The Lovers of New Meeting

"Clarisse is coming with me," she continued. "One of my housemates."

"Your lover?"

"I guess you could call her that."

I let my eyes wander about Ann's person, picturing the naked body just out of sight. The small, beautifully shaped breasts with their pink nipples, their five freckles. The slim waist, long legs, curly, honey-blonde pubic hair. At 37, Ann was as attractive as she had ever been. I hoped Clarisse appreciated what she was getting. After our threesome with Beth a couple of years ago, picturing Ann in the arms of another woman was easy enough.

"Need a ride to the airport?"

"Thanks, Stephen. It's taken care of." Ann stood, placing a hand on my shoulder. "I'll just pick up a few things now. We can talk some more before I leave, if you like." She climbed the stairs to the bedroom.

I made an effort to read another student paper but had trouble focusing. At last Ann returned, carrying her blue overnight bag. She set it near the door then joined me again on the sofa. I tried to produce a convincing smile.

"I found a pair of panties on the closet floor, Stephen. I put them on your dresser. They're not mine."

"So that's where they got to."

"Are you experimenting with cross-dressing?"

"Not yet," I replied. "You're wearing your engagement ring. Solo."

"Silly, huh? A naked ring finger just felt too weird. And maybe the diamond will help ward off guys. The wedding band is in a safe place. It hasn't been discarded. I assume the same is true of yours?"

"Yes. I don't know the protocol about rings when you're legally separated. And when the newspaper changed owners, they dropped Miss Manners' etiquette-advice column."

"There's no 'legally separated' status in Connecticut, Stephen. According to the law, you're either married or you're not."

"You've consulted a lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Shall I expect a knock on the door from a sheriff's deputy delivering a writ or two?"

"No, Stephen. Not in the immediate future. If I decide I need a divorce, we'll talk about it first, okay? That's a promise.... Just to keep you current: I'm using my birth name at the house. And I opened a checking account in that name. Don't read too much into it. It just seemed... I'm just trying it on for size, I guess, see how it feels. I haven't changed anything legally."

"Thanks for the update," I said. "'Borthwick' is fine. 'What's in a name?'--as somebody said once. 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'"

"Speaking of misbehaving young women--I'm referring to Juliet, not myself--feel like telling me about the panties?"

"She's a recent college graduate. A former student of mine. Her name is Lenore. Rhymes with chamber door, forgotten lore, nevermore..."

"I get the reference."

"You'd like her. In fact she wants to meet you. She doesn't like feeling covert and surreptitious."

"Good for her."

"She's not your replacement, Ann."

"Thank you, Stephen. Nor Clarisse yours, I think. We'll have to see what the future holds." She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. "I have to go now."

I accompanied her to the door. "I'd like to meet her sometime," I said. "Clarisse."

"I hope that's possible, Stephen. We'll have to see."

"What's the problem?"

"Clarisse is good with women. She's been very good to me. Good for me. She doesn't deal very well with men--not even decent men who mean well and try not to be oppressive. Like you. There's a lot of anger there. I'd guess some abuse in her past."

Ann stepped to her overnight bag but didn't touch it. It was an old bag. I noticed its initials: A.B. What's old is new again.

"It does feel odd," Ann reflected, staring at the bag. "Having important things in our lives that one knows and the other knows nothing about, or almost nothing. Clarisse, Lenore, the other girls I live with, the house I live in, whatever you're doing this semester. We never kept things from each other, did we, back when we were... back when we lived together. Never had secrets from each other. Even my Paul, Justin, your Beth. We felt so secure and connected, we could even talk to each other about our infidelities."

"You were never unfaithful, Ann. That's not what fidelity is all about."

She suddenly picked up her bag, turned, then touched my cheek with her other hand, "I have to go," she said.

I held the door for her. "Have a good flight," I offered. Then once again, she was gone.

* * * * * 6

After our sex on Thursday night, Lenore and I did not return to the history of New Meeting, Connecticut. In fact she had just started the tale. A group of 19th century Quakers had broken away from Hartford Meeting and had settled here near the Massachusetts border. Perhaps focusing too much on one Bible verse at the expense of some others, they took sexual abandon to levels previously unseen in North America. That's as far as we got in the story.

