Married Sex (9 page)

Chapter 20

Jean entered our apartment as if she lived there.

Relaxed. Self-assured. Clearly pleased that she had achieved, however briefly, a continuing presence in our lives.
Validated
—that's the word. Like she'd made it through the first round of the threesome playoffs.

There was another difference this time. To her natural appeal, Jean added makeup. I wouldn't have imagined she owned any. But she'd applied a thin line of silver at the eyelid and the faintest of pink lipsticks—teenager's makeup. And she'd abandoned her uniform for a T-shirt, thin cardigan sweater, and a short denim skirt—preppy choices. And was that … scent? Yes, scent—a light citrus perfume that made me think of women coming off tennis courts in Newport.

Blair wore a white shirt, mostly unbuttoned, and jeans.

Jean's look: a close cousin to what Blair had worn to Jean's loft last week.

Blair's look: more or less what Jean always wore.

They got the joke right away.

“Love your outfit,” Blair said.

“Love yours,” Jean said.

I got a quick hug from Jean, who moved on to kiss Blair on both cheeks.

And then we stood there, not knowing what to do next. Understandable. Really, what do you say? “A week ago, you were standing by your bed, bent over, me pounding deep into you as you applied your mouth to Blair. And here you are again.”

I didn't say that. But I thought it. I'd thought it all week. Two women. Two fascinating women, hot in the best possible way: quietly, privately hot. Tonight that didn't thrill me. I sensed nothing good could come of this.

“Why does this feel … weird?” Jean asked.

“Because we're here,” I said. “Surrounded by pictures of our family … ten feet from the room where we raised our kid.”

“Should we go downtown?”

“No,” Blair said. “We should drink.”

We moved to the dining room, where two bottles waited in an ice bucket. The choice was between a better brand of champagne than we usually drink and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquor with sprigs of rosemary and slices of lemon peel inside.

I lifted the bottle. “This is vodka. Improved by a friend. It's very smooth. Sweet, almost. But dangerously strong.”

“You might want champagne,” Blair said.

“Vodka,” Jean said.

The alcohol content was outrageous, but there was no burn. We knocked back a few shots as Jean murmured compliments about our modest photography collection. When the tour ended, we found ourselves at the living room window, looking out at the park. A romantic view. In other circumstances.

“There's something I have to say.”

My first thought: Whatever Jean says, it's one reason we shouldn't be seeing her tonight.

My second thought: And we should cut off all communication with Jean the second she's out the door.

“A little sincerity goes a long way,” I cautioned.

“Don't worry, David—it's still sports. But I don't usually have a connection deeper than skin, so it was nice to be with people who had … feelings. And that it was mutual? Sweet.”

Silence. Of the awkward variety.

“Almost mutual,” Blair said. “I'll do better tonight.”

Blair reached for Jean and kissed her on the mouth. The kiss was intense. And long.

I watched, rapt, as Blair slipped her hand between Jean's legs, doing to Jean what Jean had done to her last week. Jean gasped, jerked her head back, ending the kiss. But she didn't move Blair's hand away—they were deeply connected. Blair tightened her hand, as if she planned to lift Jean. The effect was powerful. Jean's eyes closed. She arched her back. Her face contorted and her mouth puckered. Breath held, then released. Long sigh. Shake of head. Eyes opening.

“Wow,” Jean said, putting a hand on the windowsill to steady herself. “Just … wow.”

“Sorry, David,” Blair said, hugging me. “That had to happen.”

Jean raised her hand and made a gentle sweeping motion toward the park below. “The pattern of the lights,” she said.

“It's one of the apartment's main attractions,” I said.

“A chain of DNA. A distant galaxy.” Jean giggled. “Or that old cliché: a string of pearls.”

She pointed, dotting the air with her fingers. Was this the photographer talking? Or was she drunk? I know I was; my resistance to Jean had melted. Her arm was suddenly the most beautiful flesh I'd ever seen. I would have followed it anywhere.

I stroked Jean's arm. I licked her fingers.

“Ohmigod,” I said. “I am … baked.”

“I'm more glazed than the window,” Blair said, and extended her arm so I could lick her fingers too.

I felt like I was swimming underwater. Every gesture required a decision. Two thoughts were one more than I could handle.

“Anybody else … dizzy?” I asked.

Laughter told me we were all in the same condition. “Bed,” Blair said.

A decade ago, when the dollar was strong enough for us to go to great European cities out of season, Blair and I spent a Christmas in Venice. We found empty churches, shuttered restaurants, and outrageous sales. On Madison Avenue, we're too intimidated by Frette to go inside. In Venice, at Macy's prices, we bought sheets. As soon as we unpacked in New York, we put them away, on the theory they were too good to use. But on Saturday morning, Blair had washed them in some special soap and put them on the bed. So when we ripped off the comforter, a clean, clothesline, summer-house smell hit us like a snort of cocaine. And now every sense seemed heightened.

