Playing Around at Paul's Cabin

She went out fast without so much as a word, and I skedaddled into the living room. Moonlight streamed in from the large front windows and the fireplace glowed with a few persistent embers, radiating just enough light to reveal the room was empty. The rain had ceased, and I heard them from the other bedroom––a haunting wail that chilled my bones. And then I couldn't not hear them, as their activities must've escalated to a point requiring grunts and yelps.

I sat on the couch and pulled the knitted blanket over me, wondering how long I'd be there. Mia's husky coo grew louder and more frantic

Paul kept quiet, but his presence was revealed by a loud slap cutting through the house and making Mia chirp. More followed, and then two distinct slapping sounds, the second popping off rapidly and producing a meaty thud, and surely do to his hips slamming her ass with brazen authority.

The tempo quickly picked up. Thud, thud, thud, slap!

I sat listening to them for quite some time, maybe ten minutes, feeling proud, then jealous, and finally horny enough to whip out my dick and masturbate along with Mia's moaning and Pual's ass tenderizing rebuttal.

Eventually they settled down, and as Paul came through the door, I could see him smiling in the moonlight.

"Sorry Devon, your girlfriend was apparently very in the mood."

I laughed, and said he was right about Emily, her puss was fucking-ay-tight. Then he wavered on his previous opinion, and acknowledged Mia's little cooch had to be on par with Emily's. "Man, don't ever let a pussy like that slip away from you. As long as you can put up with her feisty-girl shit, she's gonna serve up her wifely duties spicy-hot."

He gave me a hand getting up from the couch, and then Paul, who I'd always considered an amazingly particular human being, confided his envy over my choice for a bride.

When I finally slipped in next to Mia for the night, she stared out the cabin window, where stars pricked pinholes into the smooth ultramarine sky and the forest beneath stood tall and black.

"Did you two have fun?"

"Fun enough. I won't bother asking you, because I heard your fun."

"Ha! Well it was fun, except for the part where he kept trying to stick it somewhere I wasn't ready for."

I laughed. "Where?"

"Where do you think? I finally told him he was too big and I didn't do that on first dates. Your friend has a really big dick––just in case you were wondering."

"Oh, is that so! Well, rumor has it––Emily had some rather large cock tonight herself."

"Oh, is that so!"

"You're not jealous, are you?"

"No, I'm not jealous, but you're telling me you aren't?"

"No, actually, I'm not."

"Hmmm!"

"I see guys check you out all the time, eating up how hot you are, and I feel pretty proud about it. What just happened––I think I sort of feel the same way!"

"Proud, huh?"

"That's right!"

"You're weird!"

I hit her with my pillow, and then we snuggled up laughing and fell asleep.

I wasn't sure how I felt about things when I awoke sober in the morning. Peering up at the blue sky through the rippled glass window, buried under a heavy blanket, since Mia had me turn off the heater in the middle of the night to prevent her skin from drying out, I thought back to my late teens and early twenties, when this type of thing was practically common place.

Paul was something else back then. He, Mitch and I were good looking enough, I suppose, and we were these cool semi-stoners and fulltime surfers. At school we wandered the edges, looking a little rougher than we probably were, but were well known at parties and on the cool patch of sand next to the Santa Monica pier. Paul had mediocre surfing skills, but he was our charmer. He could reason with anyone, college kids, cops, gangsters. He'd get us into parties, out of jail, and he'd charm the pants off a girl like nobody I'd ever met. He had class and was for real, and I haven't met anyone like him since.

Mitch was a blonde six-one surfer built of lean tan muscle. He spent the day in swim trunks and the night in a Mexican poncho. His energy was endless and love of the beach unreal. Even now he works in scuba gear under docked boats at the Marina, grinding barnacles from their hull. He always got us into trouble, yet did it with a no-bullshit innocence that made it hard to blame the guy. In fact, the girl's typically coerced him into doing the nasty. Diana, this black chick, once pushed him into his van and said she was going to undress him like a doll. Beyond that, however, no chick could seriously pin him down. He'd rant about blowing out of town. He'd throw up his hands when asked what time he could be expected. He was always high.

I fell somewhere in the middle. I was definitely shy like Mitch, but I was also too sharp to balance out my irresponsibility with innocence and made a lousy boy-toy. Thankfully I had a pretty good smile to fall back on. I also claimed to understand the 'poetry of a woman's mind' like some teenage guru, and young chicks love nothing more than to hear about themselves.

