New England Triad

Chapter 01

On a bike trip to the co-op, Stephen acquires granola, oat bran, roasted almonds, and a lover named Beth. Telling his wife about the first three should not be a problem.

************

The food co-op was a good excuse for a day-trip by bicycle. It stood 25 miles or so east of our house–50 miles round-trip–depending on the exact route you took. I could have ridden the rail trail for 43 of those miles–theoretically. But my bike was designed for touring on asphalt, not on the trail’s hard-packed mix of dirt and small gravel. Forty-three was too many miles of small bumps and vibration for my 39-year-old body. I’ll buy a fatter-tired bike one of these days, I promised myself yet again.

In the meantime, I figured I was good for 30 miles on the trail. I could take the road for the other 20.

It was July, so Ann was working but I was free. The college didn’t offer many summer courses, and anyway I needed the time to recover from the hundreds of papers written or plagiarized by students who had no desire to be in my course in the first place. Ann and I were far from rich but, DINKs as we are–double income, no kids–we were comfortable enough. Ann generously agreed I could take summers off.

That Tuesday early-afternoon I was on my way home from the co-op, heading westwards, panniers full of oat bran, tamari-roasted almonds, grind-it-yourself organic peanut butter–essential “counterculture” foodstuffs circa 1969. (Tofu I could get at the local supermarket.) Too bad I missed the late ’60s: I would have fit right in. And especially too bad I missed the so-called Sexual Revolution of those days: that would have been mind-blowing. Or as they would have said back then, consciousness-expanding. Psychedelic.

Fun, at the very least. But who aims for the very least?

In his later years, Dad had opened up a good deal, and he had shared stories of the late ’60s–actually the period from about 1968 to 1975. That was when the late ’60s, drifting eastwards from San Francisco, finally reached Pennsylvania, where he was living.

For the most part, Dad was on the outer fringes of the hippie culture of the period. He told me he smoked a little pot, like everyone else, but that was about the extent of his drug use. Joined numerous antiwar demonstrations but never burned his draft card. Liked “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” and Jefferson Airplane plenty, but never much cared for the Grateful Dead. He even gave Woodstock a pass.

But he did fully commit to two aspects of the 1960s “counterculture” lifestyle: the Sexual Revolution and “human-powered transport,” a.k.a. bicycling. (Plus the beard, which he kept the rest of his life.)

Adventurous sex and bicycling: a pretty good pair of late-’60s lifestyle items, if you had to pick just two. Each of them good for body and soul.

“‘Make Love, Not War’ wasn’t just a slogan,” he would say. “It was a call to action. There was a real war going on, unjustifiable. The Establishment wanted young people to remain virgins and sublimate their sex drive by marching off to Vietnam and killing quote-Gooks-unquote. So fornication wasn’t just a pleasure: it was also political action–a Blow Against the Empire. Pretty heady stuff to an 18-year-old.

“It drove The Authorities nuts. Deep in their hearts, they lived in gnawing fear that their unmarried 20-year-old daughters by now were better in bed than their wives. I’m sure some of them were, too–though never underestimate a middle-aged woman. Of course, everyone was on ‘the Pill’ back then. And this was before herpes and ‘way before AIDS. Chlamydia?–never heard of it! The biggest health risks were gonorrhea and crab lice–both easily cured. Don’t ask how I know.”

Dad tended to talk in well-developed, complex paragraphs. Like me, he was over-educated.

“Try to imagine a time,” he would say, “when the best-seller list was full of titles like Joy of Sex; Open Marriage; The Happy Hooker; Our Bodies, Ourselves; Fear of Flying….” I recognized the last as a racy novel about casual adultery. Speaking of: Dad was gentleman enough to remain vague about Mom’s participation in the Sexual Revolution, before and during their marriage. Still, I got the clear impression that Mom had not spent the revolution chastely sitting on the sidelines.

Alas, by the time I reached my late teens, the revolution had long since petered out… so to speak. Still, the 21st century was not nearly as uptight as the 1950s, say. My wife Ann had proved a skilled and generous lover from our second date onwards. In fact I had been a little surprised to learn that I occupied position number nine on her chronological list of lovers. That struck me as fairly far down the page.

“You’re not ninth in my heart, dear,” she had said, “just ninth in my vagina. And I think [pause] third in my bottom…. No, fourth.”

“What about your mouth?” I inquired, bracing myself for some Higher Mathematics.

“Blowjobs! Is that all you men ever think about?” she teased. “I don’t count blowjobs, and I suggest you don’t either.”

I couldn’t resist: “Well, then, for how many lovers did you swallow our semen?”

Oops. Her reply plainly indicated that I had pushed her too far. “Let’s see… you were the first, so I guess the answer is 22…. No: 26. And for your second wife, I suggest you find a nice bookkeeper.”

None of those three figures is true. I think.

The point is that neither Ann nor I was an innocent virgin on our wedding day–or wanted our partner to be one, either–so obviously the Sexual Revolution had not fizzled out entirely. On the other hand, nobody in the USA had uttered the phrase “open marriage” in four decades or more–including Ann and me.

I think that, deep down inside, neither of us expected from our spouse an unblemished record of sexual exclusiveness, now and forevermore. Neither of us thought that infidelity would be unforgivable–or even terribly unlikely. On the other hand, neither of us had explicitly granted the other permission to copulate with other people–even now, five years after Ann had crossed that line.

The field was still murky, the line still indistinct, the consequences of crossing the line still uncertain–almost as much now as they had been five years ago.

Oh, for the moral clarity of 1970! “You fucked your former colleague from work in a parking lot? How wonderful! Let’s open some wine to celebrate while you tell me all about it.” Or in other ZIP codes: “I’m divorcing you, you whore! And don’t even think about getting custody!” Moral clarity either way.

Bicycling stayed in Dad’s life longer than the Sexual Revolution did. He bought his last bike in 1982–the year I was born–and rode it for about 35 years. He loved it and maintained it beautifully. It was a Trek, their top-of-the-line touring bike, pretty much hand-made in their Wisconsin factory. The tubing, the components, the workmanship: everything about the bike was of very high quality. Dad had really splurged to buy this model, spending something like 700 1982-dollars on it–plus more for the rear rack, nylon panniers or side-bags, rack-top bag, bottle cages, toe clips, and other accessories.

