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Crapshoot, noun
US informal (also crap shoot, crapshoot)
Something whose result could be good or bad but is impossible to predict or control, because so much chance is involved
Cambridge Dictionary
Prologue
Let us begin with the ending. Imagine, if you will, a European arthouse movie: the kind with long, lingering glances, unorthodox lifestyles, and uncensored skin. The cinematographer opens with an extreme closeup of a foot on white satin sheets, toes pointing upwards. It is a woman’s foot, toenails painted cherry red, although not recently: she is not obsessed with her appearance.
The camera travels slowly up past her ankle, and we see a lean calf, a wellstructured knee, and then a thigh. Her lightly tanned skin is not flawless, but she seems healthy, still young, only minor marks and blemishes. On the inside of her thigh, we also see some light bruises that look like hickeys, or lovebites, recently formed.
Now the camera pans across her slim hips, and we see that her legs are lewdly spread, her vulva open to the viewer, inner labia visible, the surrounding skin flushed and marked with more hickeys. A dark, loosely shaped patch of pubic hair sits above her hips, and then a narrow waist. The skin around her delicate navel is also recently marked.
Her breasts come into view. They are small but wellformed, nipples standing up proudly in the middle of tancoloured areolae. More hickeys lead upwards towards her delicate throat, but there they stop, in consideration for the limitations of her wardrobe for covering them over the coming week. Her red lips are slightly parted, and her blue eyes are shining in anticipation, and perhaps a little embarrassment. We see that her arms are stretched out on the bed to each side of her head, and her long, brunette hair fans out across the pillow.
A voice speaks to the side.
“You know the drill.”
I know the drill. The woman is my wife, Lily, and this is where we will be at the end of this .
Chapter 1 The Idea
It wasn’t my finest moment on the tennis court. There I was, standing in position near the net and innocently watching Robyn’s cute backside sashaying back to the service line, when a polite cough from across the net behind me reminded me that my eyes should be facing forwards. Forwards towards Lily, who was already ready to receive Robyn’s serve. Lily was partnering Robyn’s husband, Steve, my best mate since forever, and luckily not the jealous type.
Unfortunately, the cough had come from Lily, not Steve, and the stinkeye that she was sending my way didn’t look entirely feigned. I raised my racket in rueful apology.
“Sorry Lily.”
She said nothing, but when Robyn’s serve whistled past me to land on the inside service line, Lily’s backhand return was fast and straight at my throat, and my volley went directly into the net.
“Apology accepted, Jim,” said Lily, deadpan, and Steve cracked up in laughter. My volley had cost us the game, and they were comfortably ahead in the match. When Lily was focused, she was all longlegged grace and fluidity on the court, and this afternoon she had been deadly.
“Jim! Down boy!” said Robyn, with a smile. She knew perfectly well what had been going on behind her back. The four of us had known each other since Lily and Robyn, also old friends with each other, had hooked up with us around ten years ago. We had been in each other’s wedding parties and saw each other regularly, playing sport or other games together, or just having dinner with each other or also with other friends. Gentle flirting was part of the mix, but it had never gone any further than that. We were two married couples who just happened to get on well.
Lily and Robyn were quite different people, and it was kind of surprising that they had such an easy relationship. Lily was an academic in sociology, clawing her way up the greasy pole. At age 35 she had been very fortunate to get an ongoing associate professor position. She worked hard and long hours. Up until last year when she got her permanency, she hadn’t stopped to consider children, and it had been an issue of rising tension for us, as she was feeling trapped between the pressures of her biological clock and her career. Since then, she’d come off the pill, and was feeling more ready. The only thing was that so far, we’d had no luck, and not for lack of trying. It was a point of pain for both of us, but we were trying to relax about it as much as we could.
The other thing about Lily was that she could be ultrarational. She always approached things analytically first, furrowing her forehead as she took things apart and reassembled them in that incredible mind of hers, and then she remembered that she had to put the emotional overlays and outward facing translations back in before revealing the results. It was the same whether you asked her what flavour ice cream she wanted or how to achieve world peace: the pause, the wrinkled brow, the sudden clarity in her eyes, and the slight delay while she translated the answer back into human language.
