Swing

Three couples stood nearby as I worked on ridding another bar of its alcohol infestation. Out of respect and indifference, I usually ignore married women. However, I have noticed that when you ignore certain people they’ll display odd behaviors to grab attention. She wasn’t holding any signs, but began performing humping-jacks.

“Hey, how are you?”

“All right.”

“Are you from around here?”
“You’re married.”

“I know. My husband is right over there.”

“Right.”

“So …”

“Carlsbad.”

“Ah. You’re really cute.”

“You’re married.”

“You can still be cute,” she said while grabbing my arm.

“I guess it depends on your angle.”

“Wow, you have great arms too.”
“You’re married.”

“I know. Look, he’s cool. We’ve been married fourteen years. He trusts me. This is my friend, Emma,” she said, dragging her friend into the conversation—confusing me further.

“Hello, Emma. I’m Phil … and you’re married too.”

“Yes, I am. My husband is over there talking to Megan’s husband who, by the way, is my gyno.”

“Of course, he is.”

Both women continued the unwelcome flirtation with my buddy and me. It was disturbing not only because they were married, but because they were distracting us from the unwed. They finally left us to refuel, and we debated their intentions.

“Dude, I’ll hook up with a married woman, but not while her husband is a few feet away encouraging it.”

“You think they’re swingers?”

“No doubt.”

“They could be Christians.”

“What?”

“Some sort of cult thing, possibly. Perhaps they lure single men back to their dens, drug them, and shove speculums up their rectums.”

“No more rum for you.”

“All right. They’re swingers. Would you do it?”

“Hell no. You?”

“That little spinner, Megan, is right in my wheelhouse.”

“Go for it.”

“Nope, but I must play along.”

Megan returned, sneaking up behind me and grabbing my ass cheeks like peaches.

“Wow, you have a great ass.”

“By all means, help yourself.”

“It’s harmless. See? It gets me all worked up and then I go home and fuck the shit out of my husband.”

“Happy to be of service. I assume it’s OK for him to go a-groping too.”

“Sure, but he’s talking football with his buddies.”

“’Tis the season.”

“You can grab my butt if you like,” she offered as she turned away, bent over, and lifted her skirt—exposing her tiny pink panties. She looked over her left shoulder, smiled, and winked. Naturally, this caused me to imagine the next great one-handed catch Vincent Jackson would make.

“I like and I won’t, but thank you.”

My buddy asked if he saw what he thought he saw. I reassured him and excused myself to the restroom to cool off. After a few shakes I walked straight into Megan, who grabbed me and planted a slippery kiss on my paranoid lips.

“Hey, you.”

“Megan, what the …”

“Shh. Let’s go into a stall and do it. Want to?”

“Yes and no.”

“Don’t worry. It’s cool.”

“You have an unconventional marriage.”

“We just do what we need to keep it spicy.”

“Have you tried the jalapeño nachos?”

“Chicken.”

“… or beef. Both are picoso.”

My instincts prodded me but I couldn’t do it. What strange times we live in.