Was this sex—or wrestling? Impossible to tell what the goal was, but we all seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. We pushed one another, pulled, slapped. I've never felt more like an animal. Bared teeth were next. Howling wasn't far off.

I could feel Blair's urgency. I moved aside as she wrapped her hands tight on Jean's wrists and started grinding on her.

“You like that?”

Jean was silent.

“Talk to me!”

Jean moaned, writhed, but didn't speak. Blair lowered herself until their faces were inches apart.

“Tell me.”

But the time for hot talk was over—Jean was in the throes of a titanic orgasm. She pounded against Blair, shaking her head from side to side.

“Ohmigod,” Jean whispered. “Oh, you …”

“Yes,” Blair hissed. “Oh yes.”

“Come with me.”

“I will … I am,” Blair whispered. “Now … oh, now …”

They convulsed. Collapsed. Only their breathing suggested they were alive.

After a minute, Jean regained this much speech: “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Any words might have sounded funny at this moment, like recovered speech or a line translated from an alien tongue. I would have voted for silence; the beating hearts of Blair and Jean would have been commentary enough. But once someone starts talking …

“Think?” Jean put on an Eastern European accent. “What is this thing—
think
?”

Laughter followed, full-throated laughter. It took me by surprise, like a favorite song from the distant past—Blair hadn't laughed like this outside of a movie theater for at least a decade.

“David?” Blair whispered. “You okay?”

No, not exactly. I felt lost and left behind, in a blizzard of emotions—irritation, jealousy, bruised pride—that I knew I couldn't acknowledge.

“Borderline.”

“Stay with us.”

“Going nowhere.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Jean said.

She took me in her hand. Leaned over me, eyes open, as if framing me for a private, interior camera. A century-old camera, requiring a long time exposure—she didn't move, letting the moment fill and ebb and build again. In seconds, I was squirming.

“How do you do that?” Blair asked.

“No secret,” Jean said. “You just … pay attention.” She leaned in. “Very close attention.”

She opened her mouth and circled me, again not moving.

I thought about porn movies that show women doing men as if they're going for a world record. Jean knew better—our deepest pleasure comes in the exchange of very delicate information. It happens in the head. Orgasm gets the silver medal.

Eyes closed tight. Slow breathing. Such quiet in the bedroom that we could hear street traffic ten floors below.

Blair got up and started some music. A guitarist from Niger had taken American blues and filtered it through African desert music. His sound was insistent but subtle, just the right match for Jean's mouth work.

Jean sat up. “You go.”

Blair took her place. And I almost wept for my good fortune, because I couldn't tell the difference between Blair and Jean.

It got even better. Just like in the porn movies, Blair and Jean took turns working on me. Their mouths were velvet. Their fingers were exquisite torture. I reached out, wanting my hands on flesh, but I was ordered to be still.

And then … nothing. I opened my eyes. Blair and Jean were kissing, holding each other tight. Then they found another use for their mouths. While, once again, I watched.

Maybe this is how it works, I thought. Some for me, some for them. Only fair. I was getting the most: two women doing me, every man's dream. But I seemed to have lost the power to influence events. Sparks were crackling between Jean and Blair. Meanwhile, I was being … managed.

The second time the women moved away from me, I had the unsettling feeling that I was being … excluded. And, once again, I had the feeling that they knew it and didn't care—that's how hot they were for each other. Then, once again, it was as if they knew what I was thinking and made a swift, smooth transition back to me.

This time it was Jean who turned first. But not a Jean I'd seen before. This one sat up in bed, took a bottle of water, poured a thin stream on her shoulders, and rubbed her chest and stomach until she glistened. Then, looking right at me, she struck a pose.

It wasn't a glimpse; it was a display. Jean was putting on a show, giving a private exhibition. And she was a sensational model. She knew how women looked and how photographers get them to look hungrier, hotter. I wouldn't be surprised if she had tried these poses at home, photographed them, and studied them until she was sure she was magic.

Blair moved to her. Jean gently pushed her away.

“Just look,” she whispered.

Jean was in no rush. She cupped her breasts, tugged at her nipples. She ran a finger between her legs, gave us the Georgia O'Keeffe view.

I will see those images as long as I live.

I could watch for only so long, and then I pounced.

Blair did too, and after that, it was pure sex. Try this. Try that. So many combinations. We obliterated my checklist.

“Now me,” Jean said as she pulled away. “Just me.”

She kissed Blair. “May I?”

“With David?”

“It's only this once.”