Back in her bed again, nearly a week later, Lenore brought the story up-to-date. I'll do my best to summarize.

With so many people having sex with so many other people, problems soon developed in old New Meeting. Problems of paternity and inheritance, jealousy, STDs, the community's high pregnancy rate, even finding enough time for all that sex while also trying to run a farm. These problems surfaced several generations before contraceptives, penicillin, and diesel-powered tractors made rural promiscuity easier to manage.

The charismatic Phineas Casaubon did much to keep the community together, but after his death in the 1890s, New Meeting declined. The second half of the 20th century saw a renewed interest in Quakerism--including the small Casaubonite branch in New Meeting. The new antibiotics and the new birth-control pills were a boon. The town and the congregation grew. And apparently somebody read Shirley Jackson's now-famous short story of 1948, "The Lottery."

That did the trick. Having everybody have every kind of sex with as many people as possible had proved unwieldy. Instead, they would have an annual community get-together along with a lottery. A manageable number of citizens would be chosen at random to have public sex. The rest of the community would participate in the ritual vicariously. Afterwards they could celebrate privately to the extent they wished. The town's Herrick Park would be the ideal venue, weather permitting.

It would be much like jury duty. Both the Meeting and the town enthusiastically approved the change. They named the annual event Community Day.

Over time, the rules and regulations were codified and adjusted. The Town Council debated and decided matters such as eligibility for participation, penalties for not participating, exceptions and exemptions. Childcare was provided, elsewhere, while those age 18 and up participated in the ceremony. Volunteer marshals were trained. Wristband IDs--these days with scannable codes--were produced. With the rise of social media, taking photographs was banned--the marshals kept a close eye on attenders. In recent years, the Granby High School Trap and Skeet Team did a superb job of keeping drones out of the park.

A recent wrinkle was establishing two classes of participation. So as not to scare young people or (God forbid) make them want to avoid sex, those 18 to 20 would be assigned only relatively easy, gentle sexual tasks: exposing their naked bodies, giving or receiving a sensuous massage or a blowjob, at most a simple fuck. The young adults themselves could elect, in advance, heterosexual only, homosexual only, or "no preference."

At age 21 you became eligible for a much broader range of sexual activities, and you had less control of your partner's gender. Sometimes, if you were chosen, the lottery would select your partner; sometimes your partner was first-come-first-served among those nearby.

The broader range of skills expected of those over 21 is the reason I had the pleasure of inserting my penis into Audrey's lovely little bottom. Lenore's good friend would be in the full-adult category this year, and she needed more practice in a few--very few--areas. Lenore kindly lent her boyfriend to this Adult Continuing Education project.

Most of the acts people would be assigned were heterosexual, reflecting the demographics of the community. Some saw this bias as an unfair burden on the community's gay and lesbian members. The Lottery Oversight Committee has been discussing possible remedies for years. The committee hadn't even begun to ponder how to integrate trans people into the system.

Modern laptop computers and clever software made keeping on top of the relevant data a cinch--including keeping track of who was present in the park at the moment. It had been years since, say, a woman in the park had been assigned to have sex with a man who had gone home an hour earlier. Old-timers said they missed the wooden barrels with names written on paper slips. But the computer did a much better job of random selection and preventing mismatches.

* * * * * 7

"The amazing thing," said Lenore, "is that making sex just like jury duty didn't decrease the sexual activity all that much. Everyone just felt that they now had more control over their bodies. But everyone wanted to practice so they would do well if the lottery happened to choose them. People got naked at home more often, for instance. People also spent more time in bed--or in the back seat, out by the quarry--trying new things with their sweethearts. Or--what the heck--with other people's sweethearts. It says 'love thy neighbor,' not 'love your own main squeeze,' right?

"Another good result: young men in New Meeting definitely are less homophobic than guys are elsewhere. After they turn 21, the guy kneeling and sucking a cock, or bending over, just might be them! Furthermore, now they can better understand what they're asking their girlfriends to do for them. So guys become better and more considerate lovers. And the young women get pretty skilled at lovemaking pretty quickly. Everyone wins from that! Who the hell would pick a blushing virgin over Audrey?"

"Let alone yourself," I added.

"I was being modest. One of my dozens of virtues."

