My Second Best Friend's Wife
Well, Gentle Reader, it happened again. I woke, and this was there in my mind, full-blown. All I have to do is write it down. I hope you won't be disappointed, but this won't be the start of a longer project. It's a one-off, stand-alone story. Well, it's a one-off, stand-alone autobiographical vignette. So, return with me now to those wonderful days of yesteryear (to paraphrase the way they used to open
The Lone Ranger
television shows, as I tell you of the first time with my second-best friend's wife.
It was the summer of 1974. My wife was taking summer classes, getting ahead, already ready to be done with school, and see if she could make it as a professional artist. My second-best friend had an amazing opportunity and was spending two weeks at a Rugby Camp, expenses paid by the Club. Yes, he was THAT good. That left me, David, Dave to the world, and Patricia, Trish to the world, my second-best friend's wife, alone together a lot.
It worked out well. I had skills, and my savings weren't endless, so I ran an ad in the paper and was doing handyman projects in the summer. Trish was bored and wanted to learn. So, for eleven dollars an hour, you could get both of us ($6.50 for me, $4.50 for her) and get your walls painted or your porch fixed or your windows working.
Jimmy, my second-best friend, and Trish were younger. They got into our group when Jimmy and Jack, my first best friend, got a summer job delivering furniture the year before. Jimmy was 17 at the time and I made damn sure that Monica, my wife, kept her hands off of THAT jail bait while I just looked at Trish.
On this particular day, I ran by their house to pick Trish up. We were scheduled to put a roof on a garage, and I had an eye on the sky as I drove the old Ford van to their house in the country. As I climbed the three steps to the porch, a clap of thunder loud enough to make me flinch boomed, and the sky just opened up. It was so dark I was sure the automatic street lights in town would be coming on. Hell, as I looked across the dirt road that marked the last quarter mile to their house, I swear I saw a fish drowning.
She opened the door and I went in, laughing.
"I think we're rained out," I said.
"YA THINK?!" she said, wide-eyed and laughing.
And she kissed me.
It was one of those good kisses. It started tentatively, as if she might not be sure how I'd react. But as I kissed her back, she did that thing all women seem to know how to do down at the DNA level, that they know instinctively. She, well, she "molded" herself to me. It's a subtle thing. I've watched it in others and can see how it works. It's mostly in the spine, the way she adjusted herself so the contact between us ran from my chest across my belly to my hips and my thighs.
It was a good kiss. That thinking part of my mind thought,
"You have been part of our group, haven't you?"
I wondered which of the dozen or so men that formed our, well, our swinging group, got to her first. Not that I could blame them. Trish was cute in the round, freckle-faced way of a girl raised on a farm. She had a button nose and a little cupid bow mouth. From the neck down, though, she had always struck me as almost boyish. She was tallish for a woman, at about five-six or five-seven. She was slender, bordering on skinny. And as everyone in our group could attest after using John's swimming pool, her figure was boyish as well, with broad shoulders, small breasts, and narrow hips. She did have a bit of a bubble butt, the topic of more than one beer-fueled conversation.
Since I had a decade on her, I asserted my control. I tend to be a bit controlling as a lover, and figured she should understand it. I pushed her away, my hands on her shoulders, until I held her at arm's length.
"Tell me you're sure," I said.
"I'm sure," she said, holding my eyes.
I smiled.
"Take off your clothes," I said.
Her eyes got big at that.
"Take. off. your. clothes," I repeated, making each word a separate sentence.
She held my eyes for a few seconds, and then smiled.
I stood over her, yes, establishing control if not all-out dominance, and watched as she sat and unlaced the heavy boots I insisted she buy if she was going to work with me in a construction environment. She smiled up at me as she peeled the heavy white socks off and stuffed them into the tops of the boots before she stood.
She held my eyes again, almost defiant, as she did that arms-crossed-in-front thing and peeled off the T-shirt she wore, this one advertising some bluegrass festival.
I smiled.
She was so small-breasted that her bra made me think of what I've heard called a "training bra," although I never really understood why breasts would need to be trained. I mean, it's not like they're going to run away or something.
She did that double-jointed thing all women seem to learn with that first training bra, reached back, unhooked it, and dropped her bra on the table on top of her T-shirt.
Her breasts were more "breast buds" than true breasts. She almost looked like a boy with slightly overdeveloped breasts but tiny nipples.
I could see that she was getting nervous for all of her forced aura of casualness as she tugged on her belt enough to get the prong free and then unbuttoned and unzipped. She pushed the jeans down. I had discouraged her from wearing tight jeans when we were working, so they almost dropped once past that butt of hers, and she lifted them with her foot, incongruously folded them into a flat quarter, and laid them on top of the T-shirt and bra.
Her panties were white and cotton, something else I had suggested after she complained about "an itch" after our first hot day working.
She hesitated.
I waited.
She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down, putting a little wiggle into her hips, let them fall and, again, lifted them with her foot before she laid them on the pile of clothes on the table.
"Hands behind your head," I said, "fingers laced."
