biology, the chemistry) to distinguish sex from love, to have the former without the latter. to fuck, no strings attached. and yet women, despite their declarations and best intentions, tend to get the two all tangled up, eventually wrapped tight in our strings of complication, convolution.