I poked her ribs, and she continued. "The town helps, too, by making the beach at Pinney Lake 'clothing optional' in June and July. The shyer or more conservative 18-year-old girls, who just might have to strip naked on Community Day, can work up to that point at the beach. Start by going topless. People give you friendly smiles and, believe it or not, they don't plaster photos of your tits all over the Internet. And you see other young people having fun, wearing even less than you are.

"You discover that the average breast size is smaller than you had been led to believe, and your tits are not 'too small' but perfectly normal. That helps. Pretty soon being topless starts feeling wonderful, and you're ready to take your bottoms off too. That's a big step--for guys too--but it's worth taking. When you get to the point where you love feeling the sun and the breeze on your pussy, and you don't care if other people see your pussy or not, you've made it, girl! You actually end up liking your body a lot more when you realize you don't need to keep parts of it hidden all the time, like some shameful secret.... Just don't forget the sunscreen."

At first I had dismissed the Casaubonites and the town as a colorful bunch of crackpots. But the more Lenore talked about them, the saner they seemed. I remembered how screwed up my buddies and I had been in our teens, especially in any matter involving sex. And the girls we knew were cracking too under the weight of double standards, mixed messages, contradictory demands, peer pressure, misogyny, and all the rest. By contrast, Lenore always struck me as much saner and better adjusted than I had been at age 22. And certainly better in bed.

"Lenore," I said, "you're on the verge of converting me."

"To what? Common sense?"

"Believe it or not, I do understand... and appreciate... what you mean. Yes, enjoying the sun and breeze on your naked pussy is common sense. Wearing a $300 bit of 'beachwear' that clings to your cameltoe in order to make the boys horny and unsatisfied is sick. Thinking that a sexually active guy is admirable, but a girl who does the same is a whore and a slut--that's as sexist as you can get. Wanting your daughter to stay a virgin until she gets married at age 32 is nothing short of abuse. And this one I already knew: claiming exclusive monopoly rights to your partner's body, attention, and affection is megalomania at least."

Lenore gave me a surprised look, as though I had suddenly started talking sense.

"You know," I continued, "I'd love to be able to participate in something like Community Day. Needless to say, we've got nothing remotely similar in my town. Or any other town I've ever heard of."

For about 15 seconds she looked at me thoughtfully and silently.

"Old Chinese proverb," she said at last.

I caught her meaning. "Are you saying it's possible?"

"I am still officially a member of the Meeting, Stephen, and also a bona fide resident of the town. As a person now engaged in an intimate, loving relationship with me, you are eligible to attend this year's Community Day with Guest status."

"You're serious?"

"You'll have to come to Town Hall with me, show some identification, have your picture taken. We'll have to sign a form together. When Community Day comes, your wristband will be waiting for you at the park entrance."

"Your tone suggests a problem here."

"Not for me, Stephen. But we'll have created a permanent public record stating that the two of us are now engaged in an intimate, loving relationship. Your employer may find that very interesting... not to mention your wife. Nothing here proves that your penis has ever entered my vagina. But if Ann decided to divorce you, adultery is convenient grounds, and that public record will get her 90% of the way there."

"If Ann decides to divorce me, the real reason will be she is convinced that the institution of marriage itself is irredeemably sexist, patriarchal, and oppressive. Adultery will just be an excuse to satisfy the law. If the document saves her a thousand bucks in private investigator's fees, fine."

"That's what some say about Christianity too: 'irredeemably sexist, patriarchal, and oppressive.' Probably the same people that say it about marriage."

"Yes, I see your point," I said. 'Dissenting' sects including the Quakers pushed the boundaries of Christianity considerably. Then New Meeting pushed the boundaries even farther. Why don't Ann and I just see if we can push the boundaries of marriage even farther than we already have? But how far can you push the relationship away from sexism, patriarchy, and oppression and still be in a place you can call 'marriage'? That's what Ann is wrestling with now. Personally, I think she's mainly tripping over abstract concepts and language. But she's thinking that the obstacles are real."

"I sympathize," Lenore said. "With you both.... There's one more thing about Community Day. Your name too will be entered into the lottery. You could end up making a public spectacle of yourself."

"I do that five days a week. I'm a college professor."

"This time with your clothes off, though."