The day finally came when Dad could no longer bicycle. Five years ago it was: about the same time as Ann’s little excursion. Dad’s balance was off, his back and hip muscles weak, his spine frail. He could no longer swing his leg up over the saddle to mount the bike. Nor could he risk another fall. He asked me to adopt his bike. Of course I said yes.

I owned a bicycle, had even gone riding with Dad a few times, but–unlike him–I had been far from an enthusiast. At the time I received the Trek, though, my emotions were unsettled. I had Dad’s declining health to worry about plus my marital difficulties and also some troubles at work. Riding the bike–that bike–proved very therapeutic.

Week by week the miles increased. I developed a bittersweet love for that bike, enjoying its feel, its poise, its comfort, the fine workmanship of its frame. Knowing the bike would outlast my father. As it did. By the end of the year I had put 900 miles on it, the next year 2200. I was hooked.

************

So that sunny Tuesday I was riding the Trek homewards on the rail trail, panniers now laden with tamari almonds, oat bran, organic peanut butter, plus some extra water, spare tube, tire irons, rain jacket, and whatnot. I was somewhere in Columbia, or maybe eastern Andover–still miles from home.

Almost all the trail is in the woods, save for an occasional clearing and occasional street crossing. It was flat here in the eastern portion, but the trail would start to rise just beyond the covered bridge. The uphill grade was nothing to worry about. The trail had been the rail bed of a long-defunct 19th-century railroad, and the small steam engines in use here could haul a freight train up only gentle inclines.

The trail was shady, pretty, plenty wide, very quiet, and–here in the east–remarkably level and pretty much deserted too. And the surface was pretty well tended. Pedaling along, a touring bicyclist could feel his blood pressure drop, his neck muscles relax, and his brainwaves smooth out.

Until something goes wrong with his bike. Or her bike.

Her bike was upside-down, on the edge of the trail, just past a little wooden bridge over a creek. The front wheel was off the bike and in her hands.

I pulled up next to her and stopped. “Flat tire? Can I do anything to help?”

“I hope so,” she said. “I replaced the tube, but I need more air than I’ve got. Also, if you have some water you can spare, I could use a drink.”

“Sure,” I said, removing the bottle from my down tube. I had refilled it at the co-op with ice and water, and it was still plenty cold. I handed her the bottle, dismounted, and moved my bike onto the little bridge, leaning it against the railing. Good bikes do not have kickstands of course.

“Drink all you like,” I said. “I’ve got more in the panniers.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be sanitary.” Four times she tilted her head back, inverted the bottle above her, squeezed a stream of cold water into her mouth, and swallowed. The bottle’s spout stayed at least an inch from her (I noticed) rather pretty, full lips. The lady knows bicycling, I decided.

I couldn’t resist examining her body–easy enough to do, as bicycle clothing is lightweight and form-fitting. She was thirty-something, about five-foot eight; curly brown hair, slim-to-medium build, very pretty overall. Beneath her pastel jersey were average-sized breasts–my favorite size, actually–somewhat flattened by her sports bra. Bike shorts are tight and are worn without underwear. Alas, the “chamois” cushioning pad inside obscures much of the labia, but a lovely pubic mound was evident above the chamois.

Men’s bike shorts hide the genitals even less well than women’s do. Serious bicyclists of both sexes have all tacitly agreed to pretend that their genital display is perfectly normal and unremarkable. I like the transgressive ethos a lot. God knows what the civilians think of us.

But back to my new acquaintance. Her legs and butt were lean but still feminine. The legs of a casual female athlete, with just enough muscle definition to make her look strong and healthy. Lovely… and don’t underestimate how strong those little muscles are. As with most bicycling women, her sexiest, most attractive feature was the overall aura of fitness, health, and vitality she gave off.

“I’m Beth Gordon,” she said, smiling as she returned the water bottle.

“Stephen Lancome.”

One of her problems, she explained, is that this isn’t her bike but a loaner from a friend of a friend. She had smashed up her racy, carbon-fiber Bianchi but good–possibly beyond repair–in a mishap during a training ride with “the guys.”

It could happen to anyone. A brief lapse of concentration; maybe your front wheel touches the rear wheel of the bike in front of you; you go careening and then people are helping you get up off the pavement. She had hurt her spine in the mishap too, but–unlike the Bianchi–her spine was recovering.

“Ouch!” I said. “I too have made an unplanned dismount or two. Thank God for helmets, at least.”

“Amen,” she said. “Anyway, this old ten-speed is nothing like my late, lamented, but it has a certain charm, and it fits, and for now my body just wants a slow, relaxing ride–not the racing-around I used to do. Nothing very strenuous for awhile longer. But I don’t like these old-timey Schrader valves on the tubes.” Her old and inexpensive Japanese bike used inner tubes with automobile-type air valves, not the thinner Presta valves high-end street bikes use.

“I packed a spare tube and a couple of CO2 cartridges in case I got a flat. Which somehow I did. My CO2 pump unit turns out not to work so well with Schrader valves, and it leaked out more gas than it put into the tube. Just doing my part to increase global warming! Long story short, I’m out of CO2, and my tire is still too flat to ride. My housemate is tied up this afternoon, so she can’t come pick me up, and anyway I have only a vague sense of exactly where we are and no idea where the next street crossing might be….”

Beth was getting worked up. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder to help settle her down but decided that that might just alarm her.

“‘You’re in luck’ would be overstating the case,” I said, “but I do have a hand pump with me. It’s set up for Presta, but I think I can switch it to Schrader.”

Her eyes lit up. She reached out and touched the back of my hand: a sweet gesture. “Thank you, Stephen.”

“We’ll have to share the pumping, if your back doesn’t object. Getting any kind of pressure out of that thing is a bear.”

“Deal!” she said.

I retrieved the small hand pump from my rack-top bag. Just as I recalled, you could switch it from Presta to Schrader by unscrewing part of the nozzle, flipping it over, and screwing it back in. The pump was a thin cylinder about a foot long. The nozzle was built into one end; the other end was the handle. You pulled the handle back another six inches, then you pushed it in again.

We sat on the dirt. I screwed the nozzle onto the valve stem and started pumping. The first 25 strokes were easy, then each stroke got harder. Beth took over at about 60. We swapped the pump back and forth until finally the tire felt firm enough to roll.

“What would you say?” she asked, squeezing the sidewall. “Forty-five, fifty pounds?”

