Tara & Steve: A Tale of Swingers

by August MacGregor

  “I’m not super hungry right now,” Tara said.

  “I am. I was hoping we’d eat pretty soon.”

  “I know why you’ve built up an appetite. With how hard you were fucking Betty, you must be hungry to get your energy back.”

  Frowning, I replied, “Hold on. How is that different than any of our other weekends at Strathmore? You looked like you were having a great time with Derek, bouncing on his cock in that standing fuck he likes to pull out so bad. You guys do it often enough.”

  Tara matched me in a frown. “Hey, it’s what he likes to do.”

  I couldn’t help but snort. “More like showing off, if you ask me.”

  “If you could do it, you’d do it often, too.”

  I threw up my hands. “Oh, why don’t you just come out and say I’m weaker than him? Yeah, I tried to do it here—away from all the members. And I couldn’t hold you for as long as he can. I’m not as strong as Derek. I’m just not.”

  She looked at me, not saying anything for several seconds. Her eyes were tender, caring. “I wasn’t trying to say that. You just came back at me about Derek.”

  I folded my arms in front of my chest, and she did the opposite: releasing her arms from hugging herself, and she put her hands on her hips.

  “But,” I said, “don’t deny that you didn’t like it. You were yelling out about how good his dick felt. That was you yelling, right? Something like, ‘Fuck me, Derek! Fuck me so hard with that big cock!’”

  Tara’s expression was a mixture of embarrassed and angry as she said, “Yes, I did like it. Just because I yell out my pleasure instead of grunting it, like you men do. But I know how good you were feeling when you were fucking Betty from behind. Your face said it all. How thrilled you looked as you gazed down at her. How tightly you were holding her ass while you pounded her.”

  “Oh, come on. Yeah, I’ll admit it: I liked fucking her. Just as you liked fucking Derek. What are we talking about here? Because those things are what we’ve been doing for a long time now.”

  Tara looked to the side, out the window, and she said, “Nearly every weekend for more than eight months.”

  “So it’s been eight months. You’ve been keeping track more than me. What’s so different about now? Both of us have talked about how good those weekends are. Christ, sometimes we’re driving home and gushing about the things we did at the club. About how good your massage was, or how much fun you had riding Paolo, or how good Kiefer ate you out because he’s so good at that, or that one time how Russell filled you up so much, and you weren’t sure that you’d ever do it again because his dick was just so big.”

  No longer gazing out the window, Tara was staring at me with that mixture again, of anger and hurt. Then she surprised me again. I expected her to give me a bitter retort, something about the women I’d been with at the club.

  But no retort came. Not yet, at least.

  Instead, she sighed and said, “Can we sit on the couch? I’m tired.”

  First, I grabbed a hard-boiled egg and shoved it in my mouth. We sat on the couch, facing each other, with her hands in her lap, and my arm stretched on the back of the couch. We’ve done so many things on this couch: watched TV, fucked, read the newspaper, and argued. Add another argument to the list.

  Tara sighed again, a softer one this time. “I’m tired. Really tired. I’m worn out from today, yeah. But it’s more than that. I’m tired of the club. You’re right. In the beginning, it was exciting. It was thrilling to go there and be around all those fun people.”

  Her face changed a little, like some sunshine had appeared from around a cloud and lit up her face somewhat. She said, “Those people are fun. And we’ve had some great times at the club. Not just having sex, too. We had a great time just being around our friends there. Soaking up their love of life and healthiness and exercising. Their spirit totally rubbed off on me. They have this enormous appreciation for being alive. More than pretty much everyone I’ve ever met.”

  Her voice didn’t have the edge that it had when we were talking at the kitchen counter. Her anger had soothed somewhat.

  “Yeah, that’s certainly right,” I agreed, wanting to show her that we were on common ground with our opinion of the club members.

  “Except for Vivian.” Tara shuddered. “I was so glad when she wasn’t there on some days.”

