Thick and Thin: the Middle

THICK and THIN

The Middle

CHAPTER NINE

Sunday morning, we sleep in past 8:00 and have bacon and eggs for breakfast. We clean the apartment, opening all the windows and the sliding door to help air out the lingering smell of weed.

Around 10:15 we make a run to the market to stock up for the work week ahead. When we get back, Chrissy gears up for a three-mile run on the trails in a nearby forest preserve. I suit up for the pool, determining to do 4000 yards in an effort to work out the remnants of booze and dope from the previous two days.

We take the four flights of stairs down together as part of our warmups. At the lobby level, Chrissy continues down one more flight to do some pre-run stretching in the fitness area and I exit to the pool. There's one other swimmer in the lap lane, but it's not Lance. She finishes her workout before I reach 200 yards and I have the space to myself. The thing about long-distance swimming is that once your body is in the rhythm, your mind is free to go anywhere. Chrissy says the same is pretty much true when she's putting in a long run.

So, I suppose that right about now, her head is as full of images of the past two days as mine. I'm amazed at how down right slutty she's been. My wife is certainly no prude, but we've never done anything close to this in our three years together and I can't remember any indications that her sex drive would push her so far and with so much pleasure. The images are so intense I'm half-surprised I don't have a boner acting as a keel below me.

But I also remember what Lance said about owning it. I'd already acknowledged that I had had the opportunity to shut things down right from the beginning on Friday, but that I had kept them going. And last night I'd done the same; as eager to see my wife take two cocks again as she'd been to feel them. I definitely have to own my part in all this.

'What comes next?' is the question that dogs me through the next 400 yards. Are we going to do this again? If so, how often? Am I really ready to share Chrissy on a regular basis? Is she really ready to be repeatedly used as a fuck toy? Both are very arousing ideas, but also very scary.

Thinking objectively, I don't think swinging is a sustainable lifestyle for a married couple. At some point one of them is not going to be happy about it anymore. I remember one divorce case from about two years previous that involved swinging. The husband had apparently talked or pressured his wife into going to a swing club. They'd both participated, but the wife didn't want to go back anymore. The husband, however, was hooked and started bringing different women with him since it was a couples-only club.

In the end, there had still been an NDA to prevent her from ruining his community standing by talking about it, but she had sure as hell gotten a lot more than a token settlement. She'd ended up with more than 60 percent of their assets and spousal and child support on top. In that case, I considered the client had burned himself.

At the end of 4000 yards, my mind isn't any more settled, but at least I feel like I've reset my body. I head upstairs, a bit surprised Chrissy isn't back yet since she can easily run three miles faster than I can swim 4000 yards. I shower and dress and begin putting together a chef's salad for our lunch. I'm still slicing and dicing when Chrissy comes in. By the time she finishes her shower, I have everything set up on the balcony table.

"Good run?" I ask as we take our seats.

"Pretty good. I ended up doubling the miles, but for some reason my knees were so sore today." She gives me a crooked smile.

I try to return it. "Funny you should bring that up. I was thinking about your sore knees too, while I was swimming."

"And what were you thinking about them?" she asks saucily, before spearing a cherry tomato and popping it into her mouth.

"Umm, I don't really know. I was just thinking about them."

"Were you thinking about how I got them?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"And did you like how I got them?" There's a bit more challenge, but still mostly fun in her voice.

"You know I did." My throat feels thick and I'm having trouble swallowing even a piece of hardboiled egg.

Her voice goes sultrier. "And would you like to make my knees even more sore?"

"Yes, I would," I say, hoping I'm not sounding too lame with the emphasis on the pronoun.

"Just you?" She clearly gets my meaning.

"Um, most of the time." I half-stammer.

She has a piece of cucumber on her fork now and brings it almost to her mouth. Then, in a completely normal voice, "Good! I was afraid you were going to ask me to start performing at bachelor parties. There's only so much a girl really wants or can really take, you know?" She throws me a wink before popping the cucumber into her mouth.

After lunch, Chrissy decides she's finally ready to face other people from the building again and we make our way down to the pool. She puts on her most conservative one-piece and mixes up a thermos of iced tea for us, as if girding herself against any further temptations.

