Half Open Ch. 08 - Mari Starts Dating

Chapter 8: Mari Starts Dating

Mari's first date as a married woman--sensual, thrilling, layered with hints of past agreements and unspoken rules. Mat is torn three ways: jealousy, arousal, and, again, a strange sense of pride.

Mari picks me up at the hospital after rounds. There's a bouquet of flowers in the passenger seat that I have to move to the back seat in order to get in. The tag on it says For My Favorite Roll. I know she's just come from the gym where she does jujitsu.

I wait for her to explain, but she doesn't. She drives in silence.

Then, "I have a date tonight."

I blink. "With who?"

"With whom. Adultery is bad enough, but I won't stand for bad grammar. It's objective case. Anyway, you don't know him. I see him at the gym. I want you to help me pick something to wear and help me get ready."

"Have we talked about this? Did I agree to this?"

"Later. We can talk tomorrow. For now I have to hurry and get ready."

"Aren't you breaking some rules?"

"I don't remember any rules."

"We need some rules."

By now we are home. We walk into the house. She goes into the bedroom and starts quickly stripping off clothes. She's obviously excited.

"We need some rules."

"Not now. I'm in a hurry. We can talk tomorrow."

I'm silent.

"Don't get pouty. This is my first date since we got married. Don't spoil it."

"How is this the first? You fucked Fletcher and you fucked Alan."

"Those weren't dates."

"What do you call them?"

"I don't know. Fucking. Plain fucking. I didn't prep and we didn't go out. I just fucked them."

"We need to talk."

"Not now." Now she is fully nude. She puts her weight on her left leg thrusting the hip out and forward, places her hands on her hips akimbo, and looks exasperated and impatient. "Are you helping me or not? We can talk about rules later. Now I'm in a hurry and I need you to help me get ready. He'll be here soon and I don't want to be late for my first date. Well, I mean my first date since we got married." My naked goddess standing before me. As usual, I am stunned by her beauty and her total desirability. I want to worship her and praise the gods who made her and made her mine. Of course I'm already compromised by an erection.

I guess my stunned silence is sufficient assent, though she doesn't ask for assent. Her skin is flushed. Her breath is quick. And she says so: "I'm so excited. I hope everything goes well."

I shake myself awake. God damn it, I can't get distracted. I need to stay on topic. "Are you going to fuck him?"

"Maybe so. Maybe I'll get lucky. I certainly hope so," she says quickly and giggles.

"Does he know you're married?"

"Yes."

"Does that bother him?"

"Yeah. We've been rolling for months and I finally had to ask him."

"What is rolling?

"It's slang for sparring, wrestling, practicing jujitsu."

"What did you ask him?"

"Whether he's ever tried rolling, practicing jujitsu, naked. He said, 'I thought you were married.'"

"I said, 'You think married women aren't fun?' Fun to fuck is what I meant, but I didn't say that. That would be too forward."

"Are you going to wear your ring?"

"If you want me to. I doubt it matters to him. Anyway, stop pouting. I'm going to have a great time and when I get home I'll share it all with you and we'll have a great time talking about it."

"Why can't I pout?"

"You should feel happy for me. I'm going to be fabulously fucked by an athletic young man. He's really cute and he's buffed up, a body builder, all muscle-y and hard-bodied--hard all over." She grins. "I can see the bulge in his shorts. Then I'll bring my sloppy seconds home to you. And you'll fuck me like you want to pound the memory of the feel of him out of my pussy. It'll be great. You'll see."

It's hard for me not to respond to her excitement and to feel excited with her. She seems so happy, hopeful, turned on. I adjust my undershorts around my erection.

Nonetheless, "Fabulous for you, but how about me?"

"What! Jealousy now. It's a little late for that. You'll love it. You never want me more than when someone else has had me. Think about how you pursued me after Fletcher. You couldn't keep your dick out of me. And Alan: It's like you were crazy for me. But that's not all: You kept reminding me, reminding us about it and encouraging me to talk about it. Admit it, you loved it. It excited you. Unbearably. Unbearably excited you."

