Things We Tried On - Ch. 01

I used to think we were normal. Safe, even.

We weren't exactly sexual trailblazers when we tied the knot. I'd had one very brief -- and let's just say not exactly fireworks-worthy -- encounter with a guy I dated for a few months. Archie had a handful of flings under his belt, but most were more "hello and goodbye" than "once upon a time."

We did sleep together before the wedding -- we weren't that old-fashioned -- but our shared experience was more "starter pack" than highlight reel. Nothing scandalous, nothing wild. Compared to what some couples bring into marriage these days, we were beginners.

That said, we were solid. Comfortable. Sweet, even. We laughed a lot. We made dinners, made plans, made a life. And then -- bam -- along came Mark, born just over a year in, with Lisa hot on his heels fifteen months later. The early years were a beautiful, chaotic blur: baby bottles, diaper blowouts, laundry piles, and sleep deprivation so deep I forgot what day it was.

We didn't have time to be bored, let alone discontent.

As for me? No affairs. No secrets. No wandering eye. I wasn't restless -- and there weren't any dashing strangers queuing up to tempt me, either. I gained baby weight -- three times -- and I wasn't exactly sprinting back to the gym. The mirror didn't reflect some sultry goddess of lust. More like someone's tired wife with spit-up on her shirt and dry shampoo in her hair.

And yet...

But there was... one thing. A blip. A footnote in our story.

It happened when I was pregnant with Lisa. Archie was out of town for a job interview -- fancy company, wining and dining him -- and he didn't know a soul there. We hadn't had sex in a month and wouldn't be able to for another two, and well... somewhere between "lonely" and "rationalizing," Archie convinced himself a little extracurricular activity might be "therapeutic." Someone passed him a call girl's number, and -- gulp -- he actually called.

She came to his hotel room. He was nervous, awkward, unsure if this was something he could even do. (Literally. At first, he couldn't.) But she had this massage thing -- don't ask -- and eventually, things got moving, so to speak. It was quick. Impersonal. The kind of thing that should've faded into the background of a marriage.

Except it didn't.

He kept thinking about her. Not in a run-off-and-find-her kind of way, but... she lingered. In his head. In his fantasies. Even during our moments, sometimes she'd sneak in, uninvited. Not as a threat, but as a ghost of something Archie didn't quite understand yet.

By the time everything finally came bubbling to the surface, our relationship was hanging on by a thread -- and not a very sturdy one. We hadn't been intimate in, oh, about five months. Not that anyone was keeping score... except maybe me.

Don't get me wrong -- Archie's a good husband. Really, he is. He does the dishes, folds laundry without being asked (sometimes), and never acts like babysitting his own kids is some heroic favor. After a long day in the domestic trenches, a little help goes a long way.

He still tries, too -- especially at night, when the house is quiet and the kids are finally asleep. That's usually when he'll sneak in a back rub or try to pull me close. But honestly? By then, I'm toast. Utterly spent. There are flickers during the day -- strange little moments when he's not around and I do miss him, maybe even crave him a little. But by the time he walks in the door? Poof. It's gone. Drowned in laundry, spilled juice, sibling squabbles, and dinner that won't cook itself. I'm just... done.

So, inch by inch, we drifted. No fights. No blow-ups. Just a slow, quiet widening of the gap between us.

Now we've got three kids, and the idea of passion -- real, knock-your-socks-off passion -- feels more like a bedtime story we used to believe in than something we're actively living. That one night with the call girl, plus whatever private daydreams it stirred up afterward, was the beginning and end of Archie's "cheating," if you even want to call it that. I genuinely don't think he ever meant for it to become anything more.

From his point of view, our sex life was perfectly fine. Better than fine -- satisfying, even.

From mine? Not so much.

Then there's Barbara and Ken -- our across-the-driveway neighbors. They're about our age, and from the moment we met, it just... clicked. They were warm, funny, low-key -- the kind of people you actually want to run into in your pajamas. Their kids were close in age to ours, and we all seemed to be floating in the same middle-class boat. Similar income, similar chaos, similar wine-fueled rants about sleep training and school fees. It was easy. Familiar. Comfortable.

Maybe a little too comfortable, depending on how you look at it.