Paul always invited too many girls to join us at the beach, which is what made it possible for us to mix it up. I had very few serious relationships until I hit my twenties, and the girls frequently rotated between our beach towels. Eventually Paul openly set us up with his recent lays so we could experience something like a blow-job by Nikki Malone's pieced tongue. It would've seemed a dickish thing to do, except that Paul didn't just share women, he wanted us to partake in everything he had, shoes, boards, pants, you name it. His weed was king of all chronic and he passed it around freely at parties. And he cherished these women, they were all special to him, and he lived for reaching new pinnacles of pleasure. Hell, he probably appreciated what they had to offer more than any boyfriend since. So I don't know––it all seemed like young harmless fun at the time.

After her night with Paul at the cabin, Mia had been officially passed between the three of us, and I had to decide if it still felt as harmless. But as the day progressed, I couldn't keep my eyes off either one of the girls, and I realized everything was fine, I had no regrets, in fact quite the opposite. When I asked Mia, she confirmed she pretty much felt the same, and I jokingly called her weird.

That Fall Mia and I married on the terrace of Casa Romantica. The reception took place inside the nearby Flynn Ballroom, where Mia flowed across a marble floor in her long white dress, as I ushered her from table to table. Relatives and friends congratulated us with big toothy smiles, and cameras flashed if we did anything nearing cute.

After dinner, cake, a garter toss, and lots and lots of alcohol, the twenties and thirties crowd migrated towards the DJ and his dance floor. Mia and I were drunk and everyone had to dance with the bride and groom. Then I saw Paul nudging Mitch towards the DJ's mic and found myself extremely anxious to know why.

"Hi everyone, I'm Mitch. But most of you know me as Mia's favorite friend."

A few people laughed and he became a little more at ease. He scratched the back of his neck. "Did you guys know Mia kidnapped Devin on their first date?"

People laughed again, but I felt Mia's fingernails digging into my hand. She'd agreed Mitch could attend our wedding, which I took as a sign she'd forgiven and forgotten, but her message was clear––get the dick off the stage or else. I let go of Mia and moved towards the mic, wondering how to politely flip it off before Mitch ruined any chance of us being friends again. Mia had kidnapped me, he wasn't lying, but she was dating Mitch at the time, and that's where it got complicated––more complicated than our wedding night could tolerate.

Less than two years before we married, Mitch had stumbled upon Mia working the counter in the Ford Service Department, and as he sat there observing her twenty-one-year-old manic mannerisms and punchy sense of humor, he decided to follow her back to her place for a feisty night in the sack.

They lasted three weeks together, and then Mia turned up in Tom's Tavern on Barrington, where Mitch, Paul and I were pre-celebrating Paul's twenty-ninth birthday. Mitch saw her looking around and told me to go intercept. He expected me to say he'd lost her number, but nobody loses a number after three weeks. Before I could argue it with him, however, he slipped out the side door and into the parking lot. Mia quickly found me and immediately barked, "Where's Dufus?"

Next thing I know, she's pulling on my arm and leading me to her car for a private conversation. Then she's pulling out of the parking lot and flipping open her phone. She left a message for 'Dufus', saying she'd kidnapped his friend, and if he ever wanted to see me again, he'd better call. Then she entered the 405 Freeway and started to let loose.

"What is wrong with Mitch? I mean, the guy throws around the word 'love', and then doesn't show up at my birthday party, and then I don't even hear from him for two days. And then I find out it's because he drove up the coast and got a flat trying to drive his van up a deer trail in the canyons. And then, he walks to a friend's house in Malibu and stays a day. Never once did it occur to him to call. And he missed a job, Devin. And when I told him he can't possibly 'love me' and treat me like that, he starts saying he totally loves me––and he loves dolphins, and he loves the wind, and kids, and carrots."

As she continued, I privately read a text Mitch had sent. It read, "You're up!" He knew I had a crush on Mia. Partially because I stood up for her if he ever complained, but mostly because I constantly stared at her like a love sick puppy.