"I think I'm entitled to a little jealousy. Since we got married two months ago, you've fucked Fletcher and Alan and now this guy."

"Jealousy is the wrong word. There's nobody I want more than you. I want you most of all. It's just that I don't want you exclusively. I like having you and somebody else sometimes. That's not right either. I like having somebody else and then having you. We're both so turned on we can't stand it. Both of us keep bringing it up. My monogamy is a turn-off for both of us. My fucking around is a turn-on for both of us."

She lays out three outfits: one demure, one daring, and one that practically whispers take me. I pick the daring one.

She lifts the sheer, see-through top and the tight miniskirt. "Not this one?" she asks, grinning. She kisses me. "You are overruled. This is my first date since we got married. I want to make it memorable."

I must have looked shocked, scandalized, because she adds "You picked it out and bought it for me, so you're hoist on your own petard." I twist my face into a wry smile, unsure if I feel flattered for my taste in women's clothing or played.

"I don't know that it's a hoist petard that is distracting me," and I look pointedly at my crotch. Her playful reversal is classic Mari--amusing, unnerving, and thoroughly disarming. She adds, "It's a date. I only put clothes on because I have so much fun taking them off, or having them taken off, being unwrapped like a birthday gift."

"What? Surely you aren't going to put out on your first date. What will he think of you? He won't respect you in the morning."

"I don't date to get respect; I date to get laid."

I imagine her as a decadent, forbidden gift--wrapped in mystery, scented with danger--unwrapped slowly, dramatically. And then I think, that's not the right image. She is a gift freely given, enthusiastically given, without mystery or subterfuge or coyness. A gift to be unwrapped quickly with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning and then thoroughly enjoyed.

Then she asks about underclothes. I hesitate when she tells me to choose. I take a breath and say, "No bra." Her rocket-launch nipples will show through the gossamer fabric. I pick out a pair of thong panties so tiny they're more decoration than clothing.

"I'll check," I say.

Wicked grin: "I may leave them behind as a souvenir. Or a reason to come back. You can buy me more. I love shopping for panties with you--to replace the ones I've left somewhere, where-ever."

She leans in close. "Wait up for me. Don't masturbate. Save it for me. I'll make it so worth it." Her breath is warm against my cheek, and for a moment I feel the familiar ache--desire braided with dread. I nod, unsure if I'm more afraid she'll stay out all night or that she won't.

"When will you come home?"

"I don't know. Maybe we should talk over the rules about sleepovers."

"Sleepovers?!"

"We can talk about it later. Now kiss me."

We embrace. We kiss. She reaches for my obvious erection and strokes. Then, "How am I doing? How's my manual technique? Y'think it'll work on him?" Playful, teasing. "It's a big moment for us," she says. "My first date since we got married. My first date as a married woman." She hops up and down twice and claps her hands. "I'm so excited."

"It's a big step," I say, a bit ruefully. "A watershed moment in our open marriage. I suppose I should be proud of you, but I have to admit it's a gulp."

Her phone buzzes--a text. "Start gulping; he's here." My stomach flips, my heart thuds--this is really happening.

I give her a quick once-over. She's perfectly lovely. Just to be sure, I slide my hands up her skirt, hook her panties with my thumbs, and tug them down to her knees. She lifts her skirt, revealing her muff. "Everything seems to be working fine."

"Check me; am I wet?"

I slide a finger into her and verify that she is indeed. "Like a bitch in heat." A flash memory, in childhood, of watching a bitch servicing a pack of frantic ardent males.

She takes my hand and leads me to the front window and cracks the curtain so we can peek out. I see her date waiting beside his car. "Isn't he cute? A real hunk. This is going to be great." I can feel her excitement. Her breath and speech are quick. Her gaze is intent.

"He's big--over six feet."

"Six-four and 210 and built like a brick fortress. God this is going to be so much fun."

"Have a good time," and I send her off with a pat on her lovely ass. She turns and gives a little ass wiggle and leaves.