But this wasn't just about shared schedules or mutual kid-wrangling. There was something more. That effortless connection you can't plan or fake -- the kind that happens when all the little social gears click into place on their own. You can have all the common ground in the world, but if the chemistry's off, it's just small talk and awkward silences.

With Barbara and Ken? It clicked. Instantly.

I liked Ken right away. He had that quiet, confident thing going -- the kind of man who doesn't need to be the center of attention but still somehow draws it anyway. Fit but not flashy, well-dressed in a "this old thing?" kind of way, and always ready with a story worth hearing. Even better, he actually listened -- like, real listening, not the nod-and-smile kind most people fake their way through.

And Barbara... well, Barbara was something else entirely.

She was stunning. Curves that turned heads -- the kind of figure you'd expect to fade or shift with time, but hers? Still a masterpiece. Nothing softened. Nothing sagged. Everything right where you'd expect it in some impossibly generous twist of nature. But what really got me wasn't her body. It was her eyes.

She had a way of looking at you -- not just at you, but through you. Deep. Direct. Like she could sift through your words and pull out the secrets you hadn't even admitted to yourself. People would probably call it "bedroom eyes," but that doesn't really do it justice. It wasn't just about sex. It was intimacy. Intensity. That kind of focus that makes you feel a little naked -- in more ways than one.

And yes... I was attracted to her.

Not just a casual girl-crush or the kind of admiration women sometimes share with a wink and a compliment. I thought about sleeping with her. Not obsessively -- just flashes, flickers, mental snapshots I didn't ask for. They caught me off guard. I'd never had those kinds of thoughts before, not about a woman. And I wasn't sure what to do with them.

Still, Barbara and I got close. Really close. We'd sneak off to movies our husbands wouldn't sit through -- slow-burn foreign films or costume dramas with tortured stares and not a single explosion. We talked all the time -- on the phone, at the store, in dressing rooms, holding up tops and giving each other the kind of brutally honest feedback only real friends can get away with.

Sometimes we'd drift into personal territory, a little too deep, a little too revealing -- and then laugh it off, like, oops, look at us oversharing again. But it kept happening. And I kept going back for more.

One weekday evening, we had plans for our usual escape -- something foreign, moody, and very French, I think. The kind of film where everyone looks gorgeous and miserable and smokes too much. But when we got to the theater, we found out it had already come and gone. Replaced by something loud, predictable, and painfully American.

Barbara glanced at the movie poster, made a face, then turned to me. "Drink instead?"

"Sure," I said. "That little place down the road looks halfway respectable."

"Perfect." She smiled and casually looped her arm through mine like it was just... how we walked now.

We ended up in this cozy, dimly lit restaurant-bar -- the kind with soft music humming underneath every conversation and candles on the tables that made everyone look a little more mysterious than they really were. We slipped into a corner booth and ordered drinks. I don't usually go for alcohol, but that night, I said yes to a mojito -- and didn't ask for the weak version.

It didn't take long for the volume of our voices to drop and our bodies to lean in. There was something about that space -- the shadows, the sweetness of mint and rum, the way Barbara swirled her drink like she was waiting for secrets to rise to the surface.

"So," she said eventually, one elbow propped, her eyes glinting in the candlelight, "do you ever feel like you're living someone else's life?"

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." She gave a soft sigh and started folding the edge of her napkin between her fingers. "You grow up with this picture in your head. What it'll all be like. Who you'll be. And then one day it's diapers and school runs and freezer meals. Grocery lists. Homework. You look around and think, when did I become this person? You still love your husband, your kids -- of course you do. But sometimes... it's like you disappeared in the process."

I just looked at her. Let it sink in. "Yeah," I said finally. "I do feel that. More than I like to admit."

That's when she looked at me -- really looked. Straight through all the armor. That gaze of hers could melt paint off a wall.

"Sometimes," she said, voice low, "I wonder what would happen if we just... let ourselves want what we want."

And just like that, something fluttered in my stomach. Or maybe lower. Blame the mojito. Or the music. Or the way she said want like it was a secret she was handing me with both hands.

I gave a soft, nervous laugh. "Dangerous question."

Barbara smiled -- slow and knowing. "Maybe. Or maybe it's the only one that matters."