Trish and Angela are back in the same places we'd seen them yesterday and Chrissy selects the next two recliners for us to take. She rubs sunscreen on her arms and legs and décolletage and lies down on her back. Her special sunhat has no brim in the back, so she can lay her head down, but has a wide brim to the front to protect her fair-skinned face from the sun.

I lather up with number 30 instead of her number 70, pour out a couple of cups of ice tea for us and also lie back with my Ray Bans on.

"We missed you last night," says Trish.

Chrissy replies for us. "Well, we ended up going much further than we expected and finished by eating in the moonlight at a cosy little Italian place we stumbled across."

'All basically true, one could argue,' I chuckle internally. Maybe my Rachel Zane is indeed ready to graduate from paralegal to attorney.

Angela chimes in. "The only cosy Italian place my old man ever took me was Pizza Hut. And that was only on dollar pitcher nights on my paydays."

Chrissy nearly chokes laughing on iced tea. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Angela, that's horrible, I didn't mean to..."

"Don't worry about it, baby girl," Trish assures her. "You're supposed to laugh at it, that's what I've been trying to teach Angie to do. You gotta get the assholes out of your system and laughing at what assholes they really were is a great way to start."

"You are wise beyond your years," I compliment Trish.

"And don't forget sexy too," she tosses back. "Wise and sexy."

"It goes without saying, but you're right, it still should be said," I apologize. "For what could be sexier than a woman so wise in the ways of the world."

"Mm, mm, you do have a sweet tongue. I forgive you." She breaks out in her contagious laughter and we all join in.

"So, how was last night?" Chrissy asks. It comes out pretty casually, but I can sense the undercurrent. Of course, I know things the two divorcees didn't.

"It was nice," answers Angela. "Not a big group, but a fun group."

"And we learned a secret about Lance," adds Trish.

Fortunately for Chrissy, her cup is only on its way toward her lips, otherwise I think we would have seen another potential spray spit.

"The boy has skills we didn't know about," the BBBW goes on.

My wife's body tenses, but she finishes bringing the red Solo cup to her lips and takes a tiny sip before lowering it.

"Well, you know what a beautiful body he has," Trish continues in a more conspiratorial tone. Looking over at me, she adds, "Now, don't get me wrong, your Bryan is damn fine too, but he could use a little more meat and butter on those long bones of his."

"Great abs, though," Angela murmurs, almost absent-mindedly, before biting her lip and casting her eyes down to the ground.

Trish and Chrissy laugh at the quiet turtle popping her head out of her sexual shell. But they do it in a way that communicates they're happy to see the beat-down Latina rising up more and more.

Chrissy gets the conversation going back toward disclosing the information she's interested in. "So, we're all agreed that my long drink of water is packaged in a lovely bottle." She blinks her eyes coquettishly at me and turns back to the ladies. "And Lance has that Greek statue thing going on that some ladies seem to find attractive. But what are these secret skills?"

Trish continues in a lusting tone. "Well, we all see him out here swimming like Aquaman...what do they call that kind of swimming he does, Bryan, where he's almost all the way out of the water?"

"Butterfly," I supply.

"Yeah, butterfly,"

"And boxing," interrupts Angela.

"Boxing?" exclaims Trish.

"Yeah. There's a heavy bag and a speed bag down in the fitness room and I've seen him working on them sometimes when I'm down there using the exercise bike and stuff. And he knows what he's doing."

"And how would you know that?" challenges Trish.

"Eduardo boxed when we first met as teenagers and I spent a lot of time watching him at the gym," Angela replies defiantly. "And Lance would have fit right in.

"Of course, Eddie was just a lightweight back then. Before he gave up boxing for drinking," she adds sourly.

"Lance is probably a light heavyweight right now, but should fight at super middleweight or even middle weight."

"Hmm," muses Trish. "Pretty and a bad ass too."

Damn! I was never gonna get to be Harvey Specter in this scenario now.

"Oo-kaay," Trish continues. "So, we obviously knew that he worked out, but that kind of fitness also relies a lot on diet, too. You remember I told you we were going to do a burger burn last night?"

Chrissy nods.