“Forty-five, anyway,” I agreed. “Good enough for the trail. Which way are you headed?” She pointed westwards.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll come with, if you’re in the mood for company. A few miles ahead we can get off the trail and go into Andover. There’s a garage there on Route 6–you’ll see it from the trail. I’m sure they’d be glad to give an attractive young lady a free fill-up. Probably some more water for your bottle and use of their bathroom too if you play your cards right.”

“Attractive and young maybe. Also dusty, sweaty, and I can’t vouch for my deodorant.”

“You’re fine,” I said. “Let’s get the bikes ready to go. Then why don’t we relax for a couple minutes and have a snack. I’ve got some roasted almonds and another bottle of ice water. We can rinse our hands with what’s left in my old bottle.”

“Sounds nice. I’ve got some dried cranberries.”

Beth commenced reinstalling her wheel and putting away her tools. I returned the pump to my top bag, stashed her punctured tube and spent CO2 cartridges in one pannier and extracted a cold water bottle from the other. I could hear that it still had ice. I grabbed the almonds too.

Standing for a few minutes felt good, on the little bridge, my back to the side of my bicycle. Beth walked up, bag of dried cranberries in hand, looking much happier and more relaxed than before. She glanced downwards in the general direction of my shorts. “You’re built unusually long, aren’t you,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

For once, I got the joke immediately. “You’re referring to my chainstays, I take it?”

“Obviously.”

“It’s not obvious at all, silly girl,” I replied. “I’m just cold from all the ice water.”

She grinned, pleased that I had responded well to her risque joke. The chainstays are the thin tubes of the bike’s frame running from the crank back to the rear axle. Mine were indeed a couple inches longer than average, giving the bike a long wheelbase. You could see that at a glance if you knew where to look: the three-inch gap between the rear tire and the seat tube. Beth knew where to look.

She stood next to me and studied my bike. “Beautiful machine,” she said. “Reynolds tubing, beautiful brazing and hand-filing everywhere, braze-ons galore, classic half-step-plus-granny triple crank, bar-end shifters, Cinelli bars. And somebody tossed the stock saddle and put on a Brooks. Jesus, somebody had good taste in bicycles.”

“My father. My late father.”

“What is it?”

“Model 728. Even my mechanic had never heard of it. Trek’s flagship touring bike for one year. They made it only in 1982.”

“It’s lovely. I know you’ll take care of it. Let’s sit.”

In the unlikely event somebody wanted to appeal to an English professor, she could imitate Beth for sure. Articulate, fluent with words, clever, witty, perceptive, far from prudish, apparently well-educated, able to connect multiple ideas together gracefully–those qualities will get you much further than big breasts or even physical beauty.

Not that Beth was sorely lacking in the beauty department, either. Once her back finished healing and she got back on a lightweight racing bike, I doubt I’d be able to keep up with her. In the meantime, I thought, she’d probably make a nice biking buddy, maybe even turn into a friend. I liked her a good deal already. Ann would like her too.

Beth and I sat on the bridge, side by side, our feet dangling over the creek below, eating almonds and dried cranberries and sipping water. Two guys on bikes passed us carefully, slowing down to see if we needed help, then waving as they accelerated away. They were the first new people I had seen since I stopped.

Beth put her arm around my shoulder, so I reached and held her far hip. A little more intimate than I expected, but I didn’t feel like complaining.

“Ten minutes before you stopped,” she said, “three boy-racer types zoomed by on trail bikes. There I was, bike upside down on the edge of the trail, front wheel in my lap, unhappy look on my face I’m sure. They didn’t even wave, let alone slow down, let alone stop to help.”

“I know,” I said. “A lot of racers are like that. Every jaunt has to be a training ride. All that counts is going up that hill a half-a-mile an hour faster, getting around that corner a second sooner. Too much testosterone or something…. No offense. I wasn’t including you.”

“You should. I was pretty much the same way, much of the time. I still love that technical, competitive style of riding. But I had forgotten that other styles are very nice too. It’s been years since I’ve just poked along, enjoying the road, the smells, the sun shining through the trees, the little wooden bridges. Like today. To say nothing of sharing cranberries and almonds with a handsome stranger.”

I was going to make a crack about the quality of her ophthalmologist but decided not to break the mood. So I smiled at her, acknowledging the compliment.

“Look Stephen,” she continued, “I’m a good bicyclist and a strong, capable woman. I’ve been in much worse pickles than having a flat tire on a beautiful summer day, and I’ve landed on my feet every time except that once. I was perfectly capable of getting myself home safe and sound today all on my own.”

“I know that, Beth. You were not a damsel in distress, and I am not a strong shining knight who rescued you. I can see your strength and your smarts, and your poise too, and I admire them.”

“Thank you, Stephen,” she said, briefly hugging my shoulder tighter. “Let me say this before I decide not to say it, okay? You are not my rescuer, and I do not throw myself into a rescuer’s arms and say, ‘Do with me as you will.’ But you did stop when I was having a very low moment, and you helped me, and–apart from admiring my mound of Venus for about two seconds too long–you have been a perfect gentleman….”

“It is lovely.”

“I’ll show you more at an appropriate time. Not now. To continue… I don’t know why, but I also find you kind of attractive, and kind of hot in an odd sort of way, and I do like your sense of humor. From your words and behavior, and your obvious comfort around women–at least around me–I’m guessing that you are in some kind of long-term relationship with another strong, capable woman and that the two of you are liberal in…”

She was off on a roll again. By now, even I could see where this long if oddly perceptive preamble was heading. I stood then reached down my hand and helped her rise. I faced her, my hands on her hips. “Yes, Beth, I would love a friendly hug and kiss from you… without reading too much into it… provided I’m allowed to hug and kiss back a little.”

“You got it.”

As it turned out, our embrace lasted probably seven or eight minutes. It started with a sweet, relatively chaste kiss and quickly escalated. We reached the probing-tongues point in about ten seconds and extremely heavy petting in about a minute and a half.

As there was no possibility of privacy, we kept all our clothes on. Fortunately, bike jerseys have a zipper in front–quite a long zipper in the current fashion–so that helped. The sports bra was just impossible, but I caressed her breasts as best I could. On the plus side, our shorts were stretchy enough to allow a partner’s hand inside. God bless Lycra and Spandex.