Soon, we were deep into some slightly scandalous gossip, but it had a different tone -- more intimate, like we were circling something unspoken. I could feel the buzz of alcohol in my veins, but something else too. The way she leaned just a little closer when she spoke. The way her fingertips brushed mine as she handed me a napkin. Accidental. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Eventually, our conversation drifted into dangerous territory -- the kind of talk that leaves your pulse racing, even when you pretend you're just two friends with wine and time to kill. The alcohol had smoothed away my usual filters, and Barbara's steady gaze made it feel safe to say things I normally wouldn't even let myself think out loud.

"I need to tell you something," I said, my voice quieter than before, my fingers nervously tracing the rim of my glass.

Barbara leaned in slightly. "Okay..." Her tone was gentle, curious -- not playful now, but open. Serious.

I hesitated, heart pounding. "This is... a little crazy. And I've never told anyone. Not even Archie."

She didn't blink. Just waited.

"I've never... done anything with a woman," I said, looking down at my hands. "And I never really expected to. But you -- Barbara -- you turn me on."

She blinked, just once, then looked straight into me again.

"I mean," I rushed on, "I've had thoughts. About you. About what it would feel like to touch you. To hold you. I've fantasized, and I didn't mean to, but it just kept happening. And tonight, maybe I've had too much to drink, but... I guess I'm wondering if you've ever thought about it. About trying. With me."

As soon as the words were out, I wanted to disappear. My cheeks burned. I couldn't look at her.

There was a pause -- not long, but heavy -- before she responded. For a split second, I thought she might say yes right then and there. Her eyes softened. Her lips parted slightly.

But then... she paused. Her gaze drifted away from me, unfocused, like she was looking through the wall behind me into some far-off thought.

She stayed like that for a beat. Then two. When she finally looked back at me, her voice was low. "You really caught me off guard," she said softly.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, mortified. "I shouldn't have said anything. Just pretend I didn't -- "

"No." She reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine -- warm, gentle, grounding. "Don't apologize. I'm not upset. Just... surprised. And kind of... flattered, honestly."

I dared to look up. Her smile was small but real, something soft flickering behind her eyes.

"I have thought about it," she said. "Not seriously. Not often. But I'd be lying if I said never."

I froze, pulse hammering. "So... what does that mean?" I asked, barely breathing.

Barbara leaned back, exhaling slowly, as if weighing something delicate in her hands. "It means..." she hesitated, then gave me a playful smile, "maybe we could treat tonight like a little impromptu date. Just to see what that might feel like."

I blinked. "A date?"

She nodded once, then signaled for the check.

We paid quickly, the mood between us suddenly crackling with an edge of anticipation. Before I could find the words to ask what she had in mind, Barbara stood, and with a little smirk, tilted her head toward the door. "Come on."

Startled, I followed her outside. She didn't say where we were going, and for a second I almost stopped her. But she had called it a date -- and somehow, I wasn't about to protest.

We walked in silence to her car. The night air was cool, and the world felt oddly quiet, like it was holding its breath.

As she started driving, I glanced over. "Where are we going?" I asked lightly, though I could feel my heart picking up.

"There's a place I like," she said, eyes on the road, voice low. "Okay by you?"

"Sure," I replied, trying to keep my tone casual.

"It's... kind of new. Sort of a secret place," she said with a little grin.

Five minutes later, she turned off the main road and pulled into a secluded driveway that led to a small night spot -- quiet, dimly lit, almost hidden. But instead of parking near the entrance, she guided the car toward a far, shadowed corner of the lot, under the veil of a drooping willow. She killed the engine, turned off the headlights. Darkness and stillness folded in around us.

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the buzz of the locusts and the scent of summer night air settle around me. The tension in my chest loosened just a little.

Then I felt her move.

Barbara shifted closer, slowly, her thigh brushing mine. I opened my eyes as her arm came around my shoulders, her voice a whisper against the hush.

"Linda..." Barbara's voice was a warm breath in the hush between them. "I want to kiss you. You're so beautiful. Please... let me."

My lips parted, but no words came. Just a rush of heat. The heavy, thrumming beat of my heart filled my ears.

Barbara didn't wait. She leaned in slowly, her lips brushing the corner of my mouth, lingering, almost testing. Then they found mine fully -- soft, searching. Her tongue slipped between my lips, tentative but unmistakable.