"Well, he brought some patties down with him and grilled them up just right and they were mighty tasty."

"They were veggie-burgers!" declares Angela.

Trish isn't happy with her roomie for stealing her thunder and gives her a look before carrying on. "But not store-bought veggie-burgers. The boy actually mixed them up himself."

"He said they had mushrooms and tofu and a bunch of spices," Angela adds, still not able to contain herself from helping Trish tell the story, which earns her another look.

"And to top it off," the black nurse says sharply to Angela, before returning to her storyteller voice with us. "He served them in pita pockets instead of normal white-bread buns, but I still thought I was eating a real burger. Hell, if all healthy eating tasted that good, I might be convinced to actually stick to it myself."

We're all laughing at that when the Devil or Greek God or Harvey Specter himself answers the call.

"Sounds like a good one," says Lance. "Is it worth telling twice so I can hear it?"

Everyone freezes and stares at him a second, then bursts out laughing again.

Lance just stands there smiling, looking completely comfortable. This is a man with no lack of confidence, that's for sure.

Finally, from Trish, "Oh, honey, there was no joke." A heartbeat pause. "We were talking about you!" And the laughter starts all over again.

She jumps out of her seat, scurries over to him, places her hands on his cheeks and pulls him down for a quick kiss on the lips. "You beautiful boy! We were just telling Chrissy and Bryan how you surprised us with your hidden chef skills last night."

"And Trish was wondering if she started eating like you if she might get a body like yours," jabs Angela.

"Oh, no you didn't!" Trish returns in mock outrage, but then immediately joins in the group laughter. Her hands have slid down from Lance's cheeks to his bare pecs and she keeps them there with no shame at all.

"Hmm," considers Lance, when the merriment subsides a bit. He boldly looks up and down Trish's abundant curves. "I don't know if I like that idea. I can't imagine what could come off that wouldn't ruin the perfect package." He puts his hands over hers on his chest and says, "Besides, you know I starve myself at the table just so I can overindulge elsewhere." Then he flexes and bounces his pecs under her hands and she nearly swoons before joining in the next wave of laughter.

"Oh, you sit down next to me!" Trish demands, shooing Angela to move over one seat and pulling Lance down to the recliner between them.

And so goes our reintroduction to 'polite' society. Two days of the most tawdry sexual adventures have apparently not branded any of us with the Scarlet Letter that Chrissy feared. There's never even a hint in the conversation that we'd even seen Lance yesterday after we left the pool, let alone had him in our bed.

In fact, the only time he and my wife have any significant interaction is when they coincidentally stand up at the same time to go use the restroom in the pool's changing area. Since there's a Men's and a Women's, they escort each other the twenty yards over and the twenty yards back, chatting easily along the way. Chrissy only looks happy, not anxious, when they return.

After about an hour, Trish and Angela both leave to get ready for the evening shift at the hospital. Chrissy and I decide to head upstairs too and gather up our towels, cups and thermos. Lance stands to say goodbye, no one else is nearby.

I'm standing directly behind Chrissy as he takes my wife's hand and brings it to his lips. He lowers it after the kiss, but doesn't let go. "I had a great weekend," he smiles. "I suspect it will take you two a while to process it all, but I'll be honoured if you decide you'd like to try it again." He kisses her hand one more time before releasing it. Since I can't see Chrissy's face, I don't know how she's taken it, but I give him a small nod with a small smile before we walk away. Behind us comes a splash as he apparently jumps into the pool to douse whatever heat our interaction has brought up.

It's still early, but on the elevator ride up, we decide we'll go out later to a real, cosy Italian place for dinner, although probably by candlelight rather than moonlight.

"I wasn't completely joking about the sore knees, earlier," Chrissy tells me as we enter the apartment. "I feel a bit tight behind them and up into my hamstrings. I think I'm gonna go down to the fitness room and do some stretching."

The fitness area in our building is actually pretty impressive and part of the reason we're content to pay a higher-than-average rent. There are actually three different exercise rooms in the basement. A Cardio Room with exercise bikes, treadmills and such. A Strength Room with machines and free weights. And a Fitness Room covered with floor mats where people do yoga and Pilates. That's also where the boxing equipment hangs in a corner.

