The Weight Loss Surgery Support Group, Part 1

I sat in my living room watching the snow pound down on Boston. I felt trapped in a snow globe that swallowed the earth and forced humans to burrow deeper under the covers and pray the landlord would send up enough heat to keep hypothermia at bay. My apartment in Somerville felt warm enough, but I supplemented that with a sweater, a flask of hot tea, a knit scarf and a blanket across my lap. The laptop sitting on the blanket glowed as I flipped through Facebook one last time for empty distraction on this Friday night in the Bay State.

A startling “ping” announced an instant message, so that perked me up. I didn’t recognize the name, Liz, and the profile had no picture, so that muffled my male gaze mechanism, but, on a snowy night, I figured, why not, let’s see where this goes.

Liz opened with the classic gambit, “Hi,” and I made the next logical move, saying, “Hi, keeping warm?” and she put her next rhetorical pawn in play: “I’m trying to, I could use a trip to Boca Raton about now!”

I scanned her profile, which said little because we weren’t friends yet and she restricted the non-friends view, a smart security measure. She lived in Watertown and liked cats. Friends, background details and almost all posts were hidden. I saw photos of cats and the Chicago skyline.

“You’re probably wondering why I don’t have a picture. Most men do. No picture, almost no guys want to chat with me.”

“That sounds like you want me to ask why no picture. OK, I’ll bite. Why no picture?”

“Well, I’m a social worker in a public agency, a sensitive position, so I don’t want people I work with or serve knowing details about me. Or friending me on here, that's a big no-no. You’ll see more if we become FB friends. But that comes later.”

“That makes sense. Defense attorneys, therapists, spies, drug dealers. Low profile careers. Are you treating FB like a dating site? I’m not here for that, just FYI. So we understand each other.”

“No, I'm not trawling for men, but in this case, I liked what I read about you. Cute profile picture! And there’s more.”

“Now you’re getting me curious.”

“I’m working hard on my appearance. I don’t take too many pictures. I’m moving to a new look and I can send some photos to you pretty soon if you give me your email. I know guys want pictures. I make a good impression in person.”

“Good luck with whatever’s going on. I noted your profile said you’re a work in progress. Aren’t we all.” I decided to not ask about her story, since Liz obviously wanted to spill her guts. And if she kept her secrets, she wouldn’t feel weird about not telling me.

“OK, I had weight loss surgery six months ago. It was a big deal. I’m moving in the right direction. I’m eating better and exercising. It’s a long road. I hope you understand. I’m working on myself.”

“I know women who have done it. Serious surgery, major life implications. One day at a time.”

“One bite at a time, yeah.”

The conversation lulled. I could say more—a lot more—but I felt wary about revealing too much. And I already had a romantic interest, a long way from Boston in McAllen, Texas, but that’s another story for another time. This stranger didn’t need to know anything about me because I didn’t want anything from her. We had no reciprocal obligations. Liz also paused a beat, as if gathering her thoughts for a revelation.

“I get a lot of help at a support group I attend.”

“Help is good with major life transitions. Divorce, surgery, parenting, you name it. You’re doing all the right things.”

A longer pause.

Liz finally wrote, “Did you used to live in Brookline?”

Now, I realized, where this was going.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m blushing, but I know who you are. I searched for your name on FB and TA DA, here you are. I even saw your picture in this house in Brookline and it’s you, no doubt about it.”

“What’d the picture look like?”

“You and a girl, maybe 12 years old, at a martial arts class.”

“Yes, I did live in Brookline before my divorce from my ex, Marci, and yes we have a daughter, Laurel, who can put me flat on my back with her Israeli krav maga before I can blink.”

“That’s your ex’s house?”

“Yes, that’s where she lives with Laurel.”

“I knew you were married to Marci. She’s the group leader. She’s such an inspiration to us, with how well her surgery went and how she’s changed her life. Dramatic!”

“We have a happy and talented daughter together.”

“Wowwww. I saw the picture in your daughter’s room, the two of you together. Proud papa. Once I knew your name, I was so eager to learn who you are. She mentioned you. You sound interesting. I figured I’d find you on FB.”

So Marci gave people a tour of our house during the support group meetings. She always was an eager hostess, as I knew from our anxious family seders at Passover. Still, the notion that these women were trouping around the house where I used to live, looking at photos of our daughter and me and doing God knows what else, annoyed me, even if it wasn’t my house anymore. I figured into the conversations, that couldn't be avoided. I shuddered at her likely depiction of me, somewhere between a tight-assed prudish New England Puritan preacher and Heinrich Himmler.

I thought about ending the conversation but curiosity and masochism kept me engaged. Beyond the window the snow fell heavier, covering the streets of Somerville in a thick silencing mantle that would stick around for months, growing dirty and grey until the next snowstorm plastered on another layer of icy frosting. The world narrowed down to my living room, the laptop’s glow and a crazy image of Liz and me in an igloo near the North Slope of Alaska feeding each other walrus blubber to keep warm. That depended on whether her new eating regimen allowed for walrus blubber, of course.

