with me,” Pepper said.
“But—” Frankie began.
“Go on, buddy,” Clark said. He put his hand on his dick and started squeezing it as if it were the bulb of a blood-pressure cuff.
Pepper had pulled down the top sheet along with the bedspread and was stretched out flat on her back now. “It’s okay,” she said. “This is what we do. Clark likes to watch.”
“Pretend I’m not here,” Clark said.
Frankie felt a little dizzy—from the beer, maybe. “I can’t—touch you?”
“Not if I’m not here,” Clark said.
“But you
are
here.”
“No, I’m not. You’re doing this, just you and her. I’m not even in the room, buddy.”
“It’s going to feel so horny to have you lying here with me,” Pepper said.
Frankie’s bare feet felt weighted to the floor. His toes gripped the carpet. But he made himself walk the several steps it took to get to the foot of the bed and climbed onto it. Pepper turned onto her hip, patted the mattress, and he scooted up alongside her.
“Really nice,” she said.
Was it? Frankie supposed so. At least, it wasn’t gross, lying naked in the air-conditioning, in the company of people who had invited him, who wanted him to be there. And for as disappointed as he was that he wouldn’t get to touch Clark, it actually helped him relax to imagine Clark was there, watching, and that Pepper was enthusiastic. Pepper, whose voice had dropped to a whisper as she’d said
Really nice
and who was petting the top of Frankie’s head, the way his mother used to when she put him down for his afternoon nap.
But then her other hand moved to his dick, and his dick, he realized, had gone soft.
When she began to pet it—much the same way she was petting his head—he flinched.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sweetly.
“Nothing,” he lied.
She touched him down there again, and he flinched again, and moved a hand to cover himself, both embarrassed by his limpness and wanting to be left alone.
“Do you not want to do this?” Pepper asked.
“It’s just—I thought maybe with all three of us. But—maybe not?”
She exhaled through her nose. “I think I get it,” she said.
“What’s going on over there?” Clark asked from the corner.
Pepper rolled over. She moved backward until she was sitting against the headboard and drew her knees toward her chest. “Nothing,” she said.
Frankie heard the wingback chair creak. “Nothing?”
“He doesn’t swing my way, Clark.”
“Sure he does.”
“I swing,” Frankie said, suddenly conscious of wanting to be a good guest. “But toward guys, mostly. Mostly only, I mean.”
“Are you kidding me?” Clark asked.
Pepper pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. For a while she just sat there, glancing around the dimly lit room. Then she got out of bed and reached for her panties and bra. “Jesus, Clark, can’t you do anything right?”
“How was I supposed to know?” Clark asked.
“You’re such a screw-up,” she said. “I don’t know why I expect anything different.” She was as smooth at dressing as she was at undressing. She was already buttoning up her shirt. “Sweetheart,” she said to Frankie, “you swing any way you want. That’s just fine. I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding.” She cut her eyes over to Clark again and said, “Jesus.”
“So I’m supposed to be a mind reader that he’s a closet case?” Clark asked.
“I’m not in the closet,” Frankie said.
“Well, you might have told me that, buddy.”
“He shouldn’t
have
to tell you,” Pepper said. “You could intuit, you know? You could learn for once in your life how to read people. Then maybe you’d get somewhere.” She turned to Frankie again. “Get dressed, honey. And please don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Hey,
you
didn’t do such a great job, either,” Clark said. “And what’s that supposed to mean, ‘get somewhere’?”
“In your life,” Pepper said. “In your marriage.”
“I’m
“But—” Frankie began.
“Go on, buddy,” Clark said. He put his hand on his dick and started squeezing it as if it were the bulb of a blood-pressure cuff.
Pepper had pulled down the top sheet along with the bedspread and was stretched out flat on her back now. “It’s okay,” she said. “This is what we do. Clark likes to watch.”
“Pretend I’m not here,” Clark said.
Frankie felt a little dizzy—from the beer, maybe. “I can’t—touch you?”
“Not if I’m not here,” Clark said.
“But you
are
here.”
“No, I’m not. You’re doing this, just you and her. I’m not even in the room, buddy.”
“It’s going to feel so horny to have you lying here with me,” Pepper said.
Frankie’s bare feet felt weighted to the floor. His toes gripped the carpet. But he made himself walk the several steps it took to get to the foot of the bed and climbed onto it. Pepper turned onto her hip, patted the mattress, and he scooted up alongside her.
“Really nice,” she said.
Was it? Frankie supposed so. At least, it wasn’t gross, lying naked in the air-conditioning, in the company of people who had invited him, who wanted him to be there. And for as disappointed as he was that he wouldn’t get to touch Clark, it actually helped him relax to imagine Clark was there, watching, and that Pepper was enthusiastic. Pepper, whose voice had dropped to a whisper as she’d said
Really nice
and who was petting the top of Frankie’s head, the way his mother used to when she put him down for his afternoon nap.
But then her other hand moved to his dick, and his dick, he realized, had gone soft.
When she began to pet it—much the same way she was petting his head—he flinched.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sweetly.
“Nothing,” he lied.
She touched him down there again, and he flinched again, and moved a hand to cover himself, both embarrassed by his limpness and wanting to be left alone.
“Do you not want to do this?” Pepper asked.
“It’s just—I thought maybe with all three of us. But—maybe not?”
She exhaled through her nose. “I think I get it,” she said.
“What’s going on over there?” Clark asked from the corner.
Pepper rolled over. She moved backward until she was sitting against the headboard and drew her knees toward her chest. “Nothing,” she said.
Frankie heard the wingback chair creak. “Nothing?”
“He doesn’t swing my way, Clark.”
“Sure he does.”
“I swing,” Frankie said, suddenly conscious of wanting to be a good guest. “But toward guys, mostly. Mostly only, I mean.”
“Are you kidding me?” Clark asked.
Pepper pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. For a while she just sat there, glancing around the dimly lit room. Then she got out of bed and reached for her panties and bra. “Jesus, Clark, can’t you do anything right?”
“How was I supposed to know?” Clark asked.
“You’re such a screw-up,” she said. “I don’t know why I expect anything different.” She was as smooth at dressing as she was at undressing. She was already buttoning up her shirt. “Sweetheart,” she said to Frankie, “you swing any way you want. That’s just fine. I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding.” She cut her eyes over to Clark again and said, “Jesus.”
“So I’m supposed to be a mind reader that he’s a closet case?” Clark asked.
“I’m not in the closet,” Frankie said.
“Well, you might have told me that, buddy.”
“He shouldn’t
have
to tell you,” Pepper said. “You could intuit, you know? You could learn for once in your life how to read people. Then maybe you’d get somewhere.” She turned to Frankie again. “Get dressed, honey. And please don’t tell anyone about this.”
“Hey,
you
didn’t do such a great job, either,” Clark said. “And what’s that supposed to mean, ‘get somewhere’?”
“In your life,” Pepper said. “In your marriage.”
“I’m
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