Beth’s pubic mound felt as lovely as I had imagined, and the bush of curly pubic hair on top was a pleasant surprise. Her outer labia were plump and prominent, and a lovely viscous wetness soon was everywhere in-between.

It was probably unnecessary, but I brought my fingers to my lips to add some moisture to Beth’s own. I smelled and tasted with pleasure. My mind knew how to filter out the off-notes that come from exercising in the summer. Underneath, the scent and flavor of her vagina were lovely. Impossible to describe in words, of course, like every woman’s. Whatever… I liked it plenty.

I returned my wet fingers to her privates. I thought it best not to enter her vagina. I should wash my hands better first, and trim my nails too. Plus I didn’t know how sore she might be from her ride or how many miles she still had to go. Anyway, I was plenty content just to caress her moist labia and her clitoris, and Beth seemed more than content with what we were doing.

She had one orgasm–a small one, but we both enjoyed it. I didn’t come, but I very much liked the feel of her hand caressing my cock and balls.

About halfway through our session, another bicyclist suddenly appeared, an old man on a vintage three-speed Raleigh. Beth and I hugged tightly, trying to make our embrace look more innocent than it was. He clattered carefully over the bridge, smiling when he reached us. After he passed, he rang his old-fashioned bicycle bell–ka-CHING! Giving us his blessing, I thought.

Eventually the absurdity of our behavior finally hit home. Beth and I started giggling and laughing and gave each other silly looks.

“Beth, that was the neatest first kiss ever,” I kidded.

“Next time, let’s do this properly,” she said. Somehow the tone didn’t sound quite as light and kidding as my own remark.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Have sex, Dummy! Do you want to?”

“Very much,” I said. As soon as I said it, I realized it was true.

We straightened our shorts, re-zipped our jerseys, kissed briefly. Then we retrieved our bikes, put our gloves and helmets back on, and headed westwards.

As I rode I puzzled over our last words. Were we playfully engaging in sexy banter–or had we just made a commitment?

************

A century and a half ago, the covered bridge had been just a railroad trestle across a small gorge. Ten years ago, when they converted this stretch of rail bed into the current trail, they put a wooden roof over the trestle, a wooden floor where the rails had been, and low walls on the sides. The structure was brighter and airier than a classic old New England covered bridge, and everybody loved it. It was just for us bicyclists, hikers, and the occasional equestrian.

There was a beautiful view to either side, to the left especially. There Wall Street, perpendicular to us, ran under the bridge, along the gorge for a bit, then through the rolling hills, heading south towards Hebron. Beth absolutely beamed as we crossed the bridge. This was her first time.

A few hundred yards after it, the trail emerged onto the side of a ridge overlooking Route 6. The trail and the road ran parallel for a half mile or so. I pointed out the garage and the paved path that went diagonally down the ridge from the trail to the street. And down we went.

To me, Beth’s face still had a look on it that said, “I just had an orgasm, and I wouldn’t mind another.” Maybe the mechanics in the garage picked that up, or maybe they were just nice people. In any case she received excellent free service. They filled up her tires to the 85 pounds she requested, made their bathroom available, let us fill up our bottles from their water cooler, even dropped in some ice from the shop’s refrigerator. Beth thanked them graciously, even flirted with them a little. Everybody parted happy. Ann should learn how to flirt, I thought. And change a tube.

Beth and I sat outside, on the side of the shop. We exchanged addresses, phone numbers, and some other personal details. I confirmed that I was indeed married, as she had pretty much inferred earlier. My wedding ring digs into my finger when I ride, I explained; I always take it off before bicycling. Beth told me that she is divorced and for some time has been “between boyfriends.” A freelance graphic designer, she sometimes had hours of free time on her hands–like today–and sometimes none at all.

We discussed when we could meet again to “do this properly,” as she had put it at the little wooden bridge. By now I had realized that she hadn’t just been bantering back there. I also realized that–though I had not committed to an extramarital adventure–I was much more inclined to say yes than no. And getting even more inclined, minute by minute. But there simply wouldn’t be time today after our long rides finally were over.

“What’s her name?” Beth suddenly asked.

“Whose name?”

“You know very well.”

“Ann.”

“A pretty, old-fashioned name. Is she a pretty, old-fashioned girl?”

“She’s pretty. And she’s a girl.”

“Stephen, you’re paraphrasing Love Story for chrissake! Now let’s stop playing Preppie and Jenny, and let’s get serious. Is there any way Ann can condone what we’ve been doing–to say nothing of what we’re planning? Or do we keep her in the dark and sneak around behind her back?”

Jesus. Next time ask me a hard question, Beth!

I spoke carefully, trying to be as accurate as I could. “Those are good questions, Beth. I think the prospects us being open and aboveboard are pretty good. Not guaranteed but pretty good. On the one hand, Ann and I never explicitly agreed that extramarital sex is okay. On the other hand, neither of us expects the sky to fall if and when it happens.

“Besides that–you are the only person I’ve told this to–Ann herself has crossed that line. Five years ago. And there was no shouting, no angry words. Nobody called anyone a whore. Ann’s fling ended on its own. She remains grateful for my forbearance and patience. She’s thanked me for that more than once. We still love each other.

“This is going to sound odd, but I can’t exactly say I’ve ‘forgiven’ her. Because I’m not entirely sure that anything she did actually requires forgiveness. Expectations were violated, for sure. Still, she didn’t break any actual promise we had ever made, and there was no deception. Oddly enough, she never asked me to forgive her, either. Is any of this making sense? In any case, the issue hasn’t really come up again until this afternoon.”

“Tell me, did her affair strike you as surprising and uncharacteristic of her?”

“Very much so.”

An odd and inscrutable look came over Beth’s face. At last she spoke. “Splendid, Stephen. You and Ann behaved splendidly–you especially, but both of you. I’m impressed. Maybe my taste in men is improving. You and Ann are very lucky to have each other. I realize the irony of me saying this, at this moment, because I intend to lead you seriously astray–as some people would put it.

“I would hope that Ann and I could come to accept each other, even like each other. That part is at least looking promising. I’m starting to like her already. I’ve been a wife, too, and I’ve also been The Other Woman. I can do both. I’m probably better at the second.