I wrote, “You must know the story, then. She got the lap-band surgery a few months before we decided to split up. I totally supported the decision for surgery.”

“All the women in the group talk about their stories. If they want to. Some don’t, they just want to support other women and get the health tips and learn about new eating habits. Marci trained to be the volunteer facilitator of the group, you know.”

“I didn’t know. I can’t say we talk about the meetings, or much that we don’t need to talk about. We’re divorced. We’ve gone our separate ways.”

“She has made incredible progress on every level. She looks great and feels great. She sounds determined to keep moving ahead.”

“I get that impression. If she’s happy and our daughter is happy, then that’s what counts.”

“I think you’re doing better too. I was really happy to hear that.”

I paused, a burning sensation crossing from ear to ear. “Liz, we’ve never met each other we’ve never talked. I have no clue about who you really are. Are you a psychic? How could you possibly know how I’m doing?”

“Marci talks about you. Talking though toxic relationships related to our weight issues is part of the healing.”

“I’m toxic? That’s nothing I didn’t hear about in couples therapy.”

“Maybe toxic is the wrong word. But she talked about your relationship and how it was part of her weight issues.”

That sounded more neutral, like how a therapist would rephrase a comment to draw more discussion from a couple in a volatile session.

“OK, she talked about our marriage. You got one side of the story.”

“I felt I got to know you, and I DO know each story has two sides. Sometimes three ha-ha. Then I saw you online and I thought, that's Jason, I’ll say hello!! Oh, you mentioned one side of the story. I wondered if Marci exaggerated what she said about your life together. She always sounded like the aggrieved one, like nothing was her fault. Somebody else always acted on her.”

I paused, wanting to brightly agree with the sentiments. But I wouldn’t because Marci had her marital narrative, I had my marital narrative, and only divorce could resolve the disconnections between them. I had learned to live with Marci’s view and not dwell, too much, on them. Liz’s comment rubbed me the wrong way, needlessly provocative.

“We did the best we could and made the choices we did. I’m not interested in rehashing our past, especially not on Facebook. Oh, you mentioned that stories sometimes have three sides. No kidding? Are you hinting at something I don’t know?”

“Not from back then, oh no. You were both totally faithful to each other. Except for your stack of Penthouse magazines, but that’s not cheating, not at all. Just normal guy stuff you held on to from before online porn ha ha. You freak.”

Did I retain a shred of privacy? I felt both repelled and intrigued by this typed conversation with a faceless woman who had drilled a direct pipeline into the most intimate parts of my life.

“I can see the value of talking over the issues,” I wrote. “I assume you’re all women in the group, you had a life-altering procedure, that’s what a support group is for.”

 “Recovery from surgery is a continuum and a lot of pieces are moving in your life. We talk about our bodies our changing relationship with them. That can get heavy.”

“Heavy. I believe that. You’re relating to a new you. I saw that happen in the years after Marci had the surgery. No wonder she’s a fine leader.”

“People relate to you differently, your health is changed. Sexy new clothes!”

“I had noticed that, yeah, Marci liked the low-cut tops when I’d come over to do the pickup on the custody swaps.” That observation slipped out, more than I wanted to reveal, but my fingers typed on their own.

“She liked to see your reaction.”

“How crazy that made me, after years of her looking well, different?”

“Yes. She knew you knew how sexy she was.”

“I complimented her on her progress. That’s no secret. She deserves credit.” My hunger for emotional disclosure was veering into the red zone. An warning unease seeped into my fingers, so they typed more cautiously.

“Did you want to fuck her again? After all that time the two of you couldn’t physically stand each other?”

Now I paused. “I looked but knew I shouldn’t touch. I moved past all that.”

“Bullshit. She could tell you never moved on. You wanted to fuck her with every fiber of your body, AFTER she looked better. But not so much when she was 250 pounds, am I right? Women can tell those things. Seeing her is pure torture for you, am I right?”

“Not gonna get into that. But was she over me?” I hated to ask, even as I knew the answer. Marci nailed that fact into me like a spike into a vampire's restless heart.

“I’m sorry to share the bad news, but Marci was over you a couple of weeks after the wedding. Or before.”

“She told me in couples therapy. Several times. So I had kinda figured out the dynamic between us was off from the start. Still, you know, love makes you do crazy things. Or do you, Liz?”

“We’re all capable of doing crazy things for love ha ha. Watch and find out! But marriage crazy must be different. I’ve never been married, but I hear a lot of hair raising stories in my line of work. The horrors I see, what people do to each other and their families. I clean up the aftermath of marriages and try to limit the damage. I ache for the kids. I know I could do better.”

“Better at what?”

“Motherhood. I’d be so loving and caring, I just need to find a good man."

