|
MY FIANCÉ, AARON, sleeps to my right.
A tall, blond-haired woman we met at a bar last night is sprawled facedown on my left.
It’s late in the morning. Making love to two people at the same time last night was exhausting.
I wonder if I spread my attention evenly enough.
I remember her breasts in my mouth, his arms holding us together,
and the nagging sense that I could be doing more if only I found the right position.
She said her name was Katherine. Her mouth was so soft —
and so much smaller than the mouths of the men I am used to kissing.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head: That’s sickening!
Look at those queer women shoving their tongues in each other’s mouths!
She’s an Appalachian who believes God dictated the Word directly to King James in English.
When I was in high school and she found out I liked both boys and girls,
she screamed at me for days. Pretending to be straight seemed easy enough after that.
Living on my own in California, I don’t have to hide anymore.
Aaron and I have been wanting to have a threesome for months.
After talking for a few hours at the bar, Katherine came home with us,
danced me toward our unmade bed, and pulled me into it. T
hen we were kissing. Our shirts came off. Pressed against her, I felt Aaron behind me.
“Is this OK?” he asked us.
When she leaned over me to kiss him, it set off fireworks:
a pleasant loss of balance that came from seeing my significant other make love to another person. Later he made love to her while she lay on top of me. I wanted us never to come apart.
When Katherine leaves our apartment, I tell Aaron my tears aren’t a sign of regret.
To be honest, I’m lovesick. She is the first woman I’ve ever made love to,
and I insist that I love her, even though I don’t know her last name.
It takes a few text messages for me to understand
that she has her own life and isn’t interested in being tied down to one person,
let alone two.
Three years later Katherine and I have become good friends.
I’m glad she ran away from my declarations.
Maybe she sensed I wanted more: I wanted those years back —
every year I’d lost in that closet in Appalachia,
where I’d let only half of myself out.
I wanted a glimpse of the life I might have had.
|
|