Robyn, by contrast, navigated by instinct. If she was happy, she laughed and smiled: she didn’t need to analyse it. If she wanted to get something done, she just went and did it with a cando attitude. She seemed exceptionally suited to her professional role as a human resources manager, and I suspected that she was one of those rare HR managers who actually made people feel valued and supported.
Robyn was also dropdead gorgeous. Don’t get me wrong: I loved my tall, fit wife for both her mind and her body. But Robyn, a voluptuous strawberry blonde, exuded appeal and a love of life. She had magic powers. She didn’t abuse them or play up to it much: it was just a natural part of her personality to be happy, vivacious and engaging, and it was that as much as her blue eyes and curves that made her a showstopper.
Steve and I had talked about this openly and had concluded that basically we were both incredibly lucky guys. After years of marriage, we still both thought our wives were stunning, and we also really liked each other’s partner while respecting boundaries. Steve was pretty clear in his admiration of Lily’s intelligence, insights and determination as well as her svelte figure, and he tolerated my occasional drooling over Robyn with good humour. And we were grateful that the four of us got on so well. That’s just how it was, and we knew it was special and didn’t want to jeopardise it. The only tension that I knew of in their marriage was that they had also been trying for babies, for a bit longer than we had. Robyn didn’t talk about it much when we were all together, but I knew that she’d opened her heart to Lily a couple of times. When Lily and Robyn talked, everything was on the table. I suspected that our respective married lives, techniques and ideas had been fully shared between the two women, which explained why every time they’d grabbed a precious night out together, something new happened for me in bed shortly afterwards.
As normal Australian blokes, Steve and I didn’t talk babies much. But we did talk. We both liked to think of ourselves as reasonably newage men, able to make a decent quiche or pavlova without hesitation, doing our share of housework, contributing reasoned but nondominant insights to the dinnerparty discussions, and in general trying not to be arseholes in our relationships. And of course, doing the musclework expected of any man in a marriage: opening jars, wielding the chainsaw in the garden, and changing flat tyres. Not that our beautiful wives couldn’t do those things, but they knew that we needed to feel special, and honestly we were a lot quicker at some of that stuff. And in return for being allowed to flex our muscles, we felt masculine enough to discuss ovulation and the worries of our wives without fear of being thought weak. Today was one of those days.
“I reckon we’ll give it one more year,” Steve said to me, as we carried four beers to the table after the tennis match (straight sets win to him and Lily). “Then IVF. Or whatever it takes. We’re starting to put money aside.”
“Same here,” I replied.
“You blokes, always going on about babies,” said Robyn, who had caught the tail end of our conversation as we came within earshot. “You just need to try harder.”
“Treat it like a competition,” suggested Lily. She looked like she was going to say more, but then stopped abruptly, beer halfraised to her lips.
Her brow furrowed, hard. An idea was brewing. Steve and Robyn knew the signs as well as I did, and Robyn started a quiet count.
“…fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… c’mon Lily, this must be a good one!” she said after what seemed to be an endless wait.
Lily finally refocused on us, and gave us an apologetic smile. “I think I better keep this one to myself. There’s no way you’ll approve.”
“Spill,” I said.
“Spill,” the other two echoed.
She seemed genuinely torn. What was this idea? She normally wasn’t this reticent, particularly if was something clever. Which it normally was.
“It’s just…” She started, but then stopped again.
“Spill!!” we chorused.
“Well, we get on very well together. We’re in the same situation. We each like the other’s spouse, and we love our own. But we’re getting frustrated and we don’t really know how to make things happen. I was thinking that we could do something radical and see if our minds and bodies respond differently with each other in a real competition.”
Steve had caught a glimmer of understanding, and he suddenly sucked in his breath. But Robyn and I were both still at sea.
“Lily, you’re going to need to spell it out for this poor husband,” I said.
Lily turned to look directly at me, apologetically. “If we’re going to wait at least a year before IVF, which is very expensive anyway, I was thinking that we shouldn’t just be burning down the candle and doing the same old thing. We could have a kind of a sperm crapshoot. One month with each other, and then swap partners. Rinse and repeat. Winner takes the prize.”