“Good luck with that.” Pause. I did not want to be that good man, if that was her play. “So,” I finally wrote. “You talked about your bodies. How you felt about them. Did you bodies talk back? Was it a conversation?”

“Yeah, we did exercises to get acquainted with our new looks. Some ladies looked newer than others. Sort of like yoga, stretching, bending. Touching. Lots of touching.”

I tried to imagine the post-op women in our living room with the coffee table moved aside, the torchiere lamps turned down to create a soft and even lighting, yoga mats overlapping the rug with the Art Deco design.

“Did you come in yoga togs or just regular clothes? I can’t picture the scene.”

“I wore sweat pants and a sweat shirt. Marci said we should wear something comfy and not feel like we had to show anything off. It’s sensitive stuff here, it’s not a competition to see who’s making the most progress. . .  want to hear more?”

“What more could I possibly learn?”

“Well, we’d start by touching our faces, our arms, our ankles. Saying hello to ourselves in a very nonsexual way. ‘Cause it’s not about sex. It’s about health and feeling better.”

“Sex was the furthest thing from my mind.”

“That went on for a couple of meetings. Then we were emotionally more ready for our sensual selves. It sucks to be fat and want to be sexual! Can you imagine what it’s like to try EVERYTHING to lose weight and nothing works, no matter how hard you tried? What it’s like for men to look at you like you’re a space alien with no sexual feelings? That really hurt. All of us hurt. Our relationships, our health, our life. Marci felt that way. Fucking men, you’re all alike, present company excluded I hope. You’re not like those other shmucks. Or maybe you are. You tell me.”

“I always tried to make her feel accepted,” I wrote, shuddering at the memory of those hopeless conversations at the kitchen table where weight collided with marital rage and nothing salved the rawness.

“Well she couldn’t get the validation she needed from you.”

“She gets that validation now?” I asked.

“Yeah but it took a long time.”

“Thanks Oprah. So, you were talking about your sensual self and how it sucks to be fat.”

“You like that? You want the down and dirty details? Dirty girl talk? You men are so predictable.”

“It’s Friday night we’re getting hammered in a snowstorm why not?” My grammatically correct typing dropped away as a little shiver nudged aside some restraints of caution.

“Marci would put on soft music and we’d turn the lights lower. We were lying on our yoga mats. This is only for the women who wanted to go this. If you were uncomfortable you could skip the meeting, like go for a walk, or go home. We all understood.”

“This was like an optional after-school enrichment activity.”

“Yeah. We’d have the warm up exercises and then we’d touch ourselves through our clothes. Our necks, then move our hands over our breasts. She’d tell us how brave and confident we were.”

The picture in my mind reflected yoga classes I had attended, which I associated with strained back muscles and dizziness caused by the “downward-facing dog” pose.

“Inside or outside your sweatshirt?”

“We all started outside our clothes. This was a journey, we weren’t trying to get off. And no, we didn’t use mirrors to look at our VJJs up close, so stop thinking about that.”

Liz always stayed one step ahead of my secret musing. “That’s another class at the community center.”

“Yeah another class. I liked doing this exercise. Then we would stroke our thighs and crotches. To get comfortable and feel good about it. And we did. I had gone so long hating my looks that I liked touching myself and liking myself. Is that so much to ask? To finally get validation?”

“Not at all. You deserve to like yourself.”

“That was it for that session. I bet you thought we would do more.”

“I have no idea about any of this. Marci and I don’t talk about it and it’s none of my business.”

“It’s not, but maybe you should know.”

“Know what?"

“Maybe I should stop I’ve said too much I’ve been bad. But Marci said a lot and Marci was good. Or do you do you think she’s bad for saying so much about you?”

“I don’t try to figure Marci out. She does what she does. She has her surprising side. But it doesn’t matter, does it? That’s enough for me we can stop, it’s late. Yawn.” Liz had her signal from me to step away. But she plunged ahead.

“We finally started touching ourselves. Marci was so calming and said it was OK if we wanted to explore, as far as we wanted. And so I did. I put my hand down my sweat pants and inside my underwear and found my clit. After losing some weight I could find it easier.”

“You don’t have to tell me this. Honestly. You can save your privacy.”

“Marci was wonderful.”

Now what could I say? The images were driving me crazy.

“Player or coach?”

“Both. She walked around and talked to each woman. She was like the big sister who knew what we needed. She said, ‘I’m doing this with you, I’ve been through all the shit too.’ She was so warm and loving. And she was so nonjudgmental. Not like you, she said.”

“I wondered where I fit into this.”

“When I started I got upset, I was frustrated I couldn’t get into the rhythm of it. I had my fingers on my clit but I couldn’t play with it the way I wanted, out of practice. I wanted to cry. She said that’s what it was like when you two fucked, she wanted to cry you were so awkward.”