"Mmm..." I breathed against her, a low moan escaping as something inside me melted. The sensation was electric -- new, and yet somehow familiar in its intensity.

Her hand slid gently up my side, fingers brushing over my breast. I gasped, hips shifting instinctively toward her. It felt shockingly right.

"Oh, Linda," she murmured between kisses, her voice husky with need. "You're... you're all woman. God, you excite me. I don't know what this is, but I love it. I love you."

Something in the way she said it -- so raw, so unguarded -- made my throat tighten. The words weren't poetic or polished. They weren't even fully formed. Just a breath, a murmur, half-drowned in wine and want.

"I've wanted this... longer than I can admit," she said.

I reached up without thinking, touched her face, let my fingers slide into her hair. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to stroke her like that -- tenderly, reverently. She leaned into my touch, eyes closing for a second like she'd been waiting for it.

When I kissed her back -- deeply, boldly -- it wasn't hesitation or curiosity that moved me. It was hunger. Real, aching hunger. I kissed her the way I would kiss a man I wanted. The way I used to kiss Archie, once upon a time, back when everything still sparked.

It started like that -- in my mind, I was just playing a familiar part -- but it didn't stay that way.

She opened her mouth, and I let her in. Her tongue found mine, and something shifted. I wasn't just kissing her anymore -- I was in the kiss. Lost in it. Pulled under. And the strangest thing happened: I started to feel like I wasn't just me.

It was as if the roles blurred. I was the woman being kissed by someone with heat and force, and in the next moment, I was the man making love to a girl, claiming her mouth, tasting her desire. It wasn't simultaneous, not quite. More like flickering -- flashes, alternating. First one, then the other. Woman, man. Taken, taking.

"You taste like trouble," she whispered, her lips brushing mine. Her voice was low, teasing, but her breath caught like she meant it.

"And you kiss like you've forgotten who you are," I replied, my voice sounding distant, strange in my own ears.

Maybe I had. Maybe that was the point.

The wine was humming in my blood, softening the edges of everything. I was loose. Uninhibited. My mind drifted, quieted. And once that happened -- once I stopped trying to understand -- I could finally just feel.

It was confusing. It was strange. But it was also freeing. And it was happening. No matter how hard I might try to explain it later, I'd never get the balance right.

Because in that moment, I wasn't trying to make sense. I was letting go.

Our bodies took over. Our hands found each other's hips, thighs, breasts -- searching, testing, learning. Her fingers slipped beneath my skirt, stroking the damp heat between my legs. I shuddered, hips lifting to meet her touch.

I returned the favor, sliding my hand up her inner thigh, fingers grazing the silky fabric of her panties, feeling her open for me. She let out a small gasp, her back arching.

I couldn't believe how natural it felt. How fiercely I wanted this. How right her body felt against mine.

We were tangled together, breathless and lost in each other, when the door to restaurant swung open with a bang.

Laughter rang out -- two women, arm in arm, clearly tipsy, stumbling out into the night. Their voices carried toward us, and Barbara and I froze, hearts pounding for a different reason now.

We stayed still, breath caught in our throats, as the women passed, oblivious. Then silence returned.

Barbara looked at me, eyes wide but glowing. "Well," she whispered, a wicked little smile curving her lips, "that was close."

I laughed, breathless, nerves tingling. "Too close."

"But worth it?"

I looked at her -- really looked -- and nodded. "Yeah. So worth it."

For a moment, I just sat there, dazed by the fire she'd lit inside me. The air was thick with the scent of summer and the heat of our shared breath. I lifted my head, glancing toward the low-lit building nearby. It finally clicked.

"Oh," I murmured, almost to myself. "This is a lesbian place, isn't it?"

Barbara's lips hovered just a whisper away. "Yes, darling," she said, brushing that last inch between us and kissing me softly. "I thought you'd like it. I brought you here because I... I feel something warm for you. Like you're my sister."

As Barbara opened the door and the soft hum of music spilled out, I hesitated for just a second. The scent of something floral in the air -- Barbara's perfume, or maybe just the summer night -- stirred something I hadn't felt in years -- not really. Not until Barbara's lips brushed mine under the weeping willow.