"What's wrong with him, Devin? Does he even know what he's saying half the time? And if he doesn't want me, he needs to tell me so, not pull a disappearing act! I deserve that much. I'm not even getting anything out of this. I'm always the one going out of my way. He's getting sex with a cute girl, help with his life, and I even cleaned his apartment. I shouldn't have, but I couldn't wake up with sand on me one more time, so I did. If all he was interested in was sex, then he needs to come here and say it! He needs to tell me that's all I was to him, a great fuck!"

We'd parked on a windy road above Sherman Oaks, and I hesitantly let her in on Mitch's text, which caused her to flip-out all over again.

"I've never let a guy use me before, and I totally can't believe I fell for it. And with Mitch! I mean, what's his IQ? How stupid am I that I let man-boy take advantage of me?"

I brushed a tear from her cheek. "Will it make you feel any better to have a guy with an IQ of one-twenty-eight take of advantage of you?"

She laughed, unable to believe what I'd just said.

She then grew a very proud-of-herself smile and wiped her eyes dry. "Actually, it probably would make me feel better. I think I might be intelligence starved."

Of course Mitch wasn't going to show, we both knew it, but she held me hostage under the stars for two more hours, anyway. Mia was the most vibrant woman I'd ever known, and as we stood on the hillside next to her Corolla, sweaty and naked, overlooking the billion lights blanketing the valley floor, I confessed, "I like dolphins and wind and all that, but none of it compares to you."

Mia and I blossomed as lovers, but it didn't excuse Mitch for the way he'd treated her. For nearly two years she held onto a grudge, and certainly wasn't ready for a trek down memory lane during our wedding reception. So, as he spoke on stage, I quickly eased my way towards the DJ area, trying not to look concerned about the collapse of my wedding.

"I was supposed to bring the ransom the night she kidnapped him. I'm not going to say what the ransom was, because it's probably inappropriate."

A couple people read into it and laughed. Mitch then realized how it sounded and smiled. "No, no. What's wrong with you people, we're at a wedding? Like I didn't bring the not-what-your-thinking ransom, because I knew being kidnapped made Devin happy."

I slowed my pace a little, becoming curious where this headed.

"Devin was like totally Mia crushin'. And like, I'd get them out with me and then bolt, because they were so Bonnie and Clyde together. Paul knows what I'm talking about. Anyhow, I know you hate me, Mia, but if you'd given me a second chance back then––well, I still would've stepped aside at let the better man win."

I'd reached him at that point, and as people applauded, I grabbed his arm and dragged him from the mic. I took him straight to Mia, and then grabbed her wrist and led them both to the dance floor.

The magic at our wedding was incredible, and as the three of us stood there, I said, "Mitch, I love you, man. And Mia, it would mean a lot to me if you could get over it and dance one song with Mitch. For me, guys!"

Mia was nervous, I'd really put her on the spot, but there just wasn't a place for any anger in our hearts that night, and so she took Mitch's hand and they danced to No Doubt's, Don't Speak.

Almost immediately they laughed and talked, not appearing forced into the situation at all. At one point, Mia hugged him tight and came away with tears in her eyes. I later learned she'd confessed to forbidding him as Best Man, and then apologized profusely, crying into his shoulder.

Most of our friends knew the score, and so their dance garnered more than a few interested stares. Paul actually stopped dancing with his new girlfriend, Presley, and applauded them. Mia laughed cutely, and then gave Paul a huge hug, with Mitch's hand still at her waist. For an instant, I was reminded both these guys had fucked her, but I wasn't about to entertain that thought at my wedding, and I shook it straight out of my head. And proud––proud is how I really felt. They were the only other two guys in the room who knew the entirety of what I had to be so proud of.

Then I noticed Presley, Paul's new girlfriend, gritting her teeth and refusing to look at them. What the fuck? She appeared jealous, but over what--our one time swap at the cabin? I studied her face again. Not jealousy––judgment! She was actually looking down upon my bride as she stood between two ex-lovers. My suspicions were absolutely unfounded, other than Presley just reeked of the sort who'd latch onto dirty gossip as a means of taking down the competition. I stopped myself from thinking about it further. Presley didn't matter, I was now married to a beautiful woman and it looked like I had my friend back, and nothing could surmount the wall of love encasing me that night.

Our wedding wound down shortly after their dance, and during that time Mia remained cordial towards Mitch. I can't really explain my happiness over it. I had two genuine life-long friends, and the most beautiful bride in the world, and a man couldn't ask for more than that.

