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This starts slowly, relating a time when an exgirlfriend, my spouse, and I were delicately dancing around our desires, but I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by letting you know that everyone eventually has a very good time. That’s the magic of romance, pornography, & erotica, positing that pleasure is worth depiction, and extending an implicit promise to the audience: there WILL be a happy ending 😉
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My spouse and I had recently gotten married, finished our degrees, and found jobs. We had it all, right? We felt so ready to embark upon the rest of our lives!
And then we learned, rather abruptly, that my fatherinlaw’s failing health meant he was no longer safe to live entirely on his own.
At the time, I barely knew him: we’d met in person only once before, when my spouse and I drove to his house in a rental car after flying across the country for my cousin’s wedding. On that trip, my spouse, their father, and I had sat in the small, cluttered kitchen of the ramshackle house in upstate New York where he lived (rentfree, since he was friends with a local slumlord). We nodded along while he played folk songs on an battlescarred guitar. A rumpled Penthouse sat atop a stack of unpaid bills. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and cigarettes.
My spouse and I didn’t have a wedding of our own we were mostly broke back then, still midway through grad school, and almost nobody from my spouse’s family could’ve afforded the trip to see us get hitched. Instead, we got married at city hall; later that night, my spouse and I went out dancing. Which felt fine we’d still had a good time but was another reason why I wasn’t yet close with anyone in my spouse’s family.
Still, when we got the news, I told my spouse that we should move their father to our new hometown. My spouse and I were making enough money that we could cover his rent and groceries. And if he was living close, we could stop by each day to help: do his cleaning, use our nonarthritic hands to open jars and medicine bottles, that sort of thing.
Honestly, this seemed like the bare minimum for decent human behavior on my part. Sure, I barely knew him, and I hadn’t really enjoyed the trip when we’d first met, but also, he was my spouse’s family. And it’s not as though my spouse’s siblings were in any position to help take care of him at the time.
After we’d talked it over, my spouse called and made him the offer. And I realize now how much it had probably cost for him to accept. Though his life had gone a little off the rails, he’d always held on to his vision of selfreliance, and he must have felt so scared when he first realized that his body was failing. After all, he’d maintained a home even after he’d run out of money. He told funny stories and was good company for his friend who owned the place; his friend gave him space to live; the exchange was probably more meaningful for them both since everything they offered each other was a gift.
But when my spouse and I asked if we could help, he was willing to let us.
In that conversation, he and my spouse agreed that he could hang on until the holidays. We’d help him move during the weekend before Christmas that way, my spouse and I wouldn’t have to take time off work. So we sent money for my fatherinlaw to pack and ship his things, then made plans to drive out to get him and his dog.
To be perfectly honest, though, I soon found myself dreading the trip. Yes, helping him was the right thing to do. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to. Needing to stop by his apartment every evening; accompanying him to medical appointments; even just finding the time to walk with him slooowly through every aisle of the grocery store: our lives were about to change dramatically.
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One early December evening, as the world outside our windows grew dark, my spouse stood and walked behind my chair at the dinner table. My spouse draped their arms over my shoulders, hugged the back of my head tightly to their breasts, and nuzzled their chin over me. We’d been discussing logistics for the trip, and, still hugging me, they said, “We should try to make this nice for you. Would you maybe look at a map of where we’ll be driving and see if there are any fun stops we could make along the way?”
I looked at a map and considered. As luck would have it, we could easily pass through Buffalo, New York during the drive, and my favorite exgirlfriend grew up in Buffalo. And, yes, I’m aware that it might sound unpromising to describe someone as a “favorite exgirlfriend,” as though selecting the leastbruised piece of fruit from a beleaguered serving bowl. But, honestly, after dating for just a few months during our junior year, Vashti and I had finished college still on remarkably good terms she’d even welcomed me to stay with her when I visited town again twice during my first two years of graduate school, since she’d continued working on a masters there before applying for her Ph.D. and we’d occasionally slid comfortably into “friends with benefits” territory for the duration of a weekend or so.
I mentioned all this to my spouse, who enthusiastically approved, “I’d love for you to get to see her!”