I stared. “You mean…”
Robyn butted in. “What do you mean ‘winner takes the prize?'”
It was Steve who explained. “I think that what she means is that Jim and I would swap between beds, a month at a time, and if one of you gets pregnant, then whoever the father is will stay with that woman. If it’s me and you, we stay the same. But if it’s you and Jim… I move out. Hopefully in with Lily but…” He stopped, and swallowed. “But I guess, not necessarily, because whoever doesn’t get pregnant might be considering her options.”
Lily just nodded, and said nothing, still looking towards me. She seemed to be shocked at herself.
“Fuck, Lily, that’s… radical,” breathed Robyn. She sounded more awestruck than censorious.
Lily turned to look at her. “Think about it, Robyn. We can be as inclusive as we like, but ultimately we would want the father of our child to be the one living with us and helping raise that child, or children. It would make more sense to realign our marriages to suit. Of course we would have some interesting family conversations, but so what? Life is for living, so if we’re going for babies now, I don’t want do halfmeasures. And we can both be confident in either Jim or Steve as being great fathers. If we get lucky, we’ll both get over the line during the year, but if not, there’s a fair chance that one of us will. I’d rather have that as an open competition and see if our bodies rise to the challenge.”
“That’s completely unscientific, Lily. Not like you at all,” said Robyn. “But I have to say, it would be a fun year if both these guys were competing to knock us up.”
I was stunned. Robyn actually sounded interested in this crazy idea.
“There would be no going back,” I said.
Robyn pointedly reached out to trace the tattoo on my bicep. It was a yacht, spinnaker billowing, running hell for leather downwind.
“What are we here for?” she asked. “To sit around in the waiting room?”
We talked a little more, and then agreed to think about it during the week. I could see that everybody was tempted. I wasn’t sure that Lily’s logic really held water in terms of whether it would encourage pregnancies. But as a way of justifying the increasingly obvious mutual lust between the members of opposite couples… it worked, in a potentially catastrophic kind of way. Lily was pushing us to be thrill seekers, leaping over a chasm without a safety net. I kept wanting to look around to see if one of her research students was watching us and taking notes.
The next day was Sunday. I made Lily breakfast and served it to her in bed, then jumped in next to her for a cuddle, and a talk.
“Lily, are you seriously letting the genie stay out of the bottle with this one? You could kill it now with a simple chat message.”
She didn’t answer straight away, but thoughtfully chewed on her bagel, finishing it before letting off an appreciative, unladylike burp. She finally turned to me.
“Any one of us could kill it with a chat message. I don’t think that would put the genie back in the bottle. You can’t unthink things. But we could decide not to act on the idea. That’s the best I can offer, Jim. Is that what you want?”
The ball was back in my court, as I’d known it would be. I sent a gentle lob back across the net.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I think that Steve and I would defer to you and Robyn. It’s not a situation I ever anticipated. I won’t deny that it makes me a little horny to think of doing some swapping with our good friends. It’s the thought of the consequences if your little competition idea succeeds. But I don’t have a biological clock to worry about, and I don’t know how much that’s your part of your calculations. It does seem a bit more fun than going down to the IVF clinic.”
Lily just lobbed the ball back at me. “I don’t know either. Maybe I’m learning from Robyn to be a bit more instinctive. We’ve got the week to think.”
We left it there.
Steve messaged me during Monday, and arranged a quick catchup after work. We were both in the city, working in finance roles. We met in Young and Jackson’s, a Melbourne pub that was famous for a gorgeous French nude painting from the 1800s, known as ChloĆ©. Somehow it seemed appropriate that ChloĆ© should be part of our discussion, because we couldn’t deny the raunchy element of the conversation and the way that it was influencing us. Her pose was fronton, but she was looking to the right side of the painting rather than engaging with the viewer. One of the stories around the work was the model was actually a workingclass girl who fought alongside others during the bloody insurrection in Paris in 1871, but was posing here as a water nymph for male entertainment. After the life she’d lived, we bored her.
Steve was direct. “Jim, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, but we need to have it. Our wives are attracted by the idea of a month on, month off husband swap with the aim of getting at least one of them pregnant. And potentially dissolving our marriages. What the fuck?”