I watch through the window as she greets her date in true Mari fashion--pressing her breasts, belly, and groin against him. She cups his ass with both hands. He returns the gesture, his hands slipping under her skirt to squeeze her bare cheeks. They share a deep, hungry kiss. I wonder if he's going to take her right there in the front yard, but then he walks her to the passenger side. She gets in with a graceful swing of her legs--I'm sure she gives him a good look up her skirt.

What am I feeling? Am I a victim, the cuckolded husband, or a co-conspirator, head cheerleader. I'm left behind like a pet dog to wait patiently, loyally for her return--whenever that is.

Back inside, I find a lipstick kiss on the mirror. Her perfume still lingers in the hallway--warm skin and something spicy. The scent hits me like a memory I haven't made yet--bittersweet, electric. My stomach knots and my pulse quickens. I lean against the wall for a moment, breathing it in, feeling the ache of absence, the buzz of anticipation, the strange thrill of surrender. My heart pounds and then I relax and then I think about what my Mari is up to and the pounding resumes.

She comes home about midnight--glowing. Not from wine, from something else--something intimate, some satisfaction humming through her bones, or the echo of being thoroughly wanted. Her dress is crooked at the shoulder, her hair wild with fresh tangles. There's a tiny red mark on her collarbone, half-hidden. I'm in bed, pretending to read. I close the book as soon as I see her.

She doesn't speak. She climbs onto the bed, straddles me, and leans in close. My breath catches. For a suspended second, I'm unsure whether I'm about to be punished or rewarded--or both. Her eyes hold mine, unreadable, and the silence between us swells with everything unspoken: jealousy, relief, arousal. And something else, something surprising--pride? Am I maybe a little bit in awe of her?

My body reacts before my brain can catch up. I'm already hard.

"He didn't ask for consent," she whispers.

"Why would he?" I say. "Your outfit was consent. You were dressed for fucking."

I ask, "What happened to your panties?"

She lifts her skirt. "Hmm. Let me check." We both look.

"I wonder what happened to them," she says.

Then, "We fucked three times. The first time was really quick, Less than five minutes. I rushed to have an orgasm and didn't make it. He seemed completely out of control, a mindless urgent beast. Then there was a pause for about 10 minutes, and he didn't really lose his erection. He got a little softer, but then got hard again. So then we fucked again. The second time it lasted about 10 minutes, and I was able to have a comfortable orgasm without rushing. And then after dinner we fucked the third time. Be gentle with me. I'm kind of sore."

And we are gentle with each other. I gently stroke in and out of her until she orgasms and then I orgasm and then we sleep.

The next morning, she's gone to class when I wake. I bump the nightstand reaching for my phone, and her diary falls to the floor, flipping open.

I don't break the rule--not exactly. But I linger on the edge of it, telling myself she might have left it precariously on the nightstand on purpose But my guilty part knows that's rationalization--my way of not feeling like a snoop, even as my eyes devour the words. But I read the open page. She hadn't 'accidentally' left it open for me. Still, I read what's written there.

Mari's Diary

In bed early in the morning, halfway between wakefulness and sleep, Mat lying beside me breathing softly and regularly, I think about my date. I rest my left hand on my right breast. I let my right hand slip down to my mons and then between my legs. I slowly, gently stroke my clitoris, stroking back and forth, tickling, stroking. I'm gentle with it because it is tender, battered, used, but still presents itself bravely to the fray--like Horatius at the bridge.

I recreate in my mind being out with my date while Mat waits for me at home. He's supposed to study, but I imagine it is hard for him to focus instead of imagining what I'm up to. I told him not to masturbate, "Save it for me," and he asks, "What are you saving for me?" "Nothing; I'm giving my date everything he wants from me [pause] and then I'll give you everything you want from me. Everyone gets everything they want from me." I demand that he save himself for me--but I don't reciprocate. I'm so unfair to my darling husband.

My date is happy to see me--instant pupil dilation. My top isn't ambiguous. I'll bet driving over he was wondering whether he might get lucky tonight, and hoping, hoping. Now he knows he is going to get lucky. I'm wearing nearly nothing, and pretty quickly I know I will be wearing nothing.