  Nodding, I replied, “Good thing we were warned from the beginning.”

  “Right. So, yeah, I enjoyed it when we started going. On Fridays, I’d be at work and really looking forward to the weekend. Everyone else in the office talked about where they were going out at night, what bars they were going to. But I knew we’d be going to the club, and we’d have a great time there. I didn’t tell anybody, of course.”

  “Okay. So, what happened?” I asked.

  “I got tired. Somewhere along the way, I got tired of that … that scene. Don’t get me wrong, I still think the people there are incredible. They still have that appreciation for being alive. That hasn’t changed. What’s changed is me.”

  After several seconds of silence, I prodded, “How have you changed?”

  “I came to realize that I’m not part of that world. Yeah, it’s fun to visit that world and enjoy it for a bit. But weekend after weekend has ground me down. Maybe if we had gone there—I don’t know—maybe one weekend a month, I’d feel differently. But going there pretty much every weekend, it wore me out. Really wore me out.”

  “Oh.”

  That’s all I was able to say at the moment, as I flipped through my memory to see if there were times that Tara had shown some indication of being worn out. No clues from beyond the past month popped up. But I realized that, in the past couple of weeks, she had been less talkative. Less enthusiastic. Not all the time, but in general. I really hadn’t picked up on it until now.

  Tara said, “You’re right, though—I liked fucking Derek today. It was great, don’t get me wrong. There are times I still have fun. But there were also times that I punch it up. Yell a bit louder. Try to jump-start myself. Try to get myself more excited.”

  “Faking it, in other words.”

  Her embarrassment returned as her cheeks grew darker pink. “Yeah. Not all the time, but sometimes, yeah.”

  Again, I tried to think back and pick out times that she had obviously faked. I came up with zilch. Was I not paying close enough attention? Or was she really good at faking pleasure? And if so, how often did she fake pleasure when it was just us?

  As if reading my mind, Tara rested her hand on my forearm and said, “But I’ve never done that with you. I don’t have to. I love you like crazy, and I don’t have to fake it with you. I can be honest with you. But at the club, I’ve felt like I needed to fake it. And that’s been happening more and more lately.”

  “Why haven’t you brought this up before?” I asked.

  “Because I was hoping I’d re-start my fire. Fake it ’til you make it, right? I hoped I’d get back on track, go back to being the fun swinging girlfriend, since you were having such a great time.”

  I opened my mouth, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

  She beat me to it. “Oh, I know you had a great time, Steve. You didn’t get tired of the club at all, did you?”

  “No.” I couldn’t lie to her about that.

  A little laugh came from Tara. “Of course you didn’t. It’s a fantasy land for you. You get to fuck Julie’s big tits and grab Betty’s little ass while you fuck her. You get to see Claire’s gorgeous face while you’re on top of her. You—”

  I held up my hand as a stop sign. “Okay, okay. I got it. You’re right. I didn’t get tired of the club. I enjoyed it every time we went there.”

  I paused, then decided to be honest—since we had been that way throughout the whole swinging wildness. Well, except for her faking it at the club. But I could see why she did that.

  I said, “Okay, I didn’t have fun all the time. There were times when I got jealo
us and mad about you being with other men. The same stuff we talked about at the bungalow. Back when I got hit hard by those feelings when I saw Kiefer fucking you.”

  Tara nodded and sighed. “Me, too. I got crazy jealous sometimes when I saw you staring at Julie’s tits bouncing around when she was riding on you.”

  “I was crazy jealous when Russell was fucking you.”

  Tara smirked. “Listen to us. We’re talking about the woman with the best tits and the guy with the longest dick at the club. How could we not get jealous?” Again, she gave a little laugh, I guessed out of exasperation.

  I joined her in that what are you gonna do? kind of laugh. “Yeah. That’s true. We’re never going to measure up to them.”