“Fair summary. What are you thinking?”
“I guess in one sense it’s a married man’s dream,” said Steve. “It’s like the ultimate hall pass. I don’t deny that I’m attracted to Lily. And I know how you feel about Robyn. If we were going to do anything like this in our lives, it would be now.”
“But it could all end in tears,” I responded.
“It could all end in tears,” he agreed. “But fuck it, a lot of relationships end badly because people have screwed around behind their partner’s back, or get bored, or they can’t have children, or just end up hating each other. This is something else.”
“I told Lily that we would probably defer to her and Robyn,” I said. “I mean, if one of us really didn’t want to do it, of course we wouldn’t. But that’s not what I’m feeling or hearing.”
“Me neither,” he responded.
We talked a bit more, but we didn’t get anywhere else with it, and meanwhile ChloĆ© kept gazing off to the side. “Look at me,” she seemed to be saying. “Thousands of men have lusted after me in my glory and left unsatisfied, and you’re worried about what’s being offered to you on a plate? Get over yourselves.”
I left my thoughts on ChloĆ© unvoiced. I didn’t think that Steve needed any more encouragement.
On Wednesday, it was Robyn who got in touch, arranging to meet me for lunch at the National Gallery, which was close to where she worked. It seemed like paintings of nude women were going to be part of this conversation no matter what, but this time there were naked men of myth in the pictures as well. Something I had to deal with… thinking of hooking up with Robyn was one thing, but was I comfortable with Steve and Lily?
Robyn also cut to the chase. “Jim, from my point of view, this is not entirely a friendly competition. This is like a netball match. It’s all smiles, sweatproof makeup and nocontact rules, but the fingernails are sharp and we’re playing for sheep stations. I know you think I’m the nice woman from HR, but if you talk to people who know me at work, you’ll find out that I’m good at getting what I want. I just make them feel good while I’m slipping the knife in. I love Lily, but that’s not going to hold me back.”
“What do you want, Robyn?” I asked. I was going to have to get off the fence pretty soon.
“To be blunt, Jim, I want you. Steve is a good husband and I’m not complaining. But Lily is a lucky woman. You keep going on about Lily’s brains, but you’re not too shabby there either and I’m not sure you realise that. You look after yourself too. If I was going to have the choice of somebody’s sperm for my babies, I’d be choosing yours, and Lily’s offering you on a silver platter. She’s naĆÆve if she thinks she’s coming out of this ahead. I know from Lily that you’re good in bed like Steve is, but that’s not why I want you. It’s about the genes and the children. Just so you know.”
She sat back calmly while I gaped at her. “That’s a bit to process, Robyn.”
ChloĆ© may not have been there to listen, but there were two elderly ladies sitting at the table next to us, and I belatedly realised that they had fallen silent while we were talking. They got up to go, and as they passed us, one of them bent down to whisper in Robyn’s ear and pass her a slip of paper. Robyn guffawed and touched the lady’s arm in acknowledgement.
“What did she say?” I asked, when they had gone.
“That if you turn me down, I’m to pass you her number.”
“I think that might overcomplicate things, but it was a nice offer.”
We wandered the gallery for a bit, and then headed back to work. For some reason, I wasn’t getting much done this week.
…
Things were no clearer for me by the time Saturday rolled around, with our next social tennis game. This time, we paired as married couples, and it was Lily and I who eventually prevailed over Robyn and Steve. Instead of drinks in the clubhouse, we agreed to meet for dinner at their house. It was time for a serious talk.
Dinner was nice. The weather was warming, and we had a barbeque with marinated chicken, pepper steaks and salad, paired with a nice South Australian Shiraz and then backed up with a simple fruit salad for dessert. The drinking would need to wind back soon if we were going ahead with this crazy plan, but in the meantime, we were going to enjoy ourselves. We kept the talk light until we’d got the dishes all done and we were settled on the couches inside, with another glass of wine in hand.
I plunged in.
“The vibes I’ve been getting from you all is that you’re leaning towards following through with Lily’s crazy crapshoot. Everybody’s got their own reasons, but we don’t need to go through all of that logically. What I suggest we do is talk through how we feel. Unless we’re all on board, it has to be a no.”
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