Six months after the wedding, Mia and I met up with Paul and Presley for dinner in Downtown LA. It's not easy getting Downtown, but Paul insisted we try 'the best sushi house in So-Cal'. We hadn't talked much, partly because I'd been enjoying the life of a newly wed, but mainly due to all the hours I'd spent relocating my landscaping business to a larger lot in Torrance. It hadn't been entirely my fault, however, because Paul had cut his teeth on cases, and was well on his way to being one of the law firm's hardest working and hardest hitting lawyers.

After eating, the four of us took a short walk to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, where we sat beside the fountain arrangement in the courtyard. A light beamed up through each jet of water, creating rows of golden glass feathers. It was beautiful, but made me urn for the rhythmic roar of the Pacific, something I rarely heard anymore.

At dinner Presley flaunted her engagement ring, and now sat beside Mia to pick her brains on wedding details. Paul pulled me aside and explained he was leaning towards Mitch as a Best Man. He'd decided the only fair thing to do was rotate, and I'd be Mitch's Best Man in the unlikely event Mitch ever settled down. It made sense, but I was only half listening. Mostly I eavesdropped on the girl's conversation, because I had the horrible feeling they'd turn on each other at any moment.

Presley asked Mia what she'd thought of Emily, Paul's ex-girlfriend, but never gave Mia a chance to answer. "I'll be honest, he had a picture of Emily he'd labeled 'Virginia Slim'." Her eyes rolled upwards in disgust. "When I saw her and then he explained what Virginia Slim meant, I swear I made him get tested for STDs."

"Virginia Slim?" Mia burst out laughing, "Paul, what the hell is a Virginia Slim?"

"Mia don't!" Presley yelped, "And don't you dare answer, Paul!"

I couldn't help laughing myself, mainly at Paul being put on the spot. I fielded the question for him. "Every woman falls into a category. If she has an exceptionally tight pussy, she's a Virginia Slim." I turned to Paul. "Sound about right?"

"Pretty much." His monotone voice highlighted his concern over Presley's discomfort.

Mia's excitement wasn't so much outrage as fascination. "That's the most machismo, womanizing thing I've ever heard!"

"Well," Paul exhaled, "It is what it is."

Presley straightened her dress, seeming totally uncomfortable.

Mia's green eyes then shot open wide. "So, like when you all get together and sit around drinking beers during your man outings, do you all say," she acquired a deep mocking voice, "That Mia's a real Virgina Slim."

Paul stood up and stepped towards Presley, being the first of us to understand she'd legitimately grown upset by this conversation. This was obviously a sore spot in their relationship, and he appeared thoroughly annoyed by Mia's persistence. "You no doubt are deserving of the title, but no, we don't." His voice was flat, yet there was no missing the irritated undertones.

"Good!"

"But it's only because Mitch initially informed us of an even finer quality to your being. He declared you as the most Killer Kind Bud he's ever scored. And since I know you're wondering what that is, let me explain––it means fucking your asshole is up there with driving a Lamborghini Diablo on the Col de Torini."

"Enough, Paul!" I shouted, but he was too irritated to listen. Clearly he blamed Mia for upsetting Presley, and he wasn't quite finished with her yet.

"But while I can vouch for the fact that your Virginia Slim flows plentiful and can take an tremendously tough tapping with all the prowess of an Olympic gymnast, you're rosy little backdoor never opened, even when I politely knocked." He then winked at her, which proved more debasing than anything he'd said.

"Oh my god, you are such a..." She could hardly speak, her spotlight glare on Paul turned deadly, and I grabbed her arm and pulled her quickly away.

Paul helped Presley up and into his arms. Her face glowed red. "You promised, Paul!"

"You brought it up, and she asked, so..."

I rushed Mia out of there. Paul could go fuck himself. Where'd he get off talking vulgar about Mia like she was some pricy Cognac, and acting like she'd performed a disservice by not letting him sample her asshole? He was way out of line with that. No, that wasn't entirely true. Because prior to that night I would have felt proud to hear her charms considered praise worthy by Paul, but that's only because extraordinary sex dignified woman in his eyes, and inspired him. But he'd changed. He was going to marry Presley and all the standards she came with. His past couldn't coexist with her. So where did that leave Mia and me? I'm pretty sure I'd seen the answer in his eyes before he walked away. And that's really why Paul could go fuck himself.