She Comes In Through The Window

I'm lying in bed with my wife, Carly. We’re British – I know that we’re in London but nobody speaks with an accent. We’re reading and talking and acting as if it’s a normal night about bedtime. But it’s not. Because sitting quietly and stiffly in a chair about 10 feet away from us, in the middle of this vast master bedroom, is a girl named Katie. She’s blonde, cute as a button, much younger than my wife and I, and she’s here to have a threesome with us. She is clearly receptive to the idea, because she’s here, it’s all been discussed, and we all know what’s going on, but she’s too nervous or scared to actually step off the ledge.

I get up and go into the bathroom to brush my teeth, and Katie follows me in. She smiles and she chats with me as I brush, my electric toothbrush whipping up foam in my mouth like I’m a mad dog. She’s standing way too close me at the sink as she asks if we have any extra toothbrushes, and I know as I open the drawer and find her one, that I’m going to end up nailing her right now, right here in the bathroom. This is allowed, technically, under the terms of mine and Carly’s arrangement, but I know it won’t go over well.

The next few minutes are always my favorite. When you’re about to fuck someone for the first time, and you both know it, and you go from staring a bit too long at each other to finding excuses to touch each other and fumbling a bit awkwardly, but it’s OK because you both know how badly you want it and your heads are spinning and the feeling is overtaking you like white noise in your head, and then, the moment, the moment, when your lips and bodies crash into each other, and you couldn’t stop if bombs were falling from the sky, and those last pieces of clothing start getting pulled away. When we begin I’m holding her up against the shower wall, and we finish on the fuzzy pink bath mat. She loves it, and she doesn’t complain about the coldness of the shower tile, or what I do after I flip her over.

In the morning, Carly is silent, stewing. She stalks past me when I reach out for her in my heavy-lidded fog.

Weeks later, it’s Christmas. Lights deck the house and the fence outside, and I’m entertaining in the living room. Carly’s in Paris on business and landing at Heathrow in a few hours. I see Katie walk past the front door of the house and right to the bay window where I’m sitting. She bangs on the glass and I help her up through the window and sit her next to me. That’s what she does, she comes in through the window. I don’t think she did it last time, but I have a definite memory of her doing it before.

I introduce everyone around the room to Katie. Oprah (Katie gets a little freaked out and shaky noticing that Oprah Winfrey is hanging out at my place for the holidays. I touch Katie’s back, telling her “It’s OK, she’s a friend.” Completely normal to me that Oprah’s here.), Gwen, a striking woman named Psyche, Wilbur (who I introduce as “my father”), and a half dozen others. I mix up one or two of the names, concentrating on how much time I have to desert my guests, spirit Katie upstairs and get her out of the house afterwards before Carly gets back.