So I sent a text Vashti and I still had each other’s numbers even though it had been six years since we’d last crossed paths in person and asked whether she’d be in Buffalo on either of the days when my spouse and I would be passing through. As it happened, she’d be visiting her dad during our return trip, and he still lived in Buffalo she’d made plans to visit both parents while on winter break from UCLA.
My spouse and I would get to see Vashti on the night of the winter solstice.
I shared this news with my spouse, who promptly added condoms to our packing list. “Even if she doesn’t want to fool around with us,” my spouse said, matteroffactly, “maybe she’ll want to fool around with you.”
“Wouldn’t you feel left out?”
My spouse laughed and hugged me.
“As long as we get to build our life together, everything on top of that is gravy.”
I blushed. “I love you, too,” I said, squeezing them back.
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It was a long trip, but my spouse and I talked the entire way. We’d already been married for over a year; we’d been friends for six, and dating for five; and yet, we could still happily converse for the entirety of a fourteenhour drive. We let our discussion meander, sharing thoughts based on the billboards that we saw, the songs that we heard, ideas we’d had during the past few weeks at work.
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“PacMor,” I read off the side of a truck. “I feel like their slogan should be, ‘chemical animal synthesis.’ “
“But what if they make, like, linoleum floors?”
“Hmm, I’d probably tell the folks in corporate that a wellrounded modern ad campaign needs a hint of cognitive dissonance. To keep their clientele on their toes. Break through the psychic defenses of mediasavvy consumers, and what not.”
“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t get the job.”
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“Think ‘121EDG’ is a custom plate?”
“Meaning …?”
“Might be a thing, like, the driver’s into edge play, enjoys a spicy hint of danger, but not interested in group activities?”
“I feel like anybody trying to find play partners with their custom license plate is going to make the message less inscrutable. Unless you think the DMV would ding you for requesting ‘SH1B4R1’ or something.”
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It was late by the time we finished driving and checked into our hotel. We’d have a short trip tomorrow, just from my fatherinlaw’s house to Buffalo, so we were planning to take things leisurely. We slept in and went swimming in the morning: this hotel, which my spouse had eagerly booked ahead of time, had a semipublic swimming pool. As in, you could enter the pool enclosure with your room key, but apparently people could also pay to come swimming for the day.
“I got to swim here a few times when I was a kid,” my spouse said, bounding into the enclosure. They were wearing black boyshortstyle bottoms and a red bikini top; they tossed their arms above their head and twirled, their short hair flouncing, and their enthusiasm was infectious.
“It always seemed so luxurious!” they crowed. “I mean, look at it! The whole pool is curved like a kidney bean!”
I grew up wealthier than my spouse did, and so I’d experienced childhood luxuries rather more magnificent than this indoor pool with its faded paint and cracked cement, but, as my spouse beamed, I couldn’t help but smile back. God, I love my spouse: sometimes it seems to take so little to make them happy!
And, in a way, maybe they were right. As we splashed about, it did feel luxurious to be swimming in a warm pool on a cold winter day. Through the large panels of fogged glass, we could see flurries of snow falling outside, glinting in the morning light.
We swam, toweled ourselves off, then walked drippily back to our room to shower. (“I’d ravish you now,” my spouse said, reaching out to fondle me after I stepped out of my swim trunks, “but I should let you save yourself for tonight, just in case she’s interested.”). Then we packed our things, loaded the car, and drove to my fatherinlaw’s house.
He was still living in the place with the small, cramped kitchen on a desolatelooking street, with most of the neighboring houses boarded up and vacant. Being there, helping him pack a few final things, and tidying that decrepit space as best we could (a kitchen cupboard door clattered to the ground when I went to open it, apparently missing both its hinges, so I wedged it back in place and just hoped that it would stay), it was easier to understand why the hotel pool had felt so luxurious. My spouse has come a long way.
As we tidied, my spouse’s father could only hobble about, moving stiffly on the lower level. He was struggling even with relatively simple tasks, since the house was cold and his hands weren’t working well. He had arthritis and diabetic neuropathy. I was glad that we were getting him out of there. He did need our help, and the experience of having helped him has definitely changed me for the better.
