Room for More: Two Guys, One Girl
by Giselle Renarde
Previously published by Amber Quill Press as Painting with Brushes.
“You made love to him in our bed, didn’t you?”
One man and another man, their bodies writhing together…rough sex...tender kisses…
“When you were away,” Mark admitted. He didn’t stop painting to confess. “You visited your mother the summer Jason Paul and I first met. We lived in your bed that entire week.”
Where had her anger gone? She felt none of it. In fact, when she reflected on the two men falling in love and into bed, it seemed romantic. She had the choice to play a bit part in their love story, or to play the evil witch. Why had she chosen the latter? Why had she made their love more difficult than it had to be?
Simple enough, she thought: Jason Paul was her husband. Of course she felt possessive of him—she was in love with him too!
Was it possible to love selflessly, she wondered? One could love one’s children and one’s parents without ego interference. Yes, it was very possible to love two people at once. But being in love was different. In love, she’d been jealous and controlling. It didn’t seem like too much to ask, at the time, that her husband not sleep with other people.
Love was such a crazy animal. Uncontrollable.
“I had a feeling you did,” she said. “Something about the sheets. They seemed more tousled than usual.”
“We washed them.”
“We had sex up against the washing machine,” he reflected. Mark shook his head, staring at the wall. “Sorry. I’m sure you didn’t need to know that.”
“I don’t mind.” Claudia actually smiled when she pictured them together. And then she surprised herself by saying, “Tell me about it.”
Mark stopped painting and turned around. “About having sex on the washing machine?”
After the day’s start, she never would have imagined they’d end up in a conversation like this, but she was intent on knowing. She wanted to see it in her mind. “What did you do?”
Coming down from the stepstool, Mark picked up the whole can of primer and brought it with him to the ceiling. “It was the dryer, actually. When we threw the laundry in, Jason Paul made some joke about lesbians and the vibrations… I don’t remember exactly. He eased up against it and said it actually felt quite nice.”
“What were you wearing?” Claudia wanted to know.
“Wearing?” He seemed to reflect. “I had on my tightie whities. He was in that silk number of yours—the short black dressing gown.”
“Oh.” Her stomach felt full of butterflies as he spoke. She wasn’t nervous, though.
What was this inexplicable sensation? It felt terribly like arousal.
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