It was August in Paris. It had just rained. James had met her through the dating app, Feeld. We found a restaurant on a corner off the busy streets of Place d’Italie. We sat and waited, excited, a bit nervous.
Her name was Sherry, her hair was long and auburn. She wore a knee-length, floral print dress and a grin that betrayed her excitement and nerves. When she spoke, her words felt like kisses against my ears: I love Irish accents.
Despite the gray clouds and damp streets, we sat outside, beneath the awning. We quickly realized her talent for storytelling, stringing topics together in a smooth, cohesive manner. That’s to say, it felt effortless.
Chats over drinks quickly turned to chats over dinner. There was a moment when Sherry took a generous “bathroom break” to allow James and me to debrief the evening. We both agreed: she was wonderful!
Time flew, and when the check came, none of us were finished getting to know each other. So, we walked…
There’s a funny sensation when you’re tipsy in Paris – not just off booze, but off the knowledge that reaching your desires is but mere moments away. Some say Paris is the city of love. For me, it is the city of pleasure: delicious food, astonishing architecture, beautiful people, sex.
We reached our final destination, which was a typical Parisian brasserie: tables set to street view, better to watch the mysterious passersby. Our eyes, however, were not set to the street…
James took the lead in turning the conversation. He wanted her to know that he was interested – that we were interested. James was gentle, reminding her we don’t do anything the first night. Between you and I, dear reader, I need a buffer; time to check-in with myself to reflect on my uninfluenced feelings.
She, unsurprisingly, was respectful and understanding. We planned to see each other the following day. When I woke up in the morning, I felt anxious, but eager.
Sherry arrived around 8pm in the evening. James and I had purchased light food for an apero dinatoire. She is fluent in wines and spirits, so we let her guide us as we took different liquids into our mouths, swishing them around and identifying hints of this or that. We giggled together, spoke lots, and then I realized…
I was being a cockblock. I had gotten so caught up in my enjoyment of the evening and conversation, that I’d forgotten the real reason she’d come: she wanted my husband.
Once this realization fell upon me, I asked James to take a few things into the kitchen. Once he was out of earshot, I looked at Sherry and said, “I realize I am being a huge cockblock. I’m going to clean up so you and James can talk. Whatever you two decide to do, you have my consent.”
Something crossed her expression then – gratitude and, despite the assortment of drinks, thirst.
I honored my word. I met James in the kitchen and said, “you’re up, my love.” He asked me if I was okay, gave me a wink and was off. I only looked at them once. They sat together on the couch. His arm was around her, their faces close. He was speaking softly. I couldn’t hear what he said, but her expression told me it was quenching.
A moment later, they passed the kitchen, hand-in-hand. I knew where they were headed: to the bedroom at the other end of the apartment. The door creaked closed, and I put on some faint music as I washed the dishes.
Eventually, I could hear her sounds. It felt surreal to be walking around, having a sense of pleasure fill the apartment; pleasure I wasn’t a part of and yet, somehow, orchestrated.
When the tidying was complete, I sat on the couch and began to read. Occasionally, when her pleasure would echo through the corridor, I giggled softly to myself. I felt happy. Proud. I was proud of me for pursuing my desire and proud of James for pleasing her the way I knew he could.
A while later, the door creaked open. James was the first to greet me. She followed closely behind, and I couldn’t help myself, “how was it?”
She smiled and sat, “wonderful.”
She stayed for a little while but had to take the subway home. She worked early the following day, and we’d all established that this wouldn’t be a sleepover. I decided to walk her down myself – we took the elevator together – and for the first time, I could feel her timidity.
I was the wife whose husband she just fucked. I understood it was my turn to ease her.
I told her how nice her company had been, and we’d like to keep in touch (as we were leaving Paris). She smiled, said yes, then asked me if I was alright (which I was). She thanked me, which was funny and sweet; we hugged, and she was off.
It felt like a strange kind of dream that I was walking through. When I reentered the elevator on my own, I felt like a changed person. I was the third wheel on my husband’s sex date, and it felt easy and good. Who am I? I thought.
I knew a good night’s sleep was in order, and that my true feelings would arrive the next day. Would I have an emotional hangover? Would I feel as giddy? Consumed by jealousy? What?
Before bed, James needed to talk. We discussed everything. We cuddled, kissed, laid together and drifted off in each other’s arms. He was both satisfied, but also processing. He too was curious what tomorrow would bring.
The next morning, my beast was waiting, yearning…
She was craving. It felt good to want that strongly. And for the next 72 hours, James gave her what she so desired: him.
Until next time,
Fuck well, friends!
Quean Mo xx
P.S. The following day, we received a text from Sherry saying she couldn’t concentrate because she kept imagining her time with James. She wants to see us again sometime…