"Want me to come and keep you company?"

She kisses me on the cheek and smiles. "Thanks, but that's okay, I'm sure there's something else you'd rather be doing. That James Lee Burke audiobook I checked out from the library is almost due back, so I'll just bring my phone and listen to that."

The mention of her audiobook reminds me I have an unfinished physical book, "The Killer Angels," that also needs to go back to the library soon. A cold beer and Michael Shaara's novel of the history and horror of America's Civil War could be just what I need to get my mind away from its current preoccupation.

"Okay. Have a good session and I'll see you in a little while."

I pick up Shaara's tale of the Battle of Gettysburg on Thursday, July 2, 1863. The details of the decisions and hesitations, and the bravery and near lunacy that turned the tide of the war at the cost of thousands of dead on both sides engrosses me and I don't realize that an hour has passed before I hear Chrissy coming through the front door.

She sees me at the balcony table and waves at me to stay put. "I'm going in for a shower," she calls. "I'll join you in a little bit."

I take a sip of beer and go back to a bloody Pennsylvania battlefield for another chapter.

Dinner at Donatella's is a determined effort to return to normalcy. We've apparently come to an unspoken agreement not to discuss the past two days of our own bravery and near lunacy. I am very conscious of my tendency to analyse things to death even when I'm not stoned, and over the years I have just as consciously worked to simply let more things go.

So, instead of talking about the repeat elephant in the room, we cover our usual Sunday night ground by mapping out the week ahead. What cases we're working, where they are in their various processes, and whether they might interfere with our standing plans to have all of our dinners and most of our lunches together.

I tell her the Marange case is moving past the exciting part, so no more playing Clive Thompkins' private eye side kick. Instead, I'll be working on turning his findings into the legal documents needed to ensure that Mrs. Marange's infidelities end up costing her millions of dollars. After that, it'll be more of L&L's bread and butter, wills and trusts to ensure that the loyal family members get to hold onto their millions.

Chrissy reports she's also working on the latter, but warns that a couple of clients might be in the midst of major acquisitions that could require significant and fast rewrites to their existing documents in order to shelter the new holdings from Uncle Sam's acquisitive eyes.

In bed that night, our lovemaking is once again slow and gentle. Whereas Saturday night I finished by eating Chrissy's sweet pussy, tonight I start there. Once I taste that her juices are beginning to flow, I slowly lick my way out of her love hole and down across her perineum. But when I flick out at her rosebud, she clenches her ass cheeks and pushes me back with her palm on my forehead.

"Uh, uh, buddy," she says flatly, staring down at me across her belly. She must see the question on my face, because she follows up with, "Didn't you see me squirming in my seat at the restaurant? It wasn't because I needed to pee, I damn near had to ask the waiter for an extra seat cushion for my sore ass."

Then her face softens. "I remember what I told you and I meant it. But I need some time, okay?"

I nod and smile, she unclenches, and I go back to making love to her cunny with my mouth. Her naked nether lips feel strange, but sexy under my tongue and I wonder if she plans on keeping herself shaved. Or if I want her to.

CHAPTER TEN

Monday, we have lunch at a diner down the street from L&L. I tell Chrissy that Old Man Marange got even madder than we expected when Paul Clervaux outlined not one, but three dalliances on the part of his young wife. He's only just barely willing to stick to the original plan of buying her silence with the carrot on a stick and Paul wants to get everything signed, sealed and delivered before he changes his mind. Unfortunately, that means I'll be pulling a long shift today and won't be able join her for dinner.

"I'll call you if it's going to go past 9:00."

For her part, the acquisition case she told me about on Sunday is indeed unfolding, so she's still on call for speedy additional work for Sherry Bridger, the attorney she's supporting. Bridger has a reputation for doing good work in the firm, but I've never worked with her because she has an unwritten rule of only working with other women. It's always couched as her desire to overcome the years of gender discrimination that has held women in the legal professions back for generations. The fact that she's doing so by practicing gender discrimination against those of us with penises is never brought up, but it's just another one of those things I'm learning to let go. 'Pick the fights that are actually worth winning,' was another of Saul Lieberman's nuggets that continues to echo in the halls of L&L.