I woke up the next morning to the news that my grandmother had passed away overnight at the age of 99 years. Nearly a century of living on this planet, and now, during this particular half-rotation of the earth, she had chosen to exit life as she knew it. So did I. Neither of us, I imagined, had any idea what would come next.
I reveled in the timing. She knew. She must have. My grandmother was wise – and special. I contemplated Grams and the concept of “time.” Her magnetism had always tampered with the time. She couldn’t keep a watch on her wrist because time would slow down and eventually stop…. Once, when I was a few years old and too excited for tomorrow to be able to sleep tonight, she told me, “The sooner you sleep, the sooner tomorrow will come.” And she was right. I marveled at her magic.
She was a Time Master.
And now, she was right again. Big Right. Magic.
I found Anthony and caught him up on all the news. My grandmother. The conversation with Sammy. All about it. The condensed version. I pulled some juicy threads so he could share in my excitement and, frankly, in my incredulity.
The chosen highlights aroused him.
I felt him out a little longer…dug a little deeper for the answer I wanted to ask: Was it actually acceptable to him for his wife to have an intimate relationship with another woman, or was that just his fantasy?
“Go for it,” he said. “You do you, man.” I gazed at him, hesitating after what seemed like a flippant reply to a pretty big deal. “Just be careful,” he added. “Two families are involved here.”
I knew that. I wasn’t worried. And besides the mild cautionary note, he didn’t seem worried either. My position with Anthony was secure. I knew myself well enough to know that I was committed to this marriage. I had always been adamant about divorce not being an option under any circumstance. We had been through a decade of years together, and I hadn’t backed out yet. I loved him. And as far as I knew, some extra excitement and intimacy weren’t threats. I was in this marriage for life.
I ran to Sammy like a schoolgirl on the playground, relaying all the details to my bff.
Superbloom had given a similar message to Sammy about our quickly forming bond: be mindful. Both of our spouses had previously assumed, given the lack of clear evidence, that Sammy and I were imagining more of a connection than there actually was.
“She knows she’s doing it, right? I’m not totally making it up?” Sammy had asked Superbloom, once upon a conversation about us. Sammy showed her our text exchange, full of poetic metaphor and veiled innuendo.
“You totally read into everything,” she replied. “I’m sure she’s not thinking what you’re thinking she’s thinking.”
Given the new development, I wondered how Superbloom was feeling about this budding romance. Sammy assured me that Superbloom had been enjoying the beauty of it all and, in fact, had wanted the night before to send me a “hot” photo of the birthday girl at dinner. Sammy sent it to me now.
She did, indeed, look beautiful. Her face still wasn’t familiar enough to me though to register what I felt. This would take some getting used to. Over the airways, my heart stayed remarkably close to hers; seeing real-life photos of her was disconcerting. I questioned what it meant to be physically attracted to someone.
I also noticed that the dinner guest in the photo was blacked out. I wondered at the significance.
The day went on with few check-ins. Sammy had been busy managing the local farmer’s market all afternoon, and after wrapping it up, she took time to catch up with me.
She wished she was bringing me strawberries.
Mid-conversation, Sammy was caught texting me alongside the road. Superbloom and X (Superbloom’s lover) had intended to sweep her away for a quick dip in the ocean, and she was stalling for a moment to connect with me.
With this, Sammy told me that she would join the waiting others and promised that she’d be back soon. She sent me a photo of two nude backsides running towards the setting sun and into the waves.
Sammy, I saw in my mind’s eye, was the third.
When she returned: an unintended bombshell.
It had come up innocently enough. Sammy was “entertaining some folks” later on that night. “One woman in every decade of life, 40-70.”
I froze in shock at the liberal display of an open relationship structure that I was only beginning to form a picture of. “A woman in every decade of life” helped to paint that picture too vividly, too soon.
A themed party???
People host themed game nights, so why not themed sex nights? I tried to reason. It makes sense.
No, I argued. It doesn’t make sense! This is immoral and absurd. What have I gotten myself into?
My mind began involuntary calculations. Four women including Sammy, or four women besides Sammy? And then…she had mentioned a “friend” staying over last week. Was this a friend, or a friend? Five…maybe more…in the couple of weeks I’ve known her…and then me…intended lucky six?
Troubled, I couldn’t think of a thing I wanted to say to Sammy except that I hoped that her night was as fulfilling as she wished. I needed distance to breathe, to feel safe again.
What did it mean that just last night we were confessing love and deep attraction for each other, and tonight she was with someone(s) else? My perception of our connection, which I thought was unique, was disrupted by the addition of this new information. Could I let go of everything I was accustomed to expecting out of relationship in order to engage in this moment with this person? Was that even something I wanted, given what I knew now? To let go of the whole framework? I was being asked to take an even bigger step than the gigantic one I had taken just the night before. Was there enough real about our affinity to be worth the risk?
Throughout the evening, I caught mental flashes of what Sammy must be doing…where her hands must be, what her lips must be doing. I pushed them away as fast as I could, in panic, in disgust, so as not to drive myself crazy. Was I really careless enough to fall in love with someone who pops an orgy like one pops an Advil?
I was reminded of Anthony’s friend from the Island who fell in love with a prostitute after having been her client. He wooed her, took her on lavish dates, showered her with attention. She accepted these bids but in the end, the relationship didn’t seem to mean as much to her. He was driven mad with jealousy and heartache as she received his gifts and continued seeing clients. I pitied him. But I also felt slightly amused at the outcome which I believed he deserved.
Maybe I also deserved this.
Somehow, I felt fine being in the same boat as him. I’m the dumb bastard who fell in love with someone who couldn’t possibly feel the same way, who had a completely different view of sex and relationship. One of my favorite movie lines came to mind: “I feel like I just found out my favorite love song was written about a sandwich.”
I felt dejected, and with the changing of the wind, I wasn’t sure I could pursue this…whatever-it-was. Did our connection feel so strong, so awe-inspiring, so divine…that it was worth the cost? The cost of breaking all of the rules, looking like an idiot, and having my heart shattered into a million pieces?
Sammy.
Something inside me said yes but I didn’t know why. She was worth it, whatever the cost. But tonight was not the time to decide anything. My heart and head couldn’t handle it.
I felt sick.
An orgy.
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