“Of course my fast-developing relationship with you is totally preposterous. It’s impulsive and irresponsible, and you’re practically a stranger, and we just met a couple of hours ago, and already you’ve had your hand in my pants and brought me to a very nice orgasm, and I’ve stroked your cock, and we’re on the verge of setting a date for our first fuck–which, by the way, will be your first adultery ever in your life, I gather, and that is quite a big step, mister…”

She was off on a roll again. By now my head was spinning. Every clause she spoke was true, but tying everything together was getting harder by the second. She was accelerating downhill, her sentence-structure shredding as her speed increased. Squeeze the brake levers, Beth! And still she plunged on….

“And I am still not certain how you will react after we take that step, let alone how your wife will. And–I’m talking about myself here–any woman with any sense would put on the brakes in this relationship and slow things ‘way down and give everyone time to sort things out. But of course any woman with any sense would not mess around with other people’s husbands in the first place, and instead of sense I’ve got this stupid adolescent crush and probably raging hormones too–it’s two days before my period. This is all too absurd, but Credo quia absurdum, as somebody once said…”

I couldn’t resist. “Tertullian, I think.”

She halted abruptly, looking at me with wide eyes. “Tertullian,” she slowly repeated.

“I think so. ‘I believe because it is absurd.’ Tertullian, yes.”

“Stephen, do you want us to have sex with each other?”

“With all my heart and soul.”

To this day, I don’t know why I phrased it that way. Nobody talks like that, least of all English professors. For some reason it just sprang out that way. My first reaction when I heard what I said was that I had just grossly exaggerated what I was feeling. Then it dawned on me that the phrase wasn’t far off the mark after all. What the hell is happening here?

Beth was taken aback. Her eyes grew wider still. “Stephen, I don’t know how you did that. That was absolutely… the absolute perfect answer.” She paused to catch her breath. “So–speaking of absurdities–answer me this: What sort of couple gets out their calendars and schedules their first sexual encounter a day or two in advance? Or in your case: gets out his calendar and schedules his first act of adultery? Answer me that.

“Nobody acts like that, Beth.”

“Correct. Nor should we. Our situation is absurd enough on its face. No need to compound the absurdity by scheduling an appointment in advance to break… I don’t know how many Commandments. Two or three, anyway. So there is something I need you to do for me without further delay.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“No need. You understand.”

“Yes, I do. I would love to hear you say it anyway.”

“All right. I need you to fuck me, Stephen. And let me fuck you. Here and now. Irresponsibly, thoughtlessly, absurdly–or as much of the three as we can still manage at this point. With reckless disregard of the consequences. The way normal people do.”

“Yes. Where exactly? Borrow their bathroom again?”

“We’ll keep that on the short list. Let’s see what’s beyond that dumpster. Did I mention I’m on the pill?”

“It’s two days before your period. I wasn’t worried.”

We wheeled the bikes behind the shop, leaned them against some railing. I got out the thin, lightweight locking cable and small padlock I always carried and locked both bikes together to the railing. That gave us one fewer thing to worry about. Both cable and lock were flimsy, but Andover is a low-crime area. Or was until we got here. From the Trek I retrieved a water bottle, another small bottle, and my rain jacket–just in case the venue was good. Then we walked down the back lot holding hands.

Beyond the dumpster was a wooded area with, surprisingly, a small clearing. It looked just secluded enough–just barely. The god of absurd relationships must have smiled upon our union. Maybe he was the old man with the bicycle bell.

“The rain jacket?” Beth inquired. “Did you want me to pee on you too?”

How comfortable we already felt with each other!–enough to kid around like this. I kidded back, “I usually save golden showers for the second date. And I don’t use a raincoat. The jacket is for fucking. It makes a lousy cushion, but it’s clean. And more than wide enough to keep your cute little bottom away from the dirt and poison ivy. Or my cute little bottom when it’s your turn to be on top. We can flip a coin. And no fantasizing about my chainstays while we’re screwing.”

“I’ll try my hardest. What about the little bottle?”

“Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap. There’s no way you are leaving this mossy glen of iniquity without a good helping of cunnilingus. You can get your revenge for the cold water when you wash me. I assume that at some point you are going to force me to submit to fellatio.”

“Yes. We girls like to do that because you guys all seem to hate it so much.”

I returned her smile. “Come.”

************

In the clearing, I spread out the rain jacket on a fairly level, fairly soft-looking spot. It would keep at least a person’s bottom off the dirt and whatever weeds were the ground cover. We removed our bike shoes and our socks, then moved a few yards away. I knelt and pulled down Beth’s shorts, and she kicked them off. Usually I like the lady to do the pulling down, but impromptu outdoor sex in the middle of a long bike ride was new to both of us, so we improvised and didn’t worry about the details.

Always a magic moment for me: the first sight of a soon-to-be lover’s pussy, willingly displayed to me. It had been 12 years since the last time; that was Ann. I brought my face to Beth’s crotch, inhaled her aroma and kissed her labia. All good. The soap and water would be more for her sake, psychologically, than for mine.

“Ready?” I said. She nodded. A quick squirt of cold water on her crotch produced an “Eek!” Then a couple drops of Dr. Bronner’s soap rubbed around the area and two more squirts, fore and aft, to rinse. I patted her dry with a Kleenex. For several minutes she would smell like peppermint and possibly taste of soap. But I knew she would soon smell and taste human and wonderful again.

“Revenge time, pal,” she said, pulling my shorts down and off. A couple squirts of very cold water–I winced–and then a slightly soapy caressing of my penis. And my scrotum. And my anus. Usually two places at once, one in each hand. Nor were my nipples ignored, though here she skipped the soap and water. Half the time she was also gently kissing my lips.

Clearly this wasn’t a quick pre-coital touch-up like I gave her. This was more like gauging the sensitivity of every erogenous zone in my body. Or maybe a demonstration that I was now in good hands. She also knew when to stop. Then came the cold water rinse. Yikes!

Since the ground cover was scratchy, and the rain jacket small, we decided to keep our jerseys on but unzipped. First, though, she removed hers and ditched the sports bra. I fondled her lovely breasts for awhile. They were a bit bigger than Ann’s–maybe the high end of a B-cup–and a bit softer. They had a little sag, but that was more attractive on her than not. And her areolas and nipples–now quite erect–were brown, an exciting change from Ann’s pink.

Funny. All those Black and Hispanic and Japanese guys getting turned on by the thought of a girl with pink nipples. And here I was, kind of bored with pink, getting really turned on by brown ones. The grass is always greener… or browner… or something.