I could feel my cheeks flushing red, as red as a Red Sox jersey during the World Series. I wanted to write, “Nobody else is complaining,” but defensiveness ill suited the moment. I could end it, but a stew of lust and self-loathing egged me to play along as the alert listener to Liz’s cry of the heart.

“I won’t argue the point. Did she help you get where you wanted to go, talked you all the way there?”

“She came and sat beside me while I was crying and held my hand. She said she was there, and that’s what I needed to hear. I stopped crying and felt there. Centered. Things would be OK. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I liked that. Then she stroked my face with her hand. ‘How are you feeling now?’ she asked. I said I felt warm. I smiled. She noticed that. ‘Do you need help?’ she asked. I told her I’d like that but I didn’t know what she should do. Marci put her hand on my breast, outside my shirt, and moved her fingers around on me. I had pulled my bra down so she could feel my nipple through the sweatshirt. That felt weird.”

“Why did it feel weird?”

“Well because we had these other women lying around stroking themselves at the same time, and it’s not like every day somebody incredible like Marci touches my boob. She kept circling my nipple with her fingers, and I was cool with that. Pretty soon I put my hand back inside my underwear. I just left it there and concentrated on what Marci did with my nipple. First one, then the other. I opened my eyes and looked at her, sitting cross-legged beside me and she just felt like such a comforting presence. I wondered what it’d be like if she kissed me. Our eyes met and we smiled at each other. I felt I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted. If I didn’t come I was cool with that. But I wanted to know if I could. Having a woman there for me, understanding all the crap I had been through, was incredible. I told her, ‘Could you put your hand on mine?’ as in, where I was touching my clit. Not really stroking it, just cupping myself down there. I felt wet. It was like being on a surfboard, if that makes sense. I stood on the board and the waves bobbed me up and down. Maybe I’d wipe out, but maybe I’d hang 10. Crazy, huh? I’ve never even been surfing.”

“I get your drift. Did Marci?”

“Oh she get my drift. I thought she’d be cool putting her hand on top of mine on the front of my sweatpants. But no. She scooted over and slipped her hand under the waistband, into my panties for God’s sake, on top of my hand here. She smiled and I saw her face with that red hair hanging in waves like a blood moon in front of me, smiling. ‘Like this, you OK with my hand there?’ she asked. Very into consent, no surprises, no regrets for either of us. Consent is so important these days, right? I said yeah, it felt great. ‘What can I do?’ she asked. She kissed me again, on my cheek. I wanted her to put her tongue in my mouth but I just couldn’t go that far. ‘Move your hand around on mine, like rub your finger on my finger on my clit. I think I found the right place,’ I told her. So she did that. In a circle, not hard, not fast, just something accepting. She wasn’t lying on top of me, but she was so close I could feel the heat coming off her body. You know what I mean.”

I thought back 15 years. “Yeah, I know what you mean about feeling the heat. You know about redheads. So is it true women know what women like?”

“I won’t generalize but she knew. It’s not like we were making love. Well, looking back, maybe we were. She was my spirit guide, pointing me to where I wanted to go. I’m still a little overweight but she made me feel beautiful.”

“Being overweight and beautiful at the same time, as long as you're not endangering your health. I told Marci that I always loved her looks but she never believed me.”

“That was her own shit talking. So much went on between you two that nothing would convince her otherwise. All that toxicity.”

“So, she guided your hand on your clit. How’d that feel?”

“Fantastic. I was riding the wave, let me tell you. I found a groove I like and her hand kept me there. She moved with me. I got so wet (me, wet!!) that her finger slipped down so we were both working on my clit. I was on one side and she was on another. I thought she’d move away, but she didn’t. It just felt natural and we went with it. She whispered to me, ‘I like what we’re doing, should I keep going?” and I told her yeah. So we moved our hands and fingers together and finally, well, I came. How can I describe the feeling? Warm, wet, letting go, accepted. Loved, would that be too much? Accepted, that’s the best word. By her and by me, everybody there. Validated.”

“That word again. Women of value.” I wondered if the Art Deco rug in the living room needed a good shampooing.

“Women like that, what can I say? We want to be accepted for who we are and what our needs are. If you can’t deal with that, then go fuck yourself.” I felt a mask slipped to show a face of rage.

“That sounds like a seriously magical moment, you and Marci, getting together for your orgasm. I’m glad that happened.”

“I just lay there in a puddle. Believe me, I had no idea anything like this would happen. I thought we’d all touch ourselves and talk about sex and our bodies and then have tea and fruit and go home. But we all just went with the moment. Some came, some didn’t. Some talked about what turns them on, some were shy about that. Everybody was OK with what others did or didn’t do.”

“Sounds like the body positive session succeeded. Wow, it’s 1 in the morning and still snowing. We had stuff to talk about here, didn’t we?” I wrote. I couldn’t imagine what other hidden thoughts and acts could possibly spill across the screen.