We're supposed to go out to dinner. He says he has to run by his apartment because he forgot to turn off the oven--uh huh. We were barely through the door before he was pushing me into his bedroom. I don't resist and then I'm on my back on the bed. I'm like an exciting new fast sports car. He is urgent to take me for a spin, drive me hard, drive me fast, drive me wherever he wants.

He doesn't ask permission. I don't give permission. My husband gave it for me, earlier, silently, by zipping me into this dress and not telling me to zip it back off. That was the permission. That was the prelude. This was the fuck. It was a quick bouncy fuck. My panties came off--so small that they are easy to overlook. I guess they fell behind something. I didn't bother to look for them.

Afterward, I laughed. He asked why. I said, "Because I'm never going to be this young or this shameless again, and I want to feel it."

He says, "You feel like trouble."

"I am."

I can feel him hardening again. I encourage him with my hands and then I'm on my back again, legs wide spread, his big hard body pressing down on me, his big hard cock thrusting into me. It's great. Everything I hoped for, and this second time it is just as intense, but longer. I easily orgasm twice. After, he is sated, at least for now.

He suggests something quick for dinner, a nearby pizza place.

As we leave, I ask, "Did you turn off your oven?"

He gives me a snarky look. "Oh yeah, I guess I must have turned it off and forgot."And then we go out. I delight in crossing and uncrossing my legs, exposing myself. It's a Sharon Stone moment, over and over. I can feel his eyes searching me, frisking me, as if he can feel me up with his gaze, and I show him plenty of me to feel up.

I think a date should start with appetizers and end with dessert. Back at his apartment he has me again. It all went on and on like it could go on forever, or actually just until I am sated--I mean sated with this man. Afterwards I'm still hungry. I lie beside him and find myself wondering whether he has a roommate.

But then I think, I'll save it for Mat, save something for my darling husband. As he drives me home I think about both men, the man who has just had me, and the man who is about to have me. The man who knows the cost, knows the ache, and lets me go, and I will never be sated with him. I will never have enough, let alone too much, of him.

He will want to know all I've been up to, and of course I'll tell him. I'll hint at other things that I'm not telling, maybe mention a roommate and when Mat asks, say evasively "Oh the roommate must have been out," and bite my lower lip and squirm a little, inviting him to speculate and let his imagination run with it. It delights me to make him speculate. I imagine the naughty things he imagines me doing. Oh, what my husband thinks of me!

My date intuited the truth: I am trouble. I love and fuck in equal measure. I am both flame and wick.

Mat's Narration Resumes

After I read her diary, I sit still for a long time. The room feels fuller somehow, like she's still there. I can almost smell her hair.

What did I expect to find? A confession? A lie? A moment of guilt?

Instead, I find this pulsing truth--raw, unapologetic, uncomplicated.

I close the diary. I put it back carefully, exactly as it was before I knocked it off the bedside table. Technically, I broke the rule of no touching. But I justify myself, fooling no one, that I'm only putting things back to right.

I already knew what she did. Now I know what she felt.

God help me, I love her even more for it. And in a way that puzzles me, I admire her for it. I feel oddly proud of her--in awe of her. In awe of her originality, daring, courage. I wonder why. She is the most original person I've ever known or can even imagine. Karl Marx reimagined the economic relationships among human beings, relationships fundamental to our existence, and this was revolutionary. Mari goes farther. She reimagines the erotic/affectional relationships between people, relationships more fundamental than economics. And not only does she reimagine, she lives according to her reimagining in a world that doesn't accept or even imagine her vision. She bravely fucks her cute little ass off and faces down the opprobrium staunchly, accepting slurs like slut and whore and wears them as if they are medals for valor. I flash on an image of her standing naked at attention before a huge throng as the President of the United States puts the Presidential Medal of Sexual Freedom around her neck. She is my brave, daring sex warrior, my Amazon of amor.