As noted before, everything below Beth’s waist was hunky-dory as well. And now, with her naked, I could see that her curly brown pubic hair and curly brown head-hair echoed and complemented each other beautifully. Judging from the Internet, maybe two women in all of North America still had pubic hair, and in ten minutes I could say I was married to one and fucking both of them!

Bike jerseys have three pockets low on the back. Beth and I emptied all six into one pile. Keys, her smartphone, my ancient flip-phone, wallets, packets of Kleenex, a disposable mask for COVID, my pocket notebook and pen, a paper napkin. Beth tossed her bra onto the pile then put her jersey back on.

Why they now put such long zippers on the front of bike jerseys–especially women’s jerseys–is beyond me, but today I was grateful that they did. Supine, Beth would have her back and shoulders protected and her breasts completely exposed. Works for me.

“Uh, how shall we start?” she wondered.

“How’s this? We both lie down. Ten minutes of passionate kissing followed by ten minutes of cunnilingus.”

“Make it five minutes and fifteen minutes, and you’re on.”

Of course we had no idea how much time we spent doing what. We just did whatever we wanted until we got the urge to do something else. I think we covered most of the bases.

Cunnilingus was a delight. Yes, she did taste a little like soap at first, but she was soon delicious again, and her scent was even nicer than peppermint. Also lovely: she gave off vocal signals throughout our romp, giving me a good idea of where her response was at most times.

“Yes… yes… just like that!… yes… I’m getting close… faster… YES! OH! OH!” Then a deep intake of breath; then her body going rigid; then a long exhale and a few clenches of the gluteals. Then, “Oh, Stephen… that was nice.” Then: “One more time?”

Ann is much quieter, much less vocal during sex. Possibly from hours of secret fucking in her family home back when she was nineteen. That was well before she had gotten to lover #9, a.k.a. me. It took me months before I could track her arousal and satisfaction with good accuracy, and even now I don’t always get it right. Beth made it easier on her lover.

After one small and two good-sized orgasms, Beth wanted to trade places. I lay on my back, legs spread, Beth kneeling in-between. She slowly licked my cock, here, there, and everywhere, while one hand fondled my balls, the other my chest. Then she took the glans into her mouth, sucking gently while her tongue gently, repeatedly flicked the underside. The feeling was exquisite.

About this point I stopped paying attention to exactly what was happening at which moment and just allowed myself to float in a sea of pleasure. At various times she sucked hard, she sucked gently, deep, shallow, used her tongue, clenched her fingers around the shaft, sucked my balls, massaged my anus… whatever a skilled fellatrice could do to a man she did at one point or another. Suddenly I was aware she was talking to me.

“Stephen, I want you to come in my vagina soon. Can you come twice today?”

“Usually not, Beth. Today I think I could.”

“Good,” she said and promptly turned the oral stimulation knob up to eleven.

In well under a minute I found myself deep in her mouth and on the edge of orgasm. I decided to pretend I was a gentleman. “Beth, I’m going to come,” I warned.

She nodded her head, hummed something that sounded more or less like “Umm-hmm,” and continued sucking my penis and gently tugging on my testicles.

The intensity of my orgasm surprised both of us. I had a half dozen strong convulsions that left me breathing hard for a minute afterwards. From the look on Beth’s face, I must have ejaculated copiously too. Somehow she managed to keep it all in her mouth, though it took her three swallows to down it all afterwards. After giving me a smile and a quick oral clean-up, she came up, laid herself next to me, and put an arm around me.

“Wow,” I said.

“Wow,” she replied.

A minute later she spoke again. “While you recharge, you could go down on me a little more.”

I could indeed. In fact I always enjoyed cunnilingus, and not only for the great pleasure it usually gave my partner. If there is a lovelier taste than a woman’s vaginal lubrication–especially right after her first orgasm, when the secretions suddenly are everywhere–I haven’t yet found it. If you prefer grilled porterhouse steak, say, please email me your girlfriend’s phone number.

Beth’s next orgasm was pleasant enough, though not as earth-shaking as mine. I felt no guilt at that. After all, this was, what?, the fifth I had brought her to today, including the one back at the little bridge. But who’s counting?

It was time to make our adulterous affair official. Well, my adulterous affair–I wasn’t sure if an unmarried woman qualified for a scarlet “A” or not. To hell with labels, anyway.

I didn’t care who started out on top, and Beth wanted to. Fine. If that arrangement was good enough for John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe, it was good enough for the likes of us. Though then it was the guy on the bottom who had the bad back, not the lady on top. Whatever. I wasn’t complaining.

In a minute Beth’s talented mouth had raised me from tumescent to fully erect. Then she positioned herself above me, cowgirl-style.

“Are you ready?” she asked. Clearly she meant psychologically. Physically, the answer was obvious.

“Very,” I said.

And before I had a chance to change my mind–not that I would have–I was inside her lovely, warm. and very moist vagina. Which commenced moving, slowly, up and down. I reached up to fondle those lovely breasts now jiggling as she moved. I brought my left index finger to her clitoris, but Beth moved it away.

“Later, please. Right now everything is perfect.”

It seemed perfect to me too. Except for the voice in my head reminding me, “This is a very bad idea.” Except for that small voice–which I did my best to ignore–everything did seem surprisingly, amazingly perfect. As though this were the most natural thing in the world, the most perfectly right thing, and why the hell did you put off doing this for so long?

Soon Beth’s body was stiffening, her movements becoming jerkier, and she was vocalizing more: “Yes… Yes….” Her finger darted to her clitoris, and two seconds later she was in the throes of a very large orgasm. By now I couldn’t remember the count and no longer cared. My penis could feel every good-sized contraction, and I nearly came too. Everything was good and getting better by the second. Beth lowered her chest to mine. I fondled her bottom as we kissed deeply and at length, my penis still inside her.

My excitement was growing, and something else was too: a sense–no, a deep knowledge–of the splendor of this occasion. Splendor in the Grass: wasn’t that a movie? And here we were! There was some kind of cosmic rightness to our coupling, and that feeling just kept growing. I wondered if Beth could feel it too.

“Change places?” I proposed.

“Yes.”

We did. The missionary position worked just fine. By now, I couldn’t focus for long on anything. I was sort of focusing on everything-at-once, if that makes any sense. I was lost somewhere in the universe, and totally at peace, and I had no particular wish to be brought back. On the other hand, I wanted Beth. With all my heart and soul. If there was a contradiction there, I didn’t let it occur to me.

