I
was primed to want him long before I met him. Was this a deliberate
ploy on my husband's part? Or just the consequence of my hyperactive
sexual imagination?
“James
is a really good friend,” K told me. He'd known James for years
before I appeared on the scene, during his tumultuous period living
in San Francisco. “He's a physicist. Does research at UCSF
hospital.” My ears perked up. I've always found intelligence to be
an aphrodisiac. “Oh, and you should see his paintings and
sculpture. He's really talented.” Oh my! An artist too! Was I wet
already?
We
were on our way cross country and planned to stop in the City by the
Bay before heading south to Los Angeles. Having spent the last few
years in grad school on the East Coast, K hadn't seen James in a
while, but he assured me that we'd get a warm welcome.
“And
did I tell you about his time in Japan?” K executed a neat maneuver
to pass a battered, dusty pickup, then pointed the Subaru straight
across the sere plains of eastern Colorado. The Rockies were
blue-gray shadows hugging the horizon.
I
squeezed my husband's thigh. “No, I don't think so. What was he
doing in Japan?”
“Working
in a sex show.” He gave me a quick glance, as if to gauge my
reaction, before returning his gaze to the empty, monotonous highway.
A
tingle swept through me. “You're kidding, right?” At that point I
hadn't yet visited Japan, but everyone had heard bizarre stories
about the Japanese sexual underground.
“No,
not at all. For three months James and his partner performed live in
some club in Tokyo. Fucking on stage six nights a week.”
I
sat silent, staring into the distance and pondering this thrilling
and disturbing concept. I considered myself a free spirit, a bit of a
sexual outlaw, but public sex, for money? What sort of person would
engage in such behavior?
“Why?”
I asked finally, expecting some wild tale of extortion or human
slavery.
“He
was curious to see what it would be like,” K responded with a
chuckle.
I
was quiet for a long time after that, contemplating with excitement
and trepidation the prospect of meeting this “friend”. I had no
idea what he looked like, but I was already half in lust.
James
turned out to be lean and loose-limbed, a good half a head taller
than K, with unruly hair, a soft voice and an easy laugh. As K had
promised, he offered us the spare room in his Mission District flat.
We shared take-out Chinese, red wine from a gallon jug and lots of
pot. We talked about art, science, philosophy, politics. Well, K and
James talked, mostly, catching up after years apart, reestablishing
the bonds of their friendship. I listened, uncharacteristically mute,
watching James' long, expressive fingers trace patterns in the air as
he explained some nuance of electromagnetic theory, wondering how
those fingers would feel feathering across my nipples.
K
asked about James' partner – ex-partner as it turned out – but
the one subject we didn't discuss was sex. Still, the entire evening
buzzed with erotic tension. When James looked at me, I felt the heat
simmering in his lanky body. What had K told him about me?
I
honestly don't recall how we ended up in bed together. All I remember
is how easy it was, how light and relaxed - how friendly. I didn't
worry about jealousy; that seemed a non-issue as I mounted K and
James slid his cock (long and thin like his fingers) into my rear
hole. My first double penetration - only the second or third time I'd
ever experienced anal sex, actually. I can hardly believe, looking
back, how little resistance James found. At the time, I was too
turned on to even think about the question. I was neither surprised
nor shocked. It was obviously the natural thing to be doing. We all
agreed about that.
Sandwiched
between a man I loved and my new lover, I felt not only acute
pleasure but a delicious sense of connection. I was cherished and
desired, giving and receiving. The brazenness of our actions thrilled
me. The three-way intimacy kindled a new kind of joy.
I
remember the details of the next day more clearly now than I do that
incandescent night. The three of us went to see a matinee of “Raiders
of the Lost Ark”. We strolled down the San Francisco sidewalk, arm
in arm in arm, with me in the middle once again. I wore a flouncy
white cotton dress I'd bought in Tijuana, with nothing underneath. I
felt like a dirty angel, high on residual arousal, perversely proud
we'd been brave enough to push friendship to its next obvious level.
Even
after K and I moved back East, we remained close with James. We
attended his wedding. Later, after their son was born, we visited him
and Priscilla in their redwood-encircled cabin in the Santa Cruz
mountains. We never had sex together again, but our mutual erotic
history gave the relationship a special poignancy. I knew James
remembered, as I did.
We're
still in touch, more than three decades later, though James'
struggles with addiction and psychiatric problems have weakened the
connection. I regret that deeply. As I've gotten older, I've come to
appreciate more fully how remarkable that episode really was –
despite the fact that it felt inevitable at the time.
Enumerating
a list of my long-time friends, I'm a bit embarrassed to realize how
many of them were once my lovers. One might point to this as evidence
of my unbridled promiscuity during my twenties and thirties. I
interpret this fact differently, though. I've always been sexually
attracted to people I like and admire, both women and men. Although
I've had close friendships that were completely platonic, without the
smallest shred of desire on my part, that's not the norm for me. The
intellectual and emotional buzz from meeting someone special
transmutes into sexual desire.
In
most cases, I've refrained from acting on my lusts, especially in
recent years. Instead, they spill over into my dreams. Even people I
haven't met in person – people I've come to know and love remotely,
in the guise of Lisabet Sarai – have found their way into my night
visions. That's one reason why I am reluctant to get closer to some
of you in the real world. Friends are always welcome. At this stage
in my life, though, I probably don't need more lovers.
