Wendy had read about swingers in books and magazines. A boy she’d dated in high school had showed her a movie – a mainstream movie, not porno – about wife-swapping. She wondered what it would be like to be a swinger, but married to a devout Jehovah’s Witness there wasn’t much likelihood of it happening; Mike wouldn’t want to swap her for anything except maybe a snazzier Harley Davison. Next to God, her husband loved his motorcycle more than anything – more than her, she sometimes felt – so it was kind of appropriate that when God called Michael home He sent a twenty-ton truck to knock him off his cherished old Harley.
After two months of wondering where her life was meant to go, Wendy sold the house and rented a small third-floor studio flat in the city. Within a month, she met Herb in the local corner-shop. Herb drove a delivery van; he wasn’t a churchgoer; he had two ex-wives.
And he was a swinger. He took Wendy to a party in the penthouse of one of the city’s newest high-rises. Their hosts were a super-smooth litigator with a top law firm and his glamour-puss wife who wrote the society page in a fashion magazine. They served quality wines and a finger buffet. The background music was popular West-End show tunes. Herb took Wendy upstairs to a modishly decorated bedroom with twin king-size beds; the sheets were the finest Egyptian cotton. Herb and Wendy watched two other couples on the beds and then let the other couples watch them. Wendy left the party feeling like a schoolgirl who’s got away with something naughty.
Next time the party was in the first-floor apartment above an Indian take-away. Their hosts were a fireman and his wife who worked on the check-out in Asda. They served beer and packet snacks. The hi-fi was playing yesteryear country hits. Their spare bedroom was not stylish; the bed was a scuffed mattress with no base and no sheets. Herb watched while two other men took care of Wendy and another woman. Then Wendy watched while Herb took care of the other woman and the two men took turns taking care of Herb. The woman wanted to take care of Wendy, but Wendy said she wasn’t ready for this. She left the party feeling she’d participated in something close to what the ancient Greeks and Romans were said to have done. Sodom and Gomorrah also came to her mind with a guilty flashback to her previous life with Michael.
‘Do all the swingers do that?’ she asked Herb in the van, driving home. ‘The gay stuff, the dykey stuff.’
‘A lot of them do,’ he said.
‘Which do you prefer?’
‘I like all of it,’ Herb said.
‘It’s not what I was expecting,’ said Wendy.
‘What did you expect?’
Wendy stopped seeing Herb. She gave notice to her landlord and moved back to the country. She started going to church again and soon met a nice widower. His wife had died in a car crash and he’d given up driving. Wendy didn’t mind doing the driving in her little Toyota. She always drove – and now lived – within safe limits.
* * * * * * * * *
SHAIKH-DOWN, my comic 'blueprint' (fairly blue) for a revolution on an island in the Persian Gulf.
THE DROPOUT: how does a sex-starved straight man deal with gay advances?
THE BEXHILL MISSILE CRISIS: the Horseman of the Apocalypse rides his motorcycle into the lives of four middle-class misfits in October 1962.
Extracts from these novels on my website:
LILLIAN AND THE ITALIANS is currently going the rounds of agents and publishers in the UK and USA. Hoping not to go back down the self-publishing road with this one.
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