I think Beth had another orgasm, but I wasn’t lucid enough to tell, or even to ask. I realized I myself was in the midst of an orgasm. I was now inseminating this wonderful, surprising woman, who had led me to a place I did not even suspect existed. And no, it wasn’t Andover.

************

Afterwards, back on planet Earth, we sat side by side, our knees drawn up, arms around each other’s shoulders, jerseys still on and unzipped. Beth slowly leaked semen onto a Kleenex. To my eyes, we looked charming.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” she said.

“God’s in his heaven–all’s right with the world!”

“Browning, yes. Pippa Passes. See? I too can identify a quote from time to time. You and your fucking Tertullian!”

“Sorry, I said. “Academics are like alcoholics. There’s no real cure, and we’re prone to relapsing at odd times. I forget that normal people aren’t used to us. You probably haven’t had sex with a professor since college.”

That got me an elbow in the ribs.

“Seriously, Stephen, something important just happened. It was totally thoughtless and illogical, so I won’t ask for your thoughts. But will you tell me some more about what you are feeling? The Browning line was a lovely start.”

Here any sensible man would have said simply, “I feel wonderful; it was great!” then segued to a passionate kiss. Naturally, I had to give her a closely-reasoned, detailed analysis instead.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll try. This is going to be hard to describe. First, on the physical level, sex with you was wonderful. A glow from that still lingers, You are not only a beautiful and fascinating woman, you are a talented and very skilled lover–as you darned well know. Now both of us know.”

She gave me a smile and a wink. I went on. And on. “But sex with you today went well beyond the physical. You still want my feelings? They’re complicated. Okay, here goes, Seventy percent of me feels that something of great cosmic beauty happened. Is happening. It feels wonderfully, incredibly right. I felt as though I could sense at last how thoroughly I was connected with nature. No: make that, with the other parts of nature. My fellow parts. Am I being too poetic?”

“No.”

I stumbled on. “My doubts and second-thoughts never went away. But somehow, beyond them–and beyond the physical pleasure too, and there was plenty of that–there was a peace. A profound sense of peace and, I guess you could say, a sense of the grand harmony of the natural world, of which I was a part. Of which our lovemaking also was a part. Oddly, all this peace and connectedness and harmony began well before my orgasm. My second one I mean. The orgasm itself was lovely, but frankly it couldn’t add all that much to what I had already been given.

“This was the most surprising thing to me: how natural it felt, how good, how right. Committing adultery with this near-stranger. This wonderful near-stranger who understood something before I did. Well, shortly before. Four hours ago we hadn’t even met.

“I said my orgasm added only a little to the occasion. But the ejaculation somehow felt very meaningful. The physical transfer of some very intimate fluid from my body into yours. Which you accepted with your whole heart and vagina. That was a very precious moment for me, Beth. Not the only one, of course.

“Sorry, Beth. I’m sure that was much longer than you wanted. I never know when to stop. How was it for you?”

Beth’s eyes were moist; probably mine were too. At last she spoke. “Stephen, I am beyond words. I am so happy for you. Us. How was it for me? Can I just give you a quick summary and tell you the details some other time? Here’s the summary. It was wonderful. But you’re not done yet. You told me about the good 70 percent of your feelings, What about the other 30?

I had to pause and think for a few seconds. “The other thirty percent has my rational faculties caught up in it, and there’s no way I can disentangle the two. I’m thinking-feeling: this is so fucked up, so unwise, so apt to end in disaster, so absurd–that one was your insight–and why the hell am I doing this? I am cheating on my wife–as most people would put it–doing so deliberately and without a drop of alcohol in my blood to blame it on. And if anyone asked me why, I couldn’t begin to tell them. How the hell do I explain this to Ann–or even to myself? Sorry, Beth, I’m an academic. I can’t not try to make rational sense out of experience–least of all my own. That’s my profession: over-thinking everything.”

“Stephen, may I interrupt?”

“Of course.”

“All of your misgivings make perfect sense, believe me. I’m guessing that this is the first time your mind has told you one thing and your soul has told you the exact opposite. Welcome down from the Ivory Tower, Stephen, and please stay awhile!

“I’m very glad the soul got the seventy percent. And to me those proportions sound exactly what they should be–for you, for the first time. Our second time, you’ll find it more like 85-15. That’s about where it was for me today. The third time, you will be 95-5, and at that point you will stop fretting. I’m willing to bet on it. Betcha a spare inner tube?”

“Agreed. Presta valve, don’t forget.”

“It doesn’t matter what you use. I’m going to win this one. But seriously, Stephen… please notice–in what you told me about your feelings–that all of your joy concerns things that actually happened… and most of your regrets concern things that might happen in the future. Or might not.”

I was beginning to wish that Beth would stop being right all the time. Ann didn’t have that problem.

Looking back on that afternoon, I guess hiding this fling from my wife–the conventional thing to do–somehow never struck me as an option. Not after Ann had told me of her own affair, gently and kindly, two hours after it had started. Eventually I realized that that was the best thing she could have done–apart from not fucking the guy in the first place. It’s “lies, secrets and silence” that destroy a relationship, not straying genitals themselves.

Once again, Beth was a step ahead of me.

“You worry about how you can go home and explain things,” she continued. “As I see it, you cannot ‘explain’ this to Ann–let alone to yourself–because no rational explanation could possibly make any sense out of what happened. Let alone justify it.

“But you do not need to explain what happened to Ann because–when you tell her about it–she will understand very well what happened, how it happened, and how you could possibly do such a thing.

“You want a concise summary of what happened to us? ‘Swept off our feet’ is an old cliche’, but that’s it in a nutshell. Or “swept away,” if you prefer. That’s how it got to be an old cliche’, right?–because millions of people before us decided that that’s a pretty good description of what hit them. Say either version, and Ann will understand.

“Just keep in mind that the sweeping-away began well before that cosmic tidal wave finally crashed down on your head and made you a Believer. I felt the rip tide tugging at our ankles about ten seconds into our first kiss. Before the old man on the three-speed went by, I knew we were goners. Need any more nautical metaphors? Ann would understand ‘in over your head,’ too.”

Once again, Beth was getting a little wound up.