Also on that morning, we met his dog. He’d told my spouse several times that this dog, whom he’d found on the street, started leaving food out for, and subsequently adopted, was an “American Staffordshire terrier.” I’d never lived with a dog, and for some reason I’d thought that the word “terrier” meant it would be one of those curlyhaired little lapdogs. But once we arrived, it was clear that this dog was a pit bull.
I felt dubious. I didn’t want for the dog to think that I was his enemy. After all, I’d only just arrived, and yet there I was, apparently banishing that eightypound, scary looking animal from his home.
And it did feel as though the dog was eyeing me warily the whole time that we were tidying. Following me from room to room. So I was surprised and definitely relieved when we opened our rear car door and the dog promptly leapt into the backseat, tongue out, tail wagging, ready for adventure.
And, later, when I stopped to pump gas then went inside the gas station to use the bathroom, the dog howled and howled, as though worried that my spouse and their father might accidentally leave me behind. I guess the dog had decided that I was a friend. He might’ve looked a little scary, but beneath it all, that dog was a sweetheart.
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We checked into the motel where we were staying the night in Buffalo our selection criteria had been simply, “find the place closest to Vashti’s dad’s house” and made sure that my fatherinlaw and his dog were safely ensconced in a room, with ample food for each. Then my spouse and I returned to the front office to politely ask the woman at the reception desk if she might be willing to transfer us to a different room, since the room she’d originally given us was on the second floor, just above my spouse’s father.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the woman said. “When you told me you were moving your father, I assumed you two were siblings! Here, let me switch you to a nice, secluded spot on the other side of the building.”
Then I sent Vashti a text, asking if my spouse and I should swing by and pick her up.
Vashti wrote back right away: you’ve been driving all day, let me come get you
She arrived within fifteen minutes. My spouse and I grabbed our coats and were out the door as soon as my phone buzzed, then we made our way down the stairs and hopped into Vashti’s car. I took the backseat, thinking it would be best to let my spouse and Vashti talk. Introductions were easy, as was conversation: I guess I mostly have a type, and the people I’m drawn toward tend to get along.
When we sat down at the restaurant, Vashti took off her white knit hat and her big white coat, beneath which she was wearing a soft white sweater and loose gray slacks. She sat down across from me, and my spouse sat in between us, on my right, and I definitely didn’t mean to blush, but for a moment I felt overwhelmed by how immeasurably lucky I am.
My spouse is beautiful, with a wide warm smile, deep brown eyes, and the sort of ineffably openhearted countenance that makes strangers want to share their innermost secrets within mere minutes of meeting. (Although, personally, I find even more enthralling the moments when my spouse’s eyes crinkle and their lips purse into a mischievous smirk: my spouse is exceptionally clever, and their beauty radiates even more effulgently whenever one of their schemes is in motion.)
Vashti, also, is absolutely gorgeous. She has dark curly hair (which on that evening floated just above her shoulders), plush lips, a crisp jawline, and eyes that seem eversoslightly too large for her face. Faint freckles perpetually dapple the bridge of Vashti’s nose and the tops of her high rounded cheeks, lending a sense of approachable warmth to a face that might otherwise seem imperious. Especially when she breaks into a grin: for all her elegance and stylishness, Vashti’s smiles can be surprisingly goofy, which never fails to delight me.
And there I was, sitting at a table with both those beautiful people.
Over dinner, Vashti talked about her doctoral research into memory, mental wellbeing, and life stories. It was apparently an extension of recent findings from PTSD reenactment therapy: working with people’s narrative memories to offer alternate endings to moments that they might otherwise ruminate over.
“It’s a little like tossing a basketball toward the hoop,” Vashti said. “Practice is what lets you do it, and make a basket, but if you have really clear episodic memories of moments when you took a shot and missed, that can make missing more likely in the future. So we’re working with people to craft new stories, to take particular events from their lives and roleplay what else could have happened. And that can be enough to instill a sense of victory and make future successes easier.”
