Unashamed (18 page)

To clarify things, I truly meant like a high-pitched murder victim scream in a bad horror film. Every sensation across my body was unbearably overwhelming, and I just couldn’t take it anymore. My pussy was on strike and brought its own blow horns and picket signs; I was done. With much hesitation and frustration, she stopped. She crawled up the bed to lie next to me as my body relaxed. We looked at each other for a few minutes until my breathing was normal again.

After complimenting her skills, she smiled and said she needed to go wash her hands Naively I asked why. I wanted to fall to sleep just as we were. She gently lifted her hand and separated her fingers, showing me the glistening cum that attached itself to each digit like webbing.

“Oh my God, what is that? I don’t have an infection!” I blurted in a panic.

Confused, her forehead and eyebrows scrunched together. “Um, that’s cum. You came.”

“I did no such thing! I don’t do that!” I stared at her hand still in the air.

“Yes, you did.” She turned her palm away to show me the back of her hand and bent her knuckles, breaking the matter that had dried.

“Go wash it off! I am so embarrassed.” I grabbed the crumpled sheet and covered my head. She giggled as she got up and walked to the bathroom in her birthday suit. As I waited for her, I wondered if she was right. That never happened to me before in my life. The feeling came in waves for over an hour until I nearly shattered glass with my scream. Did I really experience my first orgasm at twenty-six years old? Even after receiving counsel from some older, wiser lesbians, I was in disbelief.

Douglas and I talked about our dates the next evening when he came home from school. I was ecstatic to tell him about my apparent vaginal orgasm. He turned purple with laughter when I told him my reaction, but he thought it was cute and hugged me while mumbling something about becoming a woman.

As much as I liked Joy’s confidence, and embraced my preference for thicker girls, I was embarrassed when she wanted to take me to the club. We were such an odd-looking pair. However, I began the process of retraining this shallow way of thinking. But, unbeknownst to her, I began breaking things off with several women so we could be exclusive. My goal was to get over the superficial idea that thin women were what I should fancy, but not what I actually liked. It wasn’t going to happen overnight, but I was willing to start somewhere. It was a stranger at the bar who helped me see the light at the end of the big-girl tunnel.

God bless the stranger who shared my space and engaged in small talk. As we sipped our drinks and admired a group of women, she inadvertently changed my life. We discussed which one we thought was attractive. Within that short conversation I pointed to the Italian girl in the green shirt surrounded by feminine women, and a second butch girl. Green Shirt Girl was laughing and drinking her beer as one of the femme girls walked over to sit on her thick Italian lap. This was the moment when the stranger immediately said some profound shit. “Ah, you are a chubby chaser.”

I’ll be damned; the ownership of that label pushed me over my insincere limitation. It helped my defense when Doug and Rico criticized the various large women I fancied. Their favorite sneer was
you can do better than that,
as if a bigger girl was less than beautiful.

“I’m a chubby chaser. That’s what I like, so suck it, ” I told the boys. Even Doug admitted that Joy was a very nice girl after his brother left.

It took me a month to dump all of the other women before I threw myself at Joy’s feet as a willing exclusive partner, Doug notwithstanding. When the nerve built itself into a request for a relationship on the phone, she told me she was sorry, but that she had to turn in her player’s card. She’d met someone else and planned to start dating her. But, she explained, we would always be “hollaback girls,” aka fuck buddies. I was officially a backup plan.

Surprisingly it didn’t cause friction. Joy was too awesome to forget. Being her friend was okay with me; I was married anyway. What lesbian wants to date a married woman even with a husband as cool as Doug? Let’s be real here.

However, yours truly was determined to find a girl who would be accepting in a relationship of that nature. I was sure she was out there somewhere. That’s when I began to read books on bisexuality and discovered the research of Alfred Kinsey.