“Look,” she continued, “you know that Ann is not an easy lay–at least outside of her marriage. You told me yourself–how surprised you were. What do you think happened to her five years ago? And why do you think she thanked you multiple times for how well you handled her affair but never, ever asked you to ‘forgive’ her? Well, choose your metaphor. Who could out-struggle a rip tide, let alone a tidal wave?

“Or here’s another one. She looked into the eyes of–whoever he was–and suddenly she beheld a burning bush and heard the voice of the Lord. Doubtless it wasn’t Jehovah. Gaia, more likely. When the Goddess very clearly tells you how she wants to be worshipped, what are you going to do? Keep your panties on and argue? What’s to ‘forgive’?

“That’s how you happened to join the herd of straying husbands, and both you and I are… okay, ‘blameless’ is putting it too strongly. Anyway, the story you share with Ann probably should end with your penis entering my vagina. Trust me, by then she will understand how it got there.”

By now she was definitely on a roll. I should nickname her “Pastrami.” She continued:

“But of course the story doesn’t really end at the first penetration. A rip tide or tidal wave never sweeps you just a little bit away from the shore, now does it? And the Goddess never gives you just a tiny little hint that you are in her presence. Never asks that you do her just a tiny little favor.

“First you thansgressed today, and then you really got clobbered. Two separate things, both wonderful. When you got clobbered you felt the unity of the universe: you, me, the grass, the birds, the sun, the rest of humanity…. I’m jealous! You described the classic, textbook-perfect “psychedelic” experience. You brought tears to my eyes, it was so lovely.

“When you finally get home, go into your bathroom and re-read the label on that big bottle of Dr. Bronner’s. All that mystical stuff about ‘ALL–ONE!’ This time it won’t strike you as gibberish.

“Now, what are the chances of you forgetting your… technically, I guess it’s ecstasy… five years down the road? Or never mind the ecstasy… what are the chances of you forgetting what it’s like to be swept off your feet and into some very willing arms?”

“I will never forget this afternoon, Beth. I think you know that.”

“I do. Betcha Ann won’t forget her afternoon, either–or whatever time of day it was.

“So: when an appropriate moment comes, just tell her what happened today. Tell her how you stumbled across this interesting girl and helped her pump up her tire, and she gave you a kiss, and something went BING! and the next thing you knew you were heavy petting, and the next thing you knew you were fucking, and you have no idea how or why it happened, and neither does the girl, but you can’t help feeling that some odd, irresistible force is in control here, and Ann is the one you love and want to be your wife forever, and you just wished you knew what the hell is going on.

“You are welcome to tell her my name if she asks–or if you like–and of course you say absolutely nothing even hinting that in the arms of this girl you had the most intense, profound, mind-blowing sexual experience of your life–one of them, anyway. Besides, I can’t even claim credit for that. You can thank the Goddess. And should. I just held you tight so you didn’t float away.

“Ann may not admit it at first, but she will understand perfectly well how this happened. Probably she’ll understand it better than you do. She’s had five years to ponder all those feelings.”

By now the circuit breaker at the base of my brain had tripped from overload. “Beth,” I said, “I could use a minute to let all this sink in. Could we break for a kiss or two?”

I reached over and fondled a breast, and then her lips came to mine. A long, sweet post-coital kiss. Very different from a foreplay kiss. I savored the experience: not increasing passion leading towards a climax but a sweet plateau of affection and pleasure on which we could skate around for as long as we liked. This was advanced, graduate-level sexuality, and both Beth and I knew what were doing. For once. About two minutes did the trick.

************

“Back to plotting and planning?” my co-conspirator asked.

“Almost done, Beth. Just help me visualize one more thing, if you don’t mind. Let’s say I do pretty much exactly as you suggested. Then what happens? Obviously, after ten years of marriage, I should be telling you. Can we at least see if our hunches are close?”

Beth was willing to try. We both knew that any woman understands women better than any man does. At least better than I do.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me picture her…. What sort of person would want to stay married to you for a decade–poor girl–and also would make you want to stay married to her? Factor in: she has been around the block once or twice. Good news, that….

“All right: you have told her the events of this day…. As I see it, the worst-case scenario is this. Even though Ann well understands how our encounter happened, she relapses into a Biblical mindset of betrayal, sin, and forgiveness. Also, deep down inside, she’s scared. After a fair amount of yelling and door-slamming, she forgives you your trespasses, and you promise to behave yourself. That ends our affair, but your marriage is intact. Ann absolutely knows that she owes you one fling–though please don’t remind her. She knows. I predict: that is the absolute worst that is likely to happen.

“Now, here is the scenario I would bet on. After a brief period of upset, Ann quickly understands what happened and how it could have happened. Though once again: deep down inside she’s afraid. Afraid you will leave her for me.

“Now, this part you’ll like. Despite her fears, Ann does not demand that you cease and desist immediately. Though of course that’s what she wants. Instead, she crosses her fingers and bets that the affair will soon die out on its own. She knows that a sudden “cease and desist” order will cause pain and some real damage to you. It could damage the marriage. And her upping the ante like that escalates the conflict and so might make you even more inclined to walk out. She sees that the best thing she could do at the moment is de-escalate the conflict, not rapidly push it closer to the crisis. She’s right on every count. Smart girl. Of course she knows that she is taking a big risk here and that what she is going to do will not be easy.

“If I’m still in your life two or three months from now, then maybe she’ll lower the boom. Or conceivably not, if things evolve in a good way.

“So: the sky does not fall, and you and I get to see each other a while longer, and everybody gets some time to ponder what they want to happen next. I don’t know myself how long I want this thing to last, and you don’t either. I do want to be with you at least two more times so I can win that inner tube. That’s a joke, Stephen! You really can lighten up a bit. In both scenarios, you get off a lot easier than most men would. And I do think the second one is much more likely than the first. This is your lucky day.”

“I realized that ten seconds into our first kiss, when you…”

“I know what I did, and I’m proud of myself,” she replied, sticking her tongue out at me. Which is pretty close to what she had done at second #10 of our kiss. “My way of trying to warn you about the rip tide. Is it my fault you weren’t paying attention?”

“Yes. You distracted me.”

But she had gotten serious again. “Stephen, you do know that I do not want to take you away from Ann, right? Not at the moment, anyway.”

“Yes. That’s good. I want you both.”

“You shall have us both. At least for awhile. Speaking of… I want to be clear about something else too. Whatever it is we’re doing is new to me too. I don’t know how to do this any more than you do.