“Don’t you want to hear what Marci said?”

“It sounds like she’s said plenty.”

“No, about the body positive matters and why she feels good now.”

I sighed. The last stop on a streetcar named unfulfilled desire lay dead ahead and I stayed on the ride.

“Well OK, I’m glad she’s in a better place. I guess this is the part where you talk about it takes three.”

“Once we were done with the body positivity and freshened up, we heard why she feels better.”

“The weight loss, obviously. Looks great. Wears sexy clothes, at least around me.”

“Wears them most of the time. She’s found some yowza lovers with her new look and upbeat personality.”

“It’s a human need, good for her.” My fingered spasmed like ravens’ claws hovering over the keyboard, ready to tear the keys apart.

“She knows she gives off a highly sexual vibe. She can go into any bar or social setting and get hit on.”

“I know how that works with her. It worked on me. But is that the message women want to hear? It sounds less than supportive, like showing off. ”

“But the way she talks about what she does, she’s encouraging. She’s just one of us girls, further along. She wanted to share what turns her on these days and how it works. Anybody can talk about their experiences, not just her.”

My mind drifted back to our first summertime date, where a bar stop involving sweet drinks with little umbrellas led to a night of crazy sex for us. I knew how Marci turned on the heat lamp of her charm and flirting. She drew me to her like I was a moth in heat. And I loved her for it. Summer heat, however, eventually fades as the sun spin into winter. How do you keep the heat alive when the sun of desire decides to hide?

“Has she mentioned Mickey to you?”

“We don’t talk about other people in our lives. If something gets serious and has an impact on our daughter, we agreed to talk about it then.”

“Well at one session we all talked about what we wanted to do with our new bodies, once we got them tuned up. Everybody wanted to hear what Marci does. She’s such a den mother. She didn’t want to talk about first but we were all excited about what she would say. Like she’d told us, if she can do it, we can do it too!”

“You’re all Rosie the Riveters.”

“Rosie the what?”

“Historical reference, never mind.”

“She leaned back in her chair and said she’d met this guy a couple of months ago named Mickey. A big social event at Harvard Business School.”

“She works there, lots of classy functions to attend.”

"She wore a gorgeous new suit with a silk blouse from Nordstrom’s, very professional but it showed her curves, and some cleavage. And beautiful silver earrings from Mexico.”

“I know those earrings. I bought those for her as an anniversary gift. That was one gift she actually liked.”

“Marci was talking to prospective students when she saw, and I quote, ‘this big, handsome hunk looking at me. He dressed corporate except he gave off a very outdoorsy vibe, like a runner or biker. He came over to talk to me and he was undressing me with his eyes.’ He introduced himself and asked if she was enjoying herself. She wrapped up with the students and said, ‘I am now’ and he said, ‘Me too. Nice skirt.’ They went to a table and talked. Marci said, ‘I asked what brought him to the Business School. He’s the top institutional sales rep at one of the big financial fund companies in Boston. His firm does a lot of work with the school and even has MBA students as interns, so he likes to come check out what his firm’s investment is getting. That sponsorship costs a fortune, a real fortune. And it’s a great way to pass out business cards to potential customers.”

I could guess the firm and the hunk’s jumbo commission-based comp package. His other package probably was impressive, too, to those impressionable MBA students.

“Was Marci buying what he was selling? I sense he closed the deal.”

“Marci told us, ‘You know that feeling when two animals find each other and sniff and like what they smell? That’s how we felt. ‘Want to get together when this wraps up and keep talking? That sounded fine for him so afterward we drove separately back to Newton for a drink. We were close to home but I didn’t want to tell him exactly where I lived. We had cocktails and talked more and I kept getting more excited about him. He’s got an Irish background and when I told him I had studied English literature he started reciting poetry! Yeats! Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti, a really sexy poem, who knew a guy would appreciate it! He quoted from memory:


She clipp’d a precious golden lock, 
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl, 
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red: 
Sweeter than honey from the rock, 
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, 
Clearer than water flow’d that juice; 
She never tasted such before, 
How should it cloy with length of use? 
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more 
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore; 
She suck’d until her lips were sore; 
Then flung the emptied rinds away 
But gather’d up one kernel stone, 
And knew not was it night or day 
As she turn’d home alone. 

Then he kissed my hand. He was adorable! How many guys do that? I asked him if he wanted some coffee back at my house, since my daughter was with her father and I had the house to myself. He said yeah so we drove over, parked and practically ran up the driveway to the front door. We were like two animals in heat who knew what was going to happen.”

“Two animals, I can picture that,” I wrote, my mind playing back the thousands of times I heard the front door squeak open and Marci flick the hall light on. The door closed, the private world opened.

“Marci’s pretty good at drinking games, isn’t she? Drinks at the event, drinks afterward. Drunk and horny that’s a good combination for a fun night out. I’d like to try that!”