Barbara grinned suddenly. "You've thrown down the gauntlet," she said. "I accept. I'm not the world's worst lover by any means."

"Great," I smiled.

A burst of laughter erupted from a table across the room. "Hey, Barbara! Come over! Who's your new girlfriend?"

Barbara squeezed my elbow and whispered, "Ignore them. They're harmless." She steered me past the cluster of women -- loud, confident, laughing -- and led us to a quieter table tucked into the corner.

"Let me sit where I can watch the show," I said, only half joking. I wasn't sure I wanted to be a part of it... but I couldn't look away.

There must have been twenty women in the bar -- some leaning over pool tables in the back, others cozied up at the bar. There was no single type. Some were butch, some were strikingly feminine. Some looked barely twenty; others, maybe forty or older. Everyone dressed casually, comfortably, like they belonged.

Even a couple of straight couples sat tucked in the back, chatting over drinks. No one gave them a second glance.

"Well?" Barbara asked when our drinks arrived.

I gave her a smile, tasting my second mojito of the day. "It's a whole new scene, as they say. If I were ten years younger... maybe then."

"Shucks. Foiled again," she laughed. "But give it a chance. Who knows? You might like it." Barbara reached across the table and placed her hand lightly over mine. Her thumb brushed my knuckles, grounding me.

I looked at her, really looked, and for the first time that night I felt something inside me ease. Not because I had answers, but because someone else had seen the question -- and stayed.

She told me you didn't have to be all of something to enjoy a taste of it. I laughed and said I didn't think she had any idea what she was talking about.

"Oh, Linda," she said, her voice somewhere between teasing and tender. "Didn't you ever have a crush on a girl at school? Or on a teacher? Didn't anything ever happen with a roommate in college?"

I told her no -- that I hadn't, that it had never even crossed my mind. And that was the truth. "And I suppose you did?" I added. I meant it to sound sarcastic, but it came out softer. More curious than accusatory.

"Yes," she said simply. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"So... you were a lesbian?" I asked. The word felt too sharp, too definitive.

"I didn't say that," she replied. "Why does everyone rush to put people in boxes? No, I wasn't a lesbian. But in my junior year, I had a beautiful, warm love affair with my roommate. And I don't regret a second of it."

That stopped me. Shocked me, honestly. Not just what she said -- but how she said it. Calm. Casual. Like she wasn't confessing, just sharing. No shame. No need for explanation. Like she'd told me she once played the violin, or spent a summer in France.

I looked at her differently after that. Not with suspicion. Not even judgment. Just... differently. As if a door had quietly opened between us, and behind it was a room I'd never known existed.

I wouldn't say it excited me -- not exactly. It unsettled me more than anything. Like something long buried had shifted. It stirred a feeling I couldn't name, just an ache behind the ribs.

I asked her what she and her roommate had actually done -- if it was just kissing, fooling around, something harmless.

Barbara looked me straight in the eye. "We did everything," she said.

I swallowed. "What does everything mean?" My voice came out softer than I meant, almost a whisper.

She smiled -- that slow, knowing smile -- familiar, and yet suddenly charged with something electric. It made me feel like I was twelve again, like I was standing too close to something I didn't yet understand. "Seems silly to list it all," she said, her voice almost teasing. "Why don't I just show you sometime?"

For a moment, I couldn't believe it was her saying those words.

Something cracked open in me then. Maybe it was the way she held my gaze, or the way she spoke with that unshakable confidence. Maybe it was the wine, warm in my blood. But I started talking -- really talking -- in a way I hadn't in years. I told her about that one woman. The games I'd wanted to play. The touches I imagined. The questions I asked in the dark, alone. The kisses that never landed. The things I'd only dreamed of doing.

Barbara's eyes softened, darkened. She leaned in slightly, the space between us thick with something unspoken. Her hand slid up, almost casually, and came to rest on my breast. Her thumb moved -- slow, deliberate -- just once.

"Your words are turning me on. Don't you know that?" she whispered, her breath warm against my cheek.

"I'm turning myself on," I said, my voice barely audible, as I felt her foot slide up the inside of my calf, her toe pressing between my legs. My breath hitched. I tilted my hips forward, parting my thighs just enough, letting her in. The heat, the tension, the ache -- it all swelled inside me at once.