Books helped clarify a few things for Douglas and me. We read chapters to each other that we thought pertained to our lives. One of them mentioned polyamorous relationships. That is where you have committed loving relationships with multiple people. It can get very complex, but, as long as everyone is aware of their status and everyone respects boundaries, it can work. If it all sounds very Utah polygamist, do the research. It is not.

An example in the book was of a triadic unit that consisted of a husband and his wife and her girlfriend who were committed to each other for over fifteen years. The husband never had a sexual relationship with the girlfriend. They all lived together and raised their children as three parents. There was another quadratic unit with three males and one female. The woman only had a sexual relationship with one of the men. The three males had been exclusive to each other for eight years until the woman became a part of their lives. Four years later, they were still together and none of them stepped outside of the unit. Believe me, the research got more confusing as the geometry spanned into words I cannot pronounce. But, the possibility of this kind of life was very real for Doug and me.

When I met and fell in love with Patty and her sexy freckles, it seemed to be the life we researched. She accepted and wanted the type of relationship we eventually came to live. The three of us, of course, had rules. It was either Douglas and I or Patty and I. I was Doug’s primary relationship and Tasha was his secondary. We developed nights of the week that we designated for our respective partners. When jealousy issues developed, we dealt with them head-on. That’s not to say they disappeared. I was constantly wrapped in guilt for splitting my time between both of my separate lives, which became increasingly hectic.

My schedule was highly involved, and I am not talking about sex, not even remotely close.

To supplement stripping money, I joined the Nevada National Guard. Additional money also came from mud wrestling at a casino once a week. Patty and I enrolled at the local community college with full schedules. Topping the daily calendar was my marriage and my girlfriend. I was a busy bitch. This was a time in my life where being pulled in three different directions on any given day was a break from the usual seven.

If one item in the agenda was removed, we were lost and forced to focus on just how strange our polyamorous lifestyle was. A fine example of this was when Tasha ended her relationship with Doug. It gave him plenty of nights alone and time to think about the distance growing between him and his wife.

It was a shaky few weeks full of guilt. It had us questioning a lot of things, but he began dating again, which allowed us to continue. Three of the women met me under the impression that I was his lesbian roommate. Patty, Doug, and I worked out a new, wild schedule and we moved forward with our lives, but it’s a little more difficult for a man to be honest about his unusual relationship status to straight women.

It was one of those things he had to expose in a delicate manner with much finesse. He definitely struggled a little more than I did developing his place among our triadic unit. One of the women he dated was exceptional. Doug really liked her, but it ended when I sent her an email that was inadvertently tagged with my last name. She put two and two together and that was it; she broke it off. After that he began portraying himself as a single man. That is what Candice thought he was when she met him. His struggle to find a secondary relationship didn’t just end there. He also had to make the lie believable. One morning I found every one of our framed photos in a drawer. He giggled like a child as he explained prepping the apartment when Candice came over on the nights I spent with Patty.

“I have to do a recon of the place and hide all of that,” he told me as he pointed to the photos in the drawer and continued to fold down the bed.

“We have a one-bedroom. Where does she think I sleep?” I turned down my side of the covers and fluffed my pillow before slipping between the clean linen.

Doug dimmed the light on his nightstand, removed his glasses to neatly set them next to the base of the lamp, and joined me in the bed. “I told her you stay with your girlfriend most nights but you usually crash on the couch.”

The surprise of it made my voice escalate in pitch and crack. “And she believes you?”

“I said she was hot. I never said she was smart.” He giggled and kissed me goodnight.

The three of us worked out serious time management issues, but we didn’t always get it right. One night Candice called while I was in bed watching television with Doug. After he ended the call, he told me I had to leave because she was coming over. He began frantically taking our photos down throughout the apartment to place them, face down, in the drawer.

“Doug, I am in my pajamas! Are you kicking me out of my own bed?” I shouted in horror.

“Hey, it’s not like you haven’t done it to me before! Less talky, more walky.” He looked around to make sure he got every frame, handed me a pair of shorts, then waved at me to hurry up.