“I never saw her drink to excess. She liked her wine but only in moderation.” I had wondered about her Marci’s judgment when I wasn’t around, but that was none of Liz’s business or mine. Her abrupt questions annoyed me.

“She said, ‘Once I got the door closed he grabbed me and I felt so crazy female, like I had to have him right then. Mickey pushed me against the wall right there in the living room. I could feel his cock, God, like a race horse, through his pants. What a treat! I was married to a mouse, but now I found a horse. I was getting wet, he was getting hard. I wanted to throw my legs around his waist and let him fuck me right against the wall, but I was afraid my high heels would chip the paint!’ We all laughed at that.”

“Smart move, I wouldn’t want the resale value of our joint property to go down.”

“Mickey, this big guy, rugged type, he puts his arm around her and they head right to the couch, you know the one, the big leather one.”

“I used to live there, so yes, I know it well.”

“They start making out like teens. Marci told us, ‘Have you ever seen a scene in a movie where they just rip their clothes off? We practically did that but we didn’t even get everything off. I pulled his pants down and saw this big cock pulsing there. Then I unbuttoned my blouse and threw it on the floor and he yanked my skirt up and panties down. Really! Oh my God, we were both so hot. He was sitting on the couch and Mickey picked me up like I weighed nothing and he lowered me onto his cock. I reached down to guide him into my cooch and I felt like I was on top of a totem pole. His hands were all over my tits and I was melting on him, like he was a flame and I was stick of butter. We didn’t even talk. We just growled!’”

I teleported into the room, by the Stickley Audi leather couch we bought after I scored a big bonus from my job at an engineering firm. Did Marci and Mickey at least put a towel down on the leather, so their goo wouldn’t stain it? I could picture the lunk’s muscular thighs spread and Marci impaled on him. Her ass, the adorable curved ass I remember stroking so much when we first met, melted and spread against his thighs.

“But then the odd thing is, Mickey didn’t want to come. Like, Marci felt he was going to explode in her like a rocket, but he didn’t. She told us, ‘He picked me up and put me down on the couch. I was panting and I still had my bra on yanked down to my waist. He told me, in a very strong voice, to spread my legs and lean back. So I did and I closed my eyes, trying to center myself so I wouldn’t fly around the room like a balloon. The next thing I knew his big hands were cupping my ass and he lifted me up, like levering me with his arms. I felt like a rag doll. I still couldn’t see what he was going to do. But then I felt a little tickle, like a breeze, on my clit. I opened my eyes and his head was between my legs, licking my cunt. He started slow, which wasn’t what I expected. Then he licked more firmly. He squeezed my ass cheeks and held them open, he could have done anything to me at that point.’ Just telling the story got Marci turned on, we could tell. The girls and I could barely breathe. This was so romantic, don’t you think? Or was it a little risky?”

“Romantic? Risky? That’s not for me to say. We’re all adults. We make our choices in life and live with the consequences.”

“You’re no fun, just like Marci said. Always playing life down the middle. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you anything else, Mr. Stick in the Mud.”

“Don’t. I’m ready to go to bed.”

“You don’t want to hear what else happened. It involves you even more.”

“You’re too cruel. OK, tell me more, but keep it brief.”

“So Mickey licked her until she came. She said she was really hollering and pulling his hair. He just took her over and she loved that. We were all starting to reach under our sweat pants just at the thought of all this. She wanted him to fuck her like he had been doing and she tried to climb on him, but he wanted something else. He stood up and told her to lick his cock. She stayed on the couch and went at him. ‘I was ready to swallow every drop, if I could handle it! Maybe I couldn’t!’ she told us. ‘But once I finally could get him all in my mouth he told me to stand up. He pulls me up from the couch and asks me where the bedroom is. I’m feeling playful so I grab his big cock and guide him into the bedroom like a prize bull ready for mating. We’re both panting and he tells me to lie down on the bed, on my stomach. He rips back the sheets and I do that. He puts a pillow under my hips. I’m wondering if he wants to fuck my rump, because that’s off limits, girls! At least on the first date!’ We all laughed. We know you men are like when you want to mark your territory! Well, maybe not you, Jason. You’re too nice for that.” Her mocking sneer jump across the internet when she typed in italics.

“I’m glad she had some limits,” I wrote. He was taking her on what had been our Stickley Audi platform bed, where we conceived our daughter under the warmth of the carved, curving headboard. Another treasured purchase offered a warm and wet platform for another man, big rugged Mickey. But the bed was no longer my bed, the woman was no longer my wife and I could only claim my soiled memories.

“Marci felt him spreading her legs and his fingers running between them. She liked that. He slowed everything down so they had stopped panting. She couldn’t see what Mickey was doing but she felt his fingers all over her. ‘Then I felt the head of his cock sliding into me, a little in a little out. He pushed. I pushed back. I had to hold on to the bed sheets. He kept going back and forth and I was frantic for him to come in me and I’d come with him. I begged him to come in me, I felt him swelling and getting sooo hard.’”