She likes reminding me of her date and all she did with her lover, just as she reminds me about Fletcher and about Alan. I am naked on my back and she is astride me, her pussy pressing on my navel. She says, "This reminds me of something my date wanted me to do. He told me to sit on his face. I wasn't sure what to do. I was on him like I am now on you. He gripped the globes of my ass and pulled me up on his body," and she takes my hands and puts them on her bottom. "Now pull me, pull my pussy up to your mouth," and I pull and she wriggles forward on her knees, "and then when my pussy was right over his face, he pulled me down to his mouth and kissed and tongued me." Which I did. When we finished she said, "Isn't it fun when I bring home new tricks that I learn on my dates." Dates with an "s," I think to myself.

Mari's Diary

He drives me home, back to my husband.

He says in that cocky arrogant way some men have, "I guess your husband doesn't give you that."

I respond too quickly. "Really? Do you think that's what this is about?"

"Why else?"

I think for a bit. I let it sink in. Then I say, "Tchaikovsky is my favorite composer. He's not the greatest composer-- not like Mozart or Beethoven--but I like Tchaikovsky best. My husband is my Tchaikovsky. He makes me experience the sexual equivalent of hearing Swan Lake. I don't listen only to Tchaikovsky. I don't listen to Swan Lake on a continuous loop. I listen to other music by other composers. It's not because I think less of Tchaikovsky; rather it's that there are other worthwhile listening experiences. When I return to Tchaikovsky after listening to Mahler, I find the experience deeper and more rewarding." Long pause; two-minute pause. "Do you understand?"

"Sure," in a dismissive "so what's your point" kind of way.

I'm silent a bit longer, then I say, "I like visual art too. Caravaggio is one of my favorite painters. I especially like his painting of Judith and Holofernes. Do you know it? Judith is a beautiful Jewish woman. She presents herself to King Holofernes. He enjoys her sexually and then falls asleep, sated with wine and sexual excess. The painting depicts Judith cutting his head off with a sword. I like the bizarre colors, the chiaroscuro and the vivid portrayal of violence."

He turns his head and looks at me in a "what the fuck" kind of way. But what he chokes out is "That's interesting."

We are two sexual dabblers talking casually on the drive home after a tryst. That is one wavelength of communication. I transmit on two wavelengths. He receives on both wavelengths but is conscious only of the feeling provoked.

Mat asked whether we would go out again, me and my muscle man. I don't want to. I doubt my erstwhile date would risk it.

Mat and Mari talk

After her first date, we talk about it constantly. I have to acknowledge that it is a total turn on, just like she promised it would be. If I don't bring it up, she does. She loves reminding me. Sometimes during sex, she asks me to fantasize with her about what it was like to have that big hard body on top of her and that big hard dick slamming into her. She says he was big. And then adds, "Too big. Sometimes there wasn't enough wiggle room to give me the stimulation I like. But it was still an impressive sensation to be impaled on such a big hard cock."

"And it wasn't just his dick that was big and hard. His whole body was big and hard. His muscles bulge and sometimes it hurt a little to bump into them, like hitting a piece of wood."

"Is this going to become a taste of yours?"

"Not a taste, but I'm glad I did it. It was fun, the feeling of all that hard muscle enveloping me. I don't always want to deal with a big dick or a hard bulgy body, but it's fun to try sometimes."

Another night, it's late; we're tired, on sleep's edge, slowly making love, and she whispers in a drowsy dreamy voice, "My date, my bodybuilder--he waxed off all the hair on his body except his head and eyebrows. He was odorless. I wondered while he fucked me whether he scrubbed himself with steel wool and scouring powder and bleach." She giggles gently at the absurdity. She goes on, softly, tenderly "I love the way you smell, your chest, your underarms, your groin--warm, animal, musky, not intense, but there. You smell like love to me. Sometimes when I'm sucking your dick, I take it out of my mouth so I can bury my nose in your pubic hair and breathe in the redolent odor of you." I hear the susurration of her whisper, stroke slowly in and out, and sink into a drowsy oneiric fog. The next morning I try to remember whether we finished fucking, climaxed, but can't. Did we just drift into sleep?

"He said if I shaved and waxed away my hair I could be a porn star."

"Would you like me to shave you for him, wax away your hair, scrub you with scouring powder and steel wool and bleach, make you clean and odorless."

"Would you want me that way? Would you want me like a porn star."

