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During that consentually successful weekend, Chris revealed to Tom that Kathy had experienced a threesome before, and in between hot and sweaty bouts of going at each other like insatiable wild animals, it became a matter of some discussion. By late Sunday night they had jointly concluded that it had to have been a possession thing with Kathy. In her previous threesome, she had been the "guest" in the sexual trio. This time around, it had been her private turf that was being invaded by an outsider. Apparently, there was a huge difference in the two scenarios, one neither Chris nor Tom could see. But, hey, that was small town Kathy. Needless to say, Kathy and Tom were no longer an item, even a secret one, after that one-sidedly disastrous night. As to the friendship between Kathy and Chris… The option on that shattered partnership wasn't picked up by either of them. Spilt milk under the bridge, and all like that, it was smarter to let that snarling dog the fuck alone. I do enjoy hashing the hell out of archaic metaphors
The last I heard, Chris was a cop… in LA, I believe. A damned good cop, from what I've been told, and would probably be a Deputy Lieutenant of Detectives by now, if she could just be a bit more discreet in her private sex life. But, like with Kathy, that's Chris.
And speaking of dear, sweet, midwestern Kathy, she's just been appointed the head of registered nurses at a major metropolitan hospital. I've heard that, behind her stiff back, she's known around the nursing stations as Mother Ultra-Superior. Kathy's married to a nice, safe white guy, a rapidly balding corporate lawyer. They have two point three kids (I'd love to see that last one. Wouldn't you?), a sprawling ranch style home in the suburbs, a cabin up in the Smoky Mountains, two Mercedes, a Lincoln Navigator, and a Chris Craft ski boat with an inboard Evenrude.
Outwardly, Kathy apparently has it all going her way. Or, does she?
Tom and I still see each other now and again. He's a High School Phys. Ed. teacher now, married to a caramel-colored goddess, with two of the most delightfully charming, mocha-skinned daughters you've ever seen. Three times a year his wife takes the girls to visit her parents in Hawaii. That's when Tom gives a long time friend a call, we both jump in our vehicles and race to beat hell to a city half way between the two of us. No sooner is the "No Tell" motel door closed behind us then we're spending the next three or four or five days actively "renewing" old acquaintances.
And what is your storyteller doing with herself these days? Like another irrelevant point that was mentioned earlier, this not something which is open for discussion.
Okay, Darcy, happy now?