“Sounds like things were moving to a fitting climax.”

“Yeah, but then things got strange.”

“How so?”

“Not what she expected. He pulled out and flipped her over, and Marci of course thought he was going fuck her from the front so they could watch each other. She rolled over and spread her legs on the bed and told him, ‘Let me take you over, lover,’ but he stood there panting with his cock waving around like a jumbo cucumber. ‘Do whatever you want, Mickey,’ she told him and she just lay there open to him. He could have come in her cunt or or her mouth or on her tits. But he said he wanted to rest. That was fine with her, so she went in the bathroom and got cleaned up – they had been fucking nonstop for two hours since they got to the house. A girl needs some time for herself, don’t you think? She splashed water around her privates, and freshened her makeup, as if Mickey needed more excitement, and got ready for more animal fucking. And then she went back outside.”

“You’re killing me with the suspense.”

“He was sprawled out on the bed, I mean, passed out, with his big cock pointing straight up. Marci thought he was joking, so she snuggled up against him. His eyes didn’t move at all. She tried whispering to him to get him going, saying, ‘I need that cock in me so bad,’ you know, things guys go apeshit over when women say them and sound sincere. That didn’t work.”

Maybe the royal cock of the gods absorbed so much blood it left Mickey’s brain starved for energy, woozy in the moment that required peak engagement. I merely wrote, “How frustrating.”

“She thought about splashing cold water on him, or rolling him off the bed or playing loud music, but those all sounded like they startle him too much. She’s very considerate of her lovers.”

“Let me guess, she found another solution.”

“Marci decided the slow and gentle approach might work. She got her favorite body lotion, the kind you used to try on her, you know the brand, and rubbed it on her hands. Then she sat on the bed next to Mickey. He was still out cold but his cock was waving back and forth like a palm tree in a breeze. ‘What should I do with this big bad boy?’ she told him. ‘what will wake him up, further up?’ She ran her hand around the base of his cock, then rubbed oil on it. It was shining like it had a spotlight on it. You remember what the lighting can be like in your old bedroom, don’t you, Jason? You turn down the lights and it’s like you’re bathed in moonglow. And that ceiling fan over the bed, so romantic and tropical! You two did a wonderful job on the house, I give you a lot of credit . It looks so comfortable and homey.”

My silence told her I didn’t care for reminders of life on the far side of Probate and Family Court.

“So, Marci, who felt very creative giving Mickey’s cock a beautiful sheen in the soft light, kept stroking him up and down. She even talked to it, isn’t that crazy? Maybe his cock had ears and Mickey could hear her say how big and hard he was, and how she shivered to touch it and taste him. And then she’d lick it like an ice cream cone. But you know the crap that turns guys on.”

“She told you she did that?”

“Oh, she loved telling us, that’s so inspiring for we girls who want to get back to a sex life after being entombed in fat for so long. Big beautiful women have more fun? What a joke. Maybe for some. But I digress. Yes. She called herself the ‘cock whisperer,’ and we all laughed. She rubbed her face against it, and then slid it between her breasts pushing them together. She told us, ‘He jumped when I touched my nipples against them, so something was getting through to his nervous system! I moved my boobs up and down against Mr. Big, and his hips pushed up. Then I moved my hand up and down the shaft, pushing down to make it bigger than ever. He kept his eyes closed but I hear little moans from him. This must have been the greatest wet dream in the history of males. Was he dreaming that I was pleasuring him, or did he feel me, or dreaming and feeling at the same time? Fuck if I know. Now I was getting wet and I half thought about getting above him and sliding that big cock right up into me so I could drain him, but I wanted to keep my eyes and hands and boobs on him.’”

“Very intricate. Good cardio for her, all that pumping and gripping. Sexercise.”

“Marci’s work was paying off. Mickey’s hips were moving up and down and he sighed. He put his hands down around his cock like he was preparing it for blastoff. ‘Suddenly he got all purple looking and he arched his back, and then he pushed his cock up so fast I could barely hold to this, this barber pole’—we all thought that image was hilarious, the way Marci said it, a big red spinning barber pole full of jizz!—‘and then he started spurting like a little fire hose straight up in the air, like a fire hose or a fountain at a mall food court. Zoom! His jizz shot up so high that it hit a blade of the ceiling fan and just stayed there! I was so amazed at this display. Jason couldn’t ever do that, but Mickey could.’ She said that, not me, I wouldn’t know about how high you could spurt when you come, Jason. Did you and Marci ever measure that?”

“Whatever it was wouldn’t have measured up, clearly. Did he wake up?”

