“Oh my gosh, Paul,” Christy said one evening. “Yvonne posed for an hour today and didn’t stop masturbating the whole time. She came, like, a dozen times.”
I thought it was probably closer to half that, but my eyes still widened in alarm. Not because the woman had had so many orgasms, but because our daughters and two other children had been asleep in the next room.
“What about the kids?” I said as calmly as I could.
“I know, right!” Christy agreed. “I was scared one of them would wake up and come out.”
“Listen,” I said, “I don’t mind you taking a commission like this, but—”
“I can’t do the sketches at home. Not anymore.”
“Exactly,” I said in relief. “Maybe do them at her house next time? In the evening, I guess. I’ll watch the girls. Hold on… I don’t know if I want you going to some strange couple’s house by yourself.”
“Oh, no. Her boyfriend is married. He lives with his wife. Yvonne has her own place. She can pose there. We talked about it, and she apologized for getting carried away. She totally understood.”
“Good,” I said. “And good that she has her own place.”
“Yeah. And… um… maybe I won’t go alone.”
“Oh?”
“Well, we were talking last time—when I did her first statue, I mean, the nude—and she said he’s impotent. Her boyfriend, I mean. Something about his heart and medication. Or his blood pressure. I don’t remember.” She waved away the details.
“Anyway, he can’t get it up,” she continued. “So he likes to watch her masturbate. That’s why he wants these statues. They’re normal nudes from the top, but she’s playing with herself when you look underneath.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
“Yeah. And he likes to watch her do other things. Sex things.”
My eyebrows twitched with a question.
“She dropped a couple of hints when we were talking. Today, I mean.”
“Why would she do that?” I was fairly sure I knew the answer, and Christy confirmed it.
“Um… because she saw a couple of sketches of you? Nudes, I mean. Don’t get upset,” she added quickly. “But… I might’ve accidentally-on-purpose left my sketchbook open where she could see. I can’t help it! You’re totally sexy, and I like showing you off.”
“You know,” I chuckled, “usually guys show off their wives, not the other way around.”
“So sue me, Mr. Good for the Goose. Besides, I wanted her to see you, especially after all her hints. And… um… I might’ve said we have an open relationship.”
I sighed. “Even though we don’t?”
“I know. Sorry. Only, it’s easier than saying we’re swingers. Besides, Yvonne isn’t like that.”
“What about her boyfriend?”
“Ew, gross. He’s old! No. Just… no.”
“I’m surprised you still sleep with me,” I teased. “I’m getting pretty old.”
“Now you’re just being silly. You’re even handsomer than when I first met you. It isn’t fair, either. I get older and more wrinkled, and you get sexier.”
“You aren’t old or wrinkled.”
“I have lines around my eyes. And my mouth. I’m sure it’s from sucking your cock all the time. Anyway, stop changing the subject.”
I pursed my lips in a grin.
“We’re talking about Yvonne,” Christy continued, “and how her boyfriend likes to watch.”
“Hold on… Why’re you doing this? Is it because you want to sleep with her?”
“No! Only, maybe I do. But I know it isn’t going to happen. She doesn’t mind masturbating in front of me, but she’s an exhibitionist, not bi. My radar’s never gone off with her. She’s strictly into men.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “And her boyfriend likes to watch her have sex with other men?”
“Uh-huh. And I thought—”
“I know what you thought.”
“I wouldn’t mind. As long as I can watch too. And maybe join in? I think Yvonne would like that. Double-teaming you, I mean. She’s pretty wild. Sexually, I mean.”
“What about her boyfriend?” I asked. “You don’t mind him watching?”
“No, of course not. Besides, he can’t do anything. He can’t get it up. Remember? I told you—”
“He might want to do other things. Like go down on you.”
Christy wrinkled her nose and shivered in mock revulsion. “No, thank you.”
“You really want to do this?” I asked. “Fool around with Yvonne?”
“I… think so. I don’t want things to get boring. With us, I mean, you and me.”
“Not possible,” I chuckled. “You don’t do boring.”
“So you’ll do it? Have sex with Yvonne, I mean.”
I feigned resignation, “If you insist.”
She beamed. “I thought you’d see it my way.”
“Did I have any choice?”
“No, of course not. You never do. Not really.”
* * *
Once Trip and I settled into our jobs, we started working on phase two of our plan. He wanted to get an MBA, and he’d convinced me to get an MArch. And, of course, he didn’t have his sights set on just any schools. Oh, no. He wanted a degree from Harvard, while he and Laszlo had convinced me to apply to MIT. (To be fair, it wasn’t a hard sell.)
So I began studying for the GRE, while Trip did the same for the GMAT. We asked for letters of recommendation from friends and former colleagues, and we called for our undergraduate transcripts. In addition, I had to assemble a portfolio of my work and write an essay about my goals as an architect. I dug deep and went back to something I’d done almost a decade earlier.
I’d always been fascinated by traditional Japanese building techniques, especially their use of natural materials. I argued that we should be using wood as a structural element instead of just a decorative one, especially in larger buildings. It was a renewable resource that would play a key role as we moved toward more sustainable designs, ones that didn’t contribute to acid rain or the hole in the ozone layer.
I finished with a bold assertion, that architects should focus on social responsibility as we approached the new millennium. We needed to place an emphasis on people and the environment rather than profits and costs. We only had one Earth, and we had a duty to protect it for everyone, not just the privileged few who could afford to live in glass skyscrapers.
“Wow, this is good,” Trip said when he read it. “Do you really believe any of this stuff?”
“I believe every word of it.”
“Aren’t you a do-gooder, Mother Paul,” he chuckled. “And when did you become a tree-hugger?”
“Hey, what’s the matter with that?” Christy glared defiantly.
“Yeah,” Wren agreed, “there’s nothing wrong with hugging the occasional tree.”
“Oh, for sure,” Trip said. Then he grinned at me. “It’s a good thing I’m the practical one.”
I started to reply when five-year-old Davis thundered down the stairs and into the room.
“Mom, make Dookie-bird stop,” he complained. “She won’t let me play my game. She keeps standing in front of the TV.”
Wren gave Trip a withering look. This is your fault, her glare said. Then she returned her attention to her son. She forced a smile, but it held enough of a threat that I immediately felt sorry for the kid. I’d been on the receiving end of that look, and it wasn’t fun.
“Davis,” she said calmly, “if I hear you call your sister ‘Dookie-bird’ one more time, you’ll lose your Nintendo for an entire month. That’s four whole weeks. Thirty days. Do you understand?”
“But—!”
“I don’t care. She’s your sister. Her name is Missy.”
Davis glared sullenly.
“Now it’s your turn,” she said, polite and thoroughly ominous. “Say it. Missy.”
“But—!”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Missy,” he said, but his pout practically shouted that he didn’t have to like it.