"Okay, I do it that way less often."

After 30 seconds, Lenore broke the silence. "So...?"

"So invite me to spend the night. Tomorrow morning we'll go to Town Hall together."

"All right. Spend the night with me, Stephen?"

* * * * * 8

On Community Day we took my car to Herrick Park. Lenore and I checked in, let the staff put our wristbands on us, and--a new requirement this year--exchanged our smartphones for claim checks. The authorities had decided that too many people were now incapable of doing anything--even buying a hamburger at McDonalds--without posting photos and videos of it on three different social media sites and probably livestreaming the event as well. Community Day was just too "Instagram-worthy" for its own good.

Past the check-in table, just inside the park, vendors sold or gave away soft drinks, snacks, fruit from local farms and orchards, pamphlets and books on (mostly) Quaker themes and social concerns, caps, sunscreen, T-shirts saying "I survived Community Day," and the like. A bank of Porta-potties stood off to one side. Lenore and I strolled past the tables and across the lawn, sometimes holding hands, enjoying the sunny July day, the large, grassy park, the good mood of the crowd. I was struck by the numerous healthy, attractive-looking young adults, male and female, wearing pink polo shirts with wristbands to match. "Marshals," Lenore explained.

My own wristband, white with a green stripe, identified me as a Guest Over 21 and stated my name. Lenore and the other adults of the community wore green wristbands. Yellow ones indicated community members in the 18-20 range.

The celebration began at noon and ended with a community dinner at five. Each attender was expected to stay at least two hours, though most stayed longer. Lenore and I had arrived around 12:45--missing speeches by the mayor and the Clerk of the Meeting.

Lenore seemed to be well known: many people came up to say hello--and possibly to check out the 40-something stranger with her who had managed to earn Guest status. Lenore addressed most people by first name. With a few she used Quaker formal address: first name and last name, no title such as "Mr." Even more striking was the way she introduced me. So, to a former teacher: "Hey! Nice to see you again, David Petrosky! I'd like you to meet my lover, Stephen Lancome."

I soon decided that I liked that way of putting it. Not "my friend"--as girls in every other town would have explained me--but "my lover." Which in fact I was. Petrosky smiled broadly as he shook my hand.

Sprinkled about the spacious park were perhaps a couple dozen low wooden platforms--most about six inches high, ranging in size from about two and a half feet square to maybe nine by twelve feet. Some were placed near park benches, others not. The larger ones usually held a bed or else a frame or scaffolding of some sort. On these platforms the required acts of loving one's neighbor would take place as other neighbors strolled by, sometimes smiling and waving, sometimes stopping to watch for a while.

To the side of each platform was a wicker basket to hold the lovers' clothes. Many platforms had also a smaller basket filled with wrapped condoms and one or two "dental dams"--apparently the latter were little used--and next to that a trash basket. The larger platforms also had a chest nearby with accessories including vibrators, dildos, belts and harnesses for strap-ons, scented oils, mittens of faux fur, ben-wa balls, French ticklers, blindfolds, handcuffs, butt plugs, cock rings, garter belts, stockings, tubes of K-Y Jelly, latex gloves, nylon cord--plus Kleenex, paper towels, wet-wipes, clean sheets, two-ounce bottles of antiseptic mouthwash, sunscreen, spare batteries, and a first-aid kit. Ice cubes had proved more trouble than they were worth. The lottery did include a little mild BDSM--hence the blindfolds, handcuffs, and cord--but acts considered degrading or intentionally painful were excluded.

Lenore explained that condom use was up to the parties involved. If either person wanted a condom, one would be used.

When we arrived, people the lottery had selected were on several of the platforms, loving their neighbor in one way or another. The first we came to was a young couple--yellow wristbands, so 18 to 20--rubbing scented oil into each other's bare chest and back. They were wearing only underpants. She was a pretty blonde with lovely pink nipples, he a decent-looking dark-haired kid. Any shyness they might have had at the beginning was gone by now. They were smiling and giggling and giving the other an occasional quick kiss as they caressed each other's well-oiled torso. Twice I saw her hand dip into the back of his Jockey shorts, plunging well below the waistband. By now her own low-cut briefs, made of thinner material, were saturated with oil and nicely translucent. I found the two of them charming.