I'm Warning You

CW: Sexual language

“I’m warning you,” said my wife as her lips curled into a smile, “I just might relapse on women tonight.” 

I rolled my eyes and deadpanned, “Go ahead, make my day.” 

I didn’t believe her for a second. She was always talking about her old lesbian flings at the University of Alabama. We had been married for three months and engaged for a year before that. We had dated for two years before that. In all that time, despite numerous warnings, she had never acted on the sapphic desires she professed. 

Now we were getting ready to attend a wedding rehearsal party for one of her friends. She knew one of her former conquests, Carol, was bound to be there too. 

“Is this dress too booby?” she asked, gazing into the mirror and hitching up a hem covered in glittering green sequins. Perhaps she was insecure about showing off her most impressive assets to the judging gaze of the public. But I suspected she simply wanted me to acknowledge her ability to turn heads whenever she desired.

“Looks good to me,” I said and offered a wink that went unseen into the mirror.  

As she fidgeted with her dress, I considered her past adventures. My wife had often shown me pictures of Carol, a fellow student in her literary arts program. They made a striking contrast: my wife petite and fair, Carol dark and imposing. Her thick neck and full jaw made her look like a bulldog. 

When I remarked on the resemblance one time, my wife judged it a rude comparison for her friend and former lover. But I had not intended any slight. I had to admit, even if Carol was a bulldog, she was a sexy bitch, full of feminine mystique and animal magnetism. In one photo, she cradled my wife like a child. Her thick thighs and striated shoulders seemed to jump from the still image and demand to be stroked and tamed. 

I considered why I felt such attraction to the mere suggestion of lesbian acts. Friends had remarked on the abnormality of my watching exclusively lesbian porn. I had always thought of it in terms of Occam’s razor: one woman attractive, two women doubly attractive. More of a good thing. 

But perhaps deeper psychological forces were at work. Did I fear an unwanted attraction to the sight of another man? My conscious mind found any man in state of arousal to be repulsive. But was that outward revulsion the result of an unconscious defense mechanism? Did successful displays of male virility stoke fears of my own inadequacy? 

I admired women untainted by relations with other men. Women who could achieve orgasm on their own, amongst themselves, were independent from degrading cock-slavery. Then again, maybe I was attracted to what I could not have, to the only women I could be sure had no interest in whether I performed in a certain way or not. 

***

We arrived at the party, in the ballroom of a hotel that had once been a mansion, designed in southern gothic style. I went to the bar to kill time, while my wife and the rest of the wedding party walked through the ceremony choreography. I noticed a bottle of Maker’s Mark on display at the bar, so I ordered a whisky on the rocks and waited for the ice to melt into lighter yellow streaks in the glass. The ice melted fast in the heat of the crowded ballroom. 

Why did I tag along at these parties? I didn’t know a single other person there. I felt sorry for myself for a while as I sipped free whisky. Then I looked around the room and felt sorry for all the poor saps who had the bad fortune to be born in Alabama. Then the liquor started to circulate around my insides, and I noticed the band strike up a fast swing tune, and suddenly I felt alright. 

I began to persuade to myself tonight would be different. Tonight my wife would at last fulfill her lesbian desires, and I would have a front row seat. Why not? One could hope.

My wife came back from her bridesmaid duties and joined me at the bar. She was trailed by two of her friends from college. The woman had been in the same sorority as my wife. The man had been president of their counterpart fraternity. He offered a meaty hand for a firm shake and then launched into some southern sports talk. 

“So, y’all see that ball game last week?” The man asked, rubbing fat hands in front of his fat gut.

“Woo-ee, Roll Tide!” the sorority-wife chimed in.

“Roll Tide and Roll Saban!” The husband responded, “Now that’s a man who can spot a double team. Y’all see ol’ Saban switch those play calls at the line?” 

“I don’t know how y’all can talk about football,” my wife said, “when there’s so many more interesting things to talk about. Poetry and music! Thrillers and mysteries and Patricia Highsmith! Come on people!” She was the only person I knew who could beam with ecstasy while complaining. 

At that moment, Carol stalked across the parquet dance floor toward the bar. I felt the pressure of my wife’s hand on my back. Carol’s dark eyes flashed with purpose. She approached my wife from behind, grabbed the back of her skull, and twisted her pliant pink lips upward to meet her own. Their tongues pushed against each others’ cheeks for what seemed like a long moment. My wife’s hand slid down my spine and squeezed my left glute. Technically, the long-anticipated threesome had begun. 

I looked at the frat-husband. His mouth was agape; his eyes darted back and forth between my wife and me. I tried to steady myself with deep belly breaths. 

“My wife is very affectionate. It’s one of her best qualities,” I said through a crooked smile. Carol finally released her grip.

“Well,” my wife sighed, looking around dreamily, “my drink’s dead. I’mma go dance!” She sauntered off with her hand wrapped in Carol’s. 

My wife came back to the bar twenty minutes later, sweating and wild-eyed. Carol was still hanging around the edge of the dance floor.

“Hey,” she grunted between heavy breaths. 

“Hey. So when are we all getting out of here?” I asked.

“We all?” My wife raised an eyebrow. A bead of sweat slid down her temple. 

“Yeah, the three of us.”

“I warned you. I think it’s just gonna be me and Carol tonight.” 

“Hmm. I thought I could watch at least.” 

“Oh, dang. Oh babe, I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I thought you knew. Carol’s a gold star lesbian.” 

“What’s that?” 

“She’s never been with a man. It would be a major turn off for her if you were even in the room. Like, no way.” 

“Oh.” 

“So,” she said smiling again, “I guess I’ll see you in the morning? We gotta be back here for the wedding tomorrow at ten.” 

“Sure,” I said as casually as I could, “yeah, absolutely.” 

Somehow, even though she had been completely honest with me, I still managed to feel betrayed. I began to fear her relapse tonight had opened an irreparable rift between us. My imagined future stretched out into a series of unending disappointments. I turned back to the bar and ordered another whisky. This time, I didn’t wait for the ice to melt and sucked the liquor through cracks in cold cubes. 

Then I thought some more. She had warned me, after all. I had told her to make my day. I summoned my best Dirty Harry. You’ve gotta ask yourself a question: do I feel lucky? Well, do I? Not tonight, no. No dice this time. But there’s always next time. Maybe better luck next time.