“Who was that you were with last week?” the young poet with the blue-breasted fairy tattooed across her back asked me when I stepped down from the microphone. “She was yummy.”
“That was my wife.”
“Mmmmm,” she replied, undeterred. “Does she like to play with women?” A series of pleasant images played themselves out against a satin-sheeted background in my mind. Marlene had told me, in the privacy of our bedroom, about encounters she had in grad school with one of her professors and her husband. Outside of such titillating narratives, however, our married sex life rested in a comfortable cradle of heteronormative monogamy.
I knew better, but I responded with “It’s been known to happen.” I promised Penelope that I would arrange a night out for the three of us so that they could get to know one another better.
Marlene was, understandably, ambivalent about the prospect. She asked if I was dissatisfied with her in some way and I assured her that I didn’t want to remove anything from our relationship, but rather to add a certain frisson for her benefit by allowing her to accept the advances of someone who was enamored by her. I told her that Penelope was a lesbian and that the only benefit I would derive from the situation would be vicarious. To my surprise, Marlene finally relented.
We went to see a movie at the local repertory theater and then enjoyed a late dinner at a restaurant. Penelope and my wife, both dressed to kill in slinky silk dresses, laughed and talked amiably with one another throughout the evening. When we got back to our house, Marlene said that she was feeling tired and wanted to retire. I remained in the living room and suggested that Penelope go back to the bedroom and see if Marlene wanted a massage.
After a few minutes, my wife emerged with Penelope and said, “Look, she’s a lovely young girl, but we didn’t really hit it off romantically. I did notice, however, that you two seem to get along very well and Penelope admitted to me that she is bisexual and finds you attractive. If you want to take her home and stay the night over there, I really don’t mind.” It was too good to be true. What a wonderful wife. What a fortunate man I was. I kissed Marlene good night and led Penelope to my car.
When I returned the next day after a night of passion in Penelope’s filthy little studio apartment, my wife was drinking a cup of coffee with a stony expression on her face and didn’t make eye contact with me. She said something about marriage counseling through the church, but the Catholic ceremony was purely for the benefit of our parents. Our marriage and my brief relationship with Penelope ended up in the boxes of bric-a-brac that I took with me to the filthy studio apartment that served as my diploma for a lesson hard learned.
Literature in Small Doses 