“Once he finished he did, like he had been in a trance. Marci said, ‘Look what you did! I pointed to the ceiling fan and a big blob of cum was on a blade, about to drip down. He was still drowsy, but he dared me to catch it in my mouth so I positioned myself perfectly and, splat! Right down my throat. I told him it was delicious and I hoped that was just the appetizer he had for me and I still wanted the main course. He liked that and I snuggled up to him.’ Crazy fun stuff, wasn’t it?”

“That must have been one hell of a support group session. Did Mickey say anything about the sleeping? Narcolepsy? I've heard that can happen during sex.”

“They didn’t talk about it, she didn’t ask. Just one of those guy things. But let me ask you a question, if it’s not too off the wall.”

“Or off the fan. OK, ask.”

“Do you think Marci took advantage of Mickey then? He was asleep, he wasn’t in control of his responses. Maybe he was drugged?”

“I have no idea about any of this. I wasn’t there.”

“Did Marci do things like this when you were married? She told us how angry she got at you when she came and then you came, and then you lost interest when she was still hot and bothered. You were such a wet noodle. She ever force you to have sex with her?”

“That’s preposterous. She never forced me to do anything in bed. She could hint, she could be upset when I couldn’t do what she wanted, but she never forced me to do anything. Why would you even ask?”

“Oh, OK, don’t get all defensive on me. Anyway, and after that they stayed in your big bed of love all weekend fucking and sucking with breaks to shower and eat. Marci said, ‘I loved wearing the French lingerie Jason got me for our 10th anniversary, Mickey thought it was so elegant and sexy,’ so you played your own role in their first weekend together. But then you had to spoil it all by bringing Laurel home, pooh on you. They had so much fun.”

“It’s not my bed of love any more! That’s all over and it’s nothing to do with me,” I wrote, pushed to the edge by her snideness.

“You were a dear, Jason, to tell her when you were bringing Laurel back. You did that every time you had her. No surprises, Mr. Predictable. So all those times when you were being the dutiful father, they were fucking in every room of the house when they weren’t out at fancy restaurants and theater in Boston. Or long weekend trips skiing at his place in Vermont. He makes a very good living with that investment company, the top salesman, but I’ve already said that. Marci had middle-aged magic like she’d never experienced. The support group gals always wanted to hear about their adventures, it was like being part of a happy soap opera. Who doesn’t like a happy story? And you know the funny thing about those drop-offs?”

"I can’t imagine. But I assume the joke was always on me.”

“Since you were always on time, they loved fucking just before you came. It was their little joke. Like a good-bye kiss until they could see each other again. ‘I loved sucking Mickey off when I knew Jason was ready to come over, and he’d be at the door and I’d still have some cum around my lips, so I’d give him a little ‘hello’ kiss and plant some of Mickey’s jizz on his cheek! Or I’d have cum bubbling around inside of me. And Jason never knew. That was our sexy secret.’ Isn’t that sweet and sensual? You were a big part of their farewells. And you know what else?”

“Could there be anything else? Come on Liz, let’s wrap this up.”

“Did you ever see a fancy car parked across the street?”

“Not that I remember. I wanted to do a civil hand-off and I wasn’t doing surveillance of Brookline.”

“Mickey would sit in his Tesla and watch you come by. That was his idea. He’d see Marci kiss you and he knew you were getting a little taste of what Marci got a few minutes earlier!’ Isn’t that hilarious? We all thought so at the group, it seemed so right after everything you did to her.”

“This has been very enlightening, but I need to go.”

“Wait, one more thing! I feel like I really know you Jason and I promise I won’t say anything more if you don’t want to hear about it. If we met I think you’d like me, and I’m looking better every day. Give me your email address and I’ll send you some pictures I bet you’ll like. I’ve gotten so much out of the support group, I’m exercising and eating a lot better. Would you like to meet for coffee, even if we’re just friends? I bet you’d be loads of fun! I would be!”

My bleary eyes misted over at this last exchange. Could I even think about meeting Liz, this tattletale, this teaser, this plunger of frozen daggers into my heart?

“And maybe this sounds totally nuts, but one of these days we could go on a double date, you and me and Marci and Mickey, and then . . . “

I had written, “Look Liz, stop, just stop, I’m already involved with somebody and I've heard way too much from you, so I'm shutting things down“

"Fucking bastard! I tell you everything and that's the thanks I get! Not even a cup of coffee! Well fuck you! Don't you want to hear about when Mickey and Marci and I had a . . . ."

I closed the chat window and blocked Liz. Enough was too much. At that moment my Facebook Messenger flashed again. Two IMs on one night, that’s unique. Then I looked at the name. Marci. We’re FB friends but we never IMed. What other surprises could one night of blizzards hurl at me?

“JASON ARE YOU TALKING TO A WOMAN NAMED LIZ NOW?” the message screamed.

“Hi Marci, as a matter of fact, yeah, we were IMing but we're done. What’s up?”

“OMG OMG OMG. OH SHIT. THAT FUCKING BITCH.”


 

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