“But then, are they believing in a lie?” my spouse asked.
“Well, that’s why our research team always frames them as ‘stories.’ A lot of modern memory research is just now discovering the importance of forgetting. That forgetting helps people move on, and not ruminate, and try again. Especially when you can add in an alternate about what success would have felt like, because often then people really do begin to succeed.”
“That’s cool,” said my spouse, authentically. In that moment, they may have been thinking about their own childhood my spouse has often told me that their siblings seem able to remember so many more details about the hard times from when they were all growing up. Based on Vashti’s research, maybe a hefty dose of forgetting was what allowed my spouse to thrive.
“But I’m still having to decide,” Vashti said, “about, after I finish, whether I’ll work with young people, like, developing their identities, trying to stave off trauma, or, well, recently I’ve been doing clinic at the VA, and it’s been nice, helping them, especially the way some of those bashful older men, who are just trying to put their lives back together, they call me ‘Doctor Vashti,’ even though it isn’t really true yet.”
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Midway through dinner, I got up to use the bathroom. When I returned to the table, I found that Vashti and my spouse had begun discussing Vashti’s (rather lackluster!) recent experiences dating. (I assume that my spouse was the one who steered the conversation in this direction.)
“I mean, I don’t know if it’s just an LA thing right now, or what,” Vashti was saying, “but none of the last three men I dated wanted to go down on me. One even said, after I’d reminded him how often I went down on him, he said, ‘But I never asked you to.’ As though, what, unless we’re lying down facetoface in bed, we’re supposed to pretend that the rest of each other’s bodies don’t exist? I mean, I like giving blow jobs!”
Okay, so that was maybe an awkward moment for me to return after that last remark, Vashti looked up at me and blushed. But I already knew Vashti and I had been together a fair few times before. (Which means I also happened to know that those three men were fools Vashti has always been great fun to give oral to.)
My spouse diffused the moment … sort of. My spouse said, “Oh, Vashti, I’m so sorry, that’s rough. We’ve only dated a little recently. It takes a little while, right, after you move to a new place? But in some ways, maybe it’s easier for us. Like, there’s this expectation that if you’re already married and openly flirting with someone else, you can be more forthright about exactly what you want.”
Vashti’s blush intensified, and her eyes went a little wide at the beginning of my spouse’s declaration, but by the end, she was giving a thoughtful little nod. And might’ve begun to look at the two of us at my spouse and me a little differently. Appraising. Because then Vashti presumably understood a little better what sorts of things might be possible that evening.
My spouse is very good that way. Kind, considerate, and brave: always making sure that everybody knows.
Because that’s what it takes, right? You have to be really honest with people for them to understand exactly what they could consent to.
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The rest of dinner was lovely, with conversation still coming easily to three of us. It’s fun to talk with people who love learning and are passionate about the things they choose to do. And, while we were walking out, I mentioned that we’d packed a laptop computer; I asked Vashti if she’d like to come back to our motel and watch a movie.
“I’d like that,” Vashti said, smiling. “I’m having a really nice time.”
We ended up watching a lighthearted romantic comedy. The movie in and of itself didn’t seem to be overtly y, but the three of us were lying on the motel bed together, and I had the laptop computer resting on my upper thighs with my spouse curled up at my right and Vashti at my left. My arms were spread wide, cradling each of them as they lay nestled in the nooks of my shoulders.
Their bodies were so warm beside me. And I was breathing in the scents of their hair, Vashti’s and my spouse’s, each distinct and both alluring. With a tiny tip of my head I could switch which scent was commanding my attention.
By midway through the movie, I noticed that I was absentmindedly stroking Vashti’s ear. And then, when I realized what I was doing, I began to mirror that motion with my other hand, gently touching my spouse’s ear as well.
My spouse spoke up. “Mmm, when you do that, it feels really loud for me.”
“Oh no,” I said, “now I’m worried that Vashti is just too polite, and that maybe she hasn’t been able to hear for minutes!”
Vashti blushed and said, “No, I mean, yes, it was hard to catch some of the dialogue, but it felt nice.”
ero