Admittedly, he was right. I had claimed dibs on the apartment a few times before I met Patty, but certainly never kicked him out of bed. As I stood to put the shorts on, he told me that Candice was less than ten minutes away, so he insisted that putting some purpose in my step was imperative. I grabbed some last-minute items, reminded him repeatedly to change the sheets, and walked to my car after calling him a bastard, yet kissing him at the door.

Laughing in disbelief, I phoned Patty to tell her the story. She welcomed my unexpected request to stay the night; however, my curiosity waned heavy about this girl’s appearance. Making the decision to wait was easy. Douglas always spoke highly of her body and beautiful red hair, so this opportunity to stalk my husband’s fire-crotch lover was not going to waste. Sitting in my car waiting for a glimpse of her was quick and painless. She practically pulled into an empty spot the moment my door shut. She put on a little lipstick in the car and walked to our front door. Before she knocked, she adjusted her skirt and flipped her red hair behind her shoulder. Douglas opened the door with a Cheshire cat smile. Candice disappeared into my apartment before the door closed. The bottom line was this: his girlfriend arrived, so his wife had to leave and spend the night with her girlfriend. Surreal life was my reality.

When Douglas wasn’t seeing anyone, the reality of our marriage took him to a different place. He wasn’t himself. His wife was seeing someone, going to the club too much, and drank more often than not. This was a far cry from the rock-solid foundation of our first five years. One of his most tormented evenings came after he came home from a wonderful date.

He was very upset when he walked in the door. My state of mind was peaceful as I enjoyed a movie with my cherished dog curled on my lap. Cheerfully, I asked how his date went. Rather than the usual details and smiles, he seemed distant and lost.

He stood by the door with his keys in hand, immobilized. He starred at me, blinked a lot, and finally spoke. When he did, it was hushed and low, like he felt somewhat guilty. “We went out to eat. She is really, really smart,” he said and paused in thought for a long time before he carefully pulled off each shoe and aligned it against the nearest baseboard.

His demeanor was very unlike his usual post-date euphoria. “That’s it? What else? Did you get some?” I smiled. Maybe I read him wrong.

He pushed a button on his very expensive Omega watch that released a clip. He shimmied his hand and carefully pulled the watch off. “We had intellectually stimulating conversation; then I took her dancing.” He re-clasped the clip and set the watch on the counter between the living room and the kitchen. “We went back to her place and chilled on the couch with some drinks, then watched a movie.” A smile gently peaked from his lips as he remembered.

My brain assumed that it did not go well from the behavior he was presenting. But the smile threw me off. “So, did you have a good time? Did you do it? What’s wrong with you?” My hand stroked the dog several times from his head all the way down his curled tail before Doug answered me. He was preoccupied with reliving the date in his mind. Physically he was in our apartment undressing, but he was definitely somewhere else.

Doug set his keys on the bar, two fingers away from the Omega, and began to slowly unbutton his shirt. “Yes, we had sex. It was nice.” His tone was melancholy.

“Nice? Honey, what is wrong with you?” My worry escalated, even though I continued to sit on the couch and stroke my shih tzu.

There were moments when he seemed to make eye contact, but the rest of the time he stared at the dog or my shirt or the back of the couch. “She was a good kisser. She desired me and got hot for me. She made me feel like she wanted to be with me, needed me.” He took his shirt off and hung it over his arm like a butler’s towel.

“So, it was good then? Why are you acting so weird?”

“It was really good, actually.” He walked toward me, shirt hung from his forearm, and sat on the coffee table at my feet. He seemed fascinated with how amazing the sex was as he retold the details. I listened while he explained how wet she became after her breathing changed, and her entire body temperature went up. Her pupils dilated when she was aroused. Those things, he said, you cannot fake. Those things were biological reactions to stimulation, and those things did not happen when we were in bed together.