  She leaned forward, her face more eager now. “Which is why I asked you that question in the first place. Am I enough for you anymore? I’ll never have Julie’s tits. I’ll never have Betty’s ass.”

  “Wait a second. Don’t you sell yourself short. Your ass is amazing. Always has been. And since we’ve been going to the club, with all that healthy food and exercise and sex, your ass is even better. Your ass surpasses Betty’s ass.”

  “What, in size?”

  “No, in sexiness!”

  She laughed—from genuine amusement this time.

  “Thank you for that,” she said and kissed me. When she leaned back to her earlier posture, she kept going: “But you know what I mean. I can’t measure up to women there with certain things. Like Claire. She’s gorgeous. I’ll never look like that.”

  “You’re gorgeous.” I looked right into her eyes as I said it.

  She replied with an aww face, saying, “You’re sweet. But I know it. I know I’m not as good looking as her.”

  “We could go on like this all night long,” I said. “I could say that my dick’s much smaller than Russell and Kiefer and lots of other guys. And I don’t have the muscles of Derek. Or the dashing good looks of Paolo. We could go on and on. But you know something? We’re us. We’re not them.”

  “I know, I know. And that’s what led me to ask the question. I’m not them. And am I enough for you? Just me, and not with big tits or redheaded hotness?”

  I looked right into her eyes again. “Yes, Tara. You are enough for me. That’s why I’m living with you, and I’m not living with not any of those other women.”

  “So, when are we going to get married?”

  The question—like her first one that started off this conversation—stunned me. I might not have been more surprised if a macaw had pecked on the window.

  Again, she spoke while I stared with my mouth open and my brain not working correctly.

  “It’s a fair question,” she said. “We’ve been living together for awhile now, and I want to know how serious you are about taking the next step.”

  She let me stew for a couple seconds before pulling out another trick from her hat: “I especially deserve an answer, seeing that you’re fucking other women right in front of me.”

  Finally, I had a comeback: “It’s not as if you’re not fucking other guys right in front of me.”

  “Of course not. We both are doing it. We’re swingers. That’s what swingers do.”

  Her voice trembled a little at the end, making me wonder how tightly she was trying to control it. Which added to what she had said about being tired of Strathmore. She was ready to move on. That was obvious.

  “You don’t want to be swingers any more,” I said.

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  She wanted to end it, and I wanted to keep going. For the reasons she said. For Julie, Betty, Claire, and all the other hotties I’d gotten to know very well over the past eight blissful months. So I could understand where Tara was coming from. She knew me very well to ask if she was enough for me. She’d seen my excitement over all those hotties.

  Also, I had to be honest with myself. Was Tara enough? Could I handle going back to just her, after living like a sultan with a harem? I knew this much: I loved this woman. I deeply, passionately, wonderfully loved her. I’d try my hardest to overcome whatever lust within me for other women, so that I could be with her.

  “Yes,” I said. “You’re enough for me.” Simple, direct. I looked her in the eyes while I said it.

  “I hope you’re right. What about marriage?”

  “I want that, too. But I don’t have a ring right now.”

  “So?”

  Her question was also simple and direct. One that knocked me back a little. She was having a strong effect on me with these questions tonight. Yes, she knew me very well.

  And she was right. A ring was a symbol. What counted much more than that was the word behind the symbol. The promise.

  I cared about her, and that’s what mattered. I cared for her more than I cared for the members of the Strathmore Club, even with their lust for life and pleasure.

  I slid off the couch to the floor and knelt and took her hand—which had still rested on my forearm—and I held it with both of my hands. Tara’s eyes widened, and her mouth parted slightly. You’re not the only one around here who can throw around stunning questions and actions, my dear.

  “Honey,” I said, “I love you so much. Will you be my wife?”

  She stared down at me, and the fingers of her free hand went to cover her mouth. The gesture that women do when they’re faced with something they can’t quite believe.

  “Well?” I asked. “Am I enough for you?”