I looked into her eyes, and saw it there -- the invitation, the promise, the danger of stepping over a line I hadn't even known I'd drawn.

And still, I opened.

My breath was coming in short, uneven gasps. My lips parted. I squirmed slightly in my seat as little waves of heat rippled through my body, pooling low, making it hard to sit still.

"Let's go soon," Barbara said, her voice husky as she drained the last of her cocktail.

"Yes," I murmured.

We stood and left without another word. The ride back was quiet. I stared out the window, trying to collect myself, my pulse still erratic. Barbara's hand found mine now and then, brushing against it lightly, her touch sending sparks up my arm each time.

I turned to look at her, startled and flushed. "How do you feel about that now?"

Barbara glanced at me, the corners of her lips curled in that soft, teasing smile. "How do you feel about it?"

I hesitated, then gave a quiet, breathy laugh. "Honestly? Aroused."

She laughed -- low, delighted -- and reached over, giving my thigh a gentle squeeze that sent another tremor through me.

"Do you really think that's all this is?" I asked. "Just... arousal?" I paused, searching for the words. "I don't know. It feels like more. Like two women who... like each other. Maybe even need each other."

I glanced at her. "Tell me something -- do you do this often?"

Barbara didn't miss a beat. "Yes," she said simply. "I'm what people call bi."

She'd never given any hint. No late-night confessions, no stories, no signs. Or maybe the signs had always been there, and I'd just never let myself see them. Maybe I hadn't wanted to.

"Not real relationships," she added after a moment. "Not since I was married. Just... moments. One-night things."

I let that sit between us for a beat, then asked, "And would you want more than that?"

"And would you want more than that?"

"I think I'd like to try," she said, her voice calm, but weighted with something else. "The worst that could happen is we find out it's not for us."

I nodded, but inside, I wasn't so sure. To me, the worst thing wouldn't be disliking it. The worst thing would be discovering just how much I did.

We drove home in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, the hum of the tires the only sound between us. At her driveway, Barbara turned to me and smiled -- not the wicked, knowing smile from earlier, but something softer. Fonder. She didn't say anything. Neither did I.

We each went back to our own homes. Our own lives.

For several weeks, we didn't speak of what had happened. Not a word. We met for coffee. We texted about mundane things -- appointments, kids, the weather. But the silence around that night hung between us like a secret too sacred, or too dangerous, to touch.

And yet, it was always there.

In the way her fingers brushed mine when we reached for the same sugar packet. In the way our eyes lingered too long, searching, remembering. In the pauses, and the pulse beneath them.

We hadn't said no. We hadn't said yes. We were still hovering in that fragile in-between. And somehow, I knew we wouldn't stay there forever.

Barbara and I ended up getting much more intimately involved -- sexually and emotionally -- than either of us had planned. It just... unfolded. Slipped past the boundaries before we even noticed they'd moved.

Much more deeply than Archie ever knew, I think. Not that I deliberately kept things from him. I didn't lie or hide, not really. But there were things he just couldn't grasp, simply because he wasn't in it with us. But what was happening between Barbara and me... that was something else entirely.

Once, I asked her, quietly, "Do you think they have any idea? About what this is between us?"

Barbara's lips brushed my shoulder before she whispered, "I don't think they can. Not really. It's not something you explain."

I nodded slowly. "No... it's not."

Part of what made it all so intense, so irresistibly electric, was the forbidden-fruit aspect of it. I'm sure of that.

I don't mean that as a criticism. Not at all. We had more fun. We got more creative. But it was still, in essence, man-woman sex, it followed the same script.

But Barbara? That was something completely different. It wasn't just a variation. It was a different language.

"I feel like I've been speaking French all my life," I told her once, breathless, "and now suddenly I've discovered Italian."

She laughed softly, fingers tracing circles on my hip. "And you're fluent already."

I grinned. "It's a very sensual language."

She leaned in and kissed my throat. "It's a very kinky one, too."

And she was right. It was kinky -- but not in the way I usually thought of that word. It wasn't about costumes or props or roles. It was about the difference itself. About the way her touch felt compared to his. The way she understood a woman's body from the inside. It was softer and sharper all at once. Familiar and alien.

And it pulled me in so deep that even now, I sometimes wonder if I ever quite came all the way back.