"No. Porn actresses are sometimes a bit off-putting for me. Their faces, figures, boobs are like women's, but their pussies look like those of a child. It seems to me that fur down there is a mark of maturity, it says that a woman is ripe and ready. Porn stars seem like Barbie dolls or store mannequins, when you get there, there's no there there. Women used to wear panty hose, and I had the same problem with that. When I ran my hand up a woman's skirt, I got a handful of nothing but smooth nylon.

"The fur on a woman's beaver is her flag for her pussy. It says 'Here I am, here's what you're looking for.' The fur calls attention to the genitalia. It's like a large red sign over a diner, an arrow pointing to the entrance proclaiming "EATS." Pubic hair is like a sign at the woman's entrance proclaiming 'Fuck me here.'

"It's evolutionary role is in sex signaling, it indicates that a woman is ripe for sex. Also it retains and amplifies genital odor, a sachet for her erotic odor, her inviting odor.

"I used to notice women in skimpy bathing suits with curling pubic hairs creeping out, escaping the confines of fabric, insistently showing off. Nowadays many women trim their bush or even shave it entirely. They don't know how erotic it is for me to see those curly defiant pubic hairs exuberantly bursting forth.

"So no, I love your randy, furry, fragrant lush garden. Sex should be dirty, not sanitized, hairless, odorless."

"Another thing that happened on our date: the second time, he was fucking me, and it felt really good, and then suddenly he pulled out and said he wanted to come on my face. That didn't sound like fun, and I pulled my face back and he ejaculated on my breasts. He said, 'That's how they do it in porn movies.' I used my hands to spread his cum over my breasts and my chest and my abdomen. There was enough to go around. I tried to pull him to me for a tight ventral-ventral hug, but he resisted and said, 'That's dirty.'I said, 'You think so? I want it dirty.' He got a washcloth and wiped his cum off my chest and then asked me to wipe his back where I put my sticky hands."

A couple of weeks go by and I wait nervously for what's next. But nothing. Finally I have to know and ask, "Are you going out with him again?"

"An interesting way to describe it, 'going out.' But no. Why would I want to do that? He's asked me a few times, but I said I've gotten what I want from him. I reminded him that I'm married, and that I don't want to get overly involved. A night of fucking is enough for me." Pause. " That plus talking about it endlessly with you and fucking you while we talk about it."

"I'm surprised, because if you had so much fun it seems like you'd want to do it again."

"It wouldn't be that way again. There'd just be more fucking and then eventually complications and arguments. He would not accept me the way I am. I'm too messy for him. I sure wouldn't shave my pussy for him. He would want me to stop fucking other men. He would want me to stop fucking you. He's fine for a night, but not for a partner. In a weird way he caused me to have more orgasms with you than he did with himself. Of course I don't tell him that."

Then, "Does that make you feel better, safer, dear?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"There's no man I want more than you, but thank goodness I don't have to have just one. I want you and I want to have others and then you."

"Yeah, I guess."

"You know, I was thinking, what would be fun, really really fun, would be to do another orgy with Alan. It was too much fun, you and Alan fucking me, you know the three of us having sex together. Wouldn't you like to watch him fuck me again? You in me, then him in me, and back and forth, and we could do it so you could really see him in me, watch him enjoy me. I could be really slutty, even sluttier than usual. You are the only two men I've ever had at once. I've fucked two men, one after the other several times, but you two are the only ones I've had at the same time. It'll be great. You'll see. It'll be even better than before because I won't be worrying."

"Worrying? About what?"

"About you. About what you think of me. About what you feel watching your best friend nail my skanky ass to the mattress."

"What makes you think I'd think less of you?"

"Nothing you've said, but people don't always know how they'll feel until it happens and then they are surprised by how they feel. I believe you now. I've fucked Fletcher, Alan without you and Alan with you, and Muscle Boy, and you've convinced me I'm safe, secure in your love. You don't think less of me or of us or of our love. We can talk about it and fantasize about it after," pause, "and before too, like now."