  That got her out of the spell. “Of course you are, dummy. I’m the one who’s tired of the club, not you. You can’t go flipping the question around on me.”

  “Seems fair to me,” I said. “There are a lot of men in the sea.”

  “But I only want one.”

  “Who? Paolo? Derek?”

  She laughed as she swatted my shoulder with her free hand. “No, dipshit. You.”

  “From dummy to dipshit. I’m going down in the world.”

  She made a silly face at me.

  “So?” I asked. “You asked me several questions, and I just asked you one, but you can’t give me an answer? What’ll it be? Will you be my wife?”

  She looked down at me, her face not angry or embarrassed or jealous or silly. Instead, it was tender and loving and thoughtful.

  Finally, she said, “I’m not going to give you an answer right now. Not like this. I want you to think it over first. I want you to give it lots of thought, and then if you still want to ask, then go ahead and ask it again. I don’t want you to ask like this. Like you’re being pushed into a corner.”

  Indeed, I was a dummy. I was dumbfounded. Here, I had asked the question that I thought she wanted to hear—and she made me postpone it for a period of meditation.

  But I couldn’t get mad about it. Not after the talk we’d just had about our relationship and the club.

  And, besides, part of me figured she had a good point. Giving lots of thought to our future together made sense. I’d been so wrapped up in going to Strathmore, that I didn’t think about our life after it. I supposed I was going to tackle the future when our one-year membership was up.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll think it over.”

  She gave me a sweet smile. “Good. Now get up. Even though I do like you on your knees.”

  Her laughter warmed me. It wasn’t insulting or condescending. It was a lover’s good-natured, caring laughter. It was from someone who has a lot of experience with you and is still around.

  *****

  At the jewelry store, it hit me that part of Tara’s postponing The Proposal was that it would’ve made for a horrible story if we had gone through the whole thing that day.

  What was she going to tell her friends when they asked how I proposed to her?

  Well, we were arguing over whether we should keep going to this club we belong to, where people are naked and have sex in public and swap partners. We argued for a bit, and then he went down on one knee and asked me to marry him, ev
en though he didn’t have a ring. But it’s cool. We’ll pick up a ring right after the next orgy.

  It was a story that she couldn’t share with co-workers or friends. Friends who would’ve gone to our wedding. What would they have done if they knew we were swingers? Would they have gone to the wedding and wondered what other people there we’ve had sex with?

  So, yeah, I admit it: Tara had good reasons to put a halt to my proposing. It would’ve made for a very awkward story—and postponing gave me time to mull over how I saw the rest of my life. With her or without her.

  I respected her suggestion by following it. I knew I was deeply in love with Tara, but I had to question our future together. Was she really going to be enough for me? Or did I fall too much into the harem pit and need other women to satisfy me?

  I thought about these questions a lot. To get some alone time, I went to South Beach in Miami—which was certainly not being alone, since it was full of people strolling by the ocean and all the bars and restaurants. But I was away from Tara, and that was the important thing.

  And it was helpful to be away from our apartment while doing this thinking. Sitting on the couch where we had done so many things—fucked, talked, argued, hung out—wasn’t ideal for my mind-set.

  The couple of times I walked at South Beach were very helpful. Not only in clearing my mind of the everyday stuff so I could concentrate on what I hoped for the future, but for people watching, too. You see all kinds at South Beach. Tourists, locals. Young, old. Hotties in bikinis, muscle dudes. Couples, groups of friends. Lone guys like me.

  The older couples walking or resting on the sea-foam green benches struck me. I confess that I usually didn’t notice the older couples before. I’m a guy: I was much more focused on the babes in bikini tops and shorts parading around their luscious skin. See and be seen. It’s totally a place for that.

  But those two times at South Beach, I noticed the older couples. And what struck me was that Tara and I could be them someday. We’re not going to be young forever, and we’re not always going to be thrilled about jumping into the piles of hot flesh and sex at Strathmore.