Blair nodded. I pushed into Jean. The contact was electric. I abandoned thought and shed all restraint, and I pushed deeper. Throbbing, I came and came and came.

Chapter 21

“Gloomy Sunday.” That song was correctly named. Ditto “Stormy Monday.” And it had been like that ever since we cheek-kissed Jean out the door on Saturday night. Who annoyed me? Jean. But also Blair. Had they played me? If they hadn't, where did these flashes of rejection and paranoia come from?

Mostly, I was annoyed with myself. I didn't know why, and I knew that I didn't. All I was sure of was that I was spoiling for a fight.

So I had one. With Victoria, of all people. On the very first call of the week.

“Oh, V. I have a small but intriguing piece of gossip,” I said as soon as we'd completed the pleasantries. “You know your friend Barbara?”

“The social secretary to—”

I didn't have to name Barbara's employer. He's one of the richest men in the country. When his townhouse was featured in
Architectural Digest
, the liberal columnist in the
Times
wrote that his wife's dressing room was so big it had its own bathroom.

“Exactly.”

“Reboot saw her at JFK Thursday night. She was meeting an extravagantly handsome young man, just off the plane from LA. Reboot recognized her, saw that the young man had no suitcase, so he followed them—right to the townhouse.”

“It's a very large house,” V said.

“And missing an occupant,” I said. “The lady of the house is in Paris for the shows. Which suggests—”

V cut me off. “It suggests nothing.”

“You know the rumors?”

“I've heard them for years. They're … inconclusive. At best.”

“They
were
inconclusive. Past tense. Six the next morning, Reboot just happens to be parked outside the townhouse. Guess who comes out? The young man. Into the town car he goes and off to the airport. Reboot follows. But he doesn't need to. He knows the drill—the kid is on the eight a.m. back to LA.”

“Coincidence,” V said. “Anecdote.”

“Exactly,” I said. “No record of the event. The wife won't believe this … unless, when she comes back from Paris, she sees photos.”

I could hear her sigh. “Reboot ‘just happened' to be at the house at six a.m.?”

“I gave him no direction.”

“He took pictures?”

“Time-stamped.”

“What happens next?”

“Nothing,” I said. “But if that picture ran on Page Six, the wife might look for a matrimonial lawyer.”

“Someone like … me?” V asked.

“Who's more respected?”

“I am slightly amazed, David, that you want to move forward here. What's your endgame?”

“A payday. We can bill to the moon.”

“I don't need one,” V said. “Do you?”

“No. But I'd like one.”

In court, V was noted for the brevity of her cross-exams. The extreme brevity: She often asked the one essential question and left the one essential answer echoing in the courtroom. The same in conversation. As now.

“What do you want to buy?” she asked.

Picture a schoolboy caught by a history teacher during the final exam with the names of the kings of England and their dates written on his shirt cuff.

“Well …” Out of the air, I pulled a response: “Art.”

“Really.” V's tone was vintage Newport. “At what level?”

“Modest. I want to collect photography.”

“You could do that now.”

“Not quite, V. The world has discovered photography.” I knew one fact, and I played it. “A decade ago, Blair and I saw a picture we loved. A Gursky. It cost two hundred and fifty thousand. Which was insane, of course—if we'd had the money, which we didn't, we'd never have spent that. Guess how much that photograph sells for today?”

“A million.”

“Two.”

Incredulous: “This … Gursky … this is what you'd like to buy?”

“What I'd like to be doing is
selling
it.”

“You know where to find the next Gursky?”

No, I wanted to shout, but Jean Coin does. Blair and I fucked her, and she got more out of it than I did, and she owes me, and she's going to pay me back by selling me some of her pictures without the gallery markup.

“I've met an expert who can advise me.”

“Good boy. I am all in favor of seeing you profit tenfold in a decade. But listen to me. We are talking about a billionaire who dumps toxic waste near poor neighborhoods because he knows to the dollar how light the fines will be. And he knows exactly how much free speech he can buy and what it costs for politicians to make his speech their speech. And, clearly, he knows how to get what he needs in bed without making a ripple.”

She paused. I knew she wasn't done.

“And I believe there is something else he knows … there is no law for the rich.”

“Rich people get divorced,” I said. “The law works just fine.”

“I'm not talking about his marriage, David. I'm saying this: This man is dangerous. If you get in his way, you have no idea how far he'll go.”

“I expect he'll—”

“David …
never fuck with people who have more than a billion
.”

Had I ever heard V swear before? No. But I was in a state. I made one last try. “I'd like to pursue this, V. I could drive out …”

V laughed. “Oh, David, I do adore you. But this … scheme of yours isn't for us. Don't come out here. Don't mention this again on the phone. Don't send me anything electronically. And do give my love to Blair.”