"Um, maybe." How can I admit it. I feel the familiar swelling thinking about it, thinking about my Mari spread wide, fucking Alan, while I watch and encourage them. I imagine their enthusiasm for each other. I imagine holding her hand and feeling her squeeze as she approaches orgasm, and then clamp down painfully on my hand as she orgasms.

She reaches out and takes my cock in hand, "Maybe? You feel like more than maybe. You feel like 'yes please, give me a heaping serving of that.'"

The evidence supports her case.

She adds, "You have to ask me to do it. I want you to ask me to do it."

"OK. I want you to do it."

"More," looking raptly into my eyes.

"I want you to fuck me and Alan together."

"Beg me," pressing her hand firmly into my erection.

"Please, please, Mari, fuck Alan and then me and then him and then me."

"Ok, since you want it so much. I'll do it for you."

I've been had. I've been so played--so delightfully played.

And Talk Some More

She says, "You know, I really do love you. "

"Yes, I love you too."

"How do you know?"

"What do you mean, how do I know? I don't know, I just do. How do you know you love me?"

"Partly I know it's real because I hate it." My surprised expression is obvious. "I also love it. I love that I love you. And I love that you love me, but I also hate that I love you, and hate that you love me. That's part of the reason I know it's real. If it was all flowers and violin music and candy, like Valentine's Day, then I would suspect it is just the cultural trope we are all taught. I like that part, the limerence part. But there are other parts, darker parts. Love isn't an emotion. It is a drive, a force, that spawns emotions, thoughts, perceptions, actions, some good some bad. Like any human drive it is very mixed."

Damn, how are we here? I feel myself being sucked into a full-blown Mari vortex of ideas and words and know soon my head is going to be spinning until it hurts. If this leads to the Greeks I'm done for.

"The man who abuses his wife or even murders her may love her intensely--love her too much, and it becomes twisted, and he gets to where he can't live without her, cannot bear it, and he kills her because he fears losing her--losing control of her. She's his heroin and he's got to have her, or else. Instead of limerence, the drive spawns jealousy, anger, fear of loss, grasping for control.

"And it becomes that way with us, too. My life was easier when I was just fucking for me, indulging myself, because I was daring, adventurous, and it was all okay, but now I love you, and you love me, and I find myself wondering what effect my actions have on you--what you feel, what you think of me. Like when I was fucking Alan, I was surreptitiously glancing at you to see what effect it was having. I'm terrified I'll alter my behavior to accommodate you--alter myself even though you don't ask for it. I can't do otherwise. I hate that. I hate not just that--that I alter myself, but that I cannot not do it--because I love you.

"Starting out, love is like a cable attaching us. Then it becomes a leash. Over time, the cable becomes stronger and stronger until it's a rigid bar of iron, and what was once freedom becomes rigid. In some ways, love is the most awful emotion.

"In Muslim countries men put veils on their women, cover their hair, make them live in bags, called burkas, because the idea that another man might glance at their woman is so intensely distressing. It seems to me the hallmark of love... it's not violin music and hearts and flowers--rather it's irrational, obsessive, coercive possessive jealousy."

"Can't we be different?"

"Maybe, what is possible? For the Greeks, Eros was a god of chaos, a force that overrides reason and wrecks everything--not out of malice but simply out of reckless unconcern. Eros goes where it will and indifferently smashes anything in the way."

God damn, there she is with the Greeks.

"Love is a drive that spawns emotions and actions and we can be different, but we cannot ignore it. I'm not just fucking for myself--I'm fucking for both of us, and I modulate my behavior for us rather than indulging just myself, and it cannot be otherwise. The payoff is that I have a partner I share with. I'm not alone. And you can have experiences you could never have without me. I can never again just be myself--nor can you."

"There's such a weird merger of our psyches, in which I enjoy being promiscuous, and you enjoy my being promiscuous, but still, I get in the position where, whenever I'm fucking somebody else, there's a bit of performance in it. When I'm on a date, I'm thinking about what I'm doing and what I'm going to tell you about it. And instead of a spontaneous act of lust, it becomes partly a performance for you. Sharing my adventure with you is far more exciting than just an act of lust, so ok--but it is different.

"It's delicate, and it's easy to screw it up."

* * *