The Ringmaster

I was in the middle, my husband Jim lay on my right and our friend Kray on my left. All three of us were still naked. Jim and I lay on our backs; Kray slept on his left side, facing outward. Between Kray and me was a hand towel covering last night's wetspot. Wetspots grossed Kray out. But it was dry by now anyway, towel or no. My husband's left hand rested on my right thigh. Although Jim lay silent, motionless, I guessed that like me he was wide awake. Awake at any rate. I couldn't see the clock on Jim's side but the graying darkness indicated it was about six a.m. Our dog Buster was agitating—his nails scratching bedroom's laminate floor. So I put a hand on Jim's hand and gave it a shake.

"Mm," Jim said.

"Buster," was all I said.

About a minute passed. Then Jim sighed and slid out from under the covers. In the semi-darkness he and Buster spent a few more minutes nosing around the piles of clothing on the bedroom floor until Jim found his, got dressed and left the room.

"Close the door," I suggested. This earned another sigh, an equally obedient one, as well as stirring Kray from his seven-hour slumber. He rolled over on his back, found my left hand and guided to his sleep-erection. As I like to say, and I've known a lot of horny guys in my time, professionals no less, our friend Kray is...insatiable; incorrigible. He declared he had to pee and got up, leaving me alone in the center of our king-sized bed. Blissfully alone.

Unfortunately Kray soon returned and wanted to have sex—immediately. No preliminaries. Kray is 35-no, 36 now. I am 47 and Jim is two years younger. And while it's flattering to be wanted, sexually anyway, by a guy nearly 12 years my junior, it can also get a little tiring. Kray and I fucked late yesterday afternoon shortly he arrived; then we had our threesome last night; and now here we were again, Kray's dick in me. Maybe I'm just getting old. Kray has a decent-sized cock, longer and thicker than Jim's, but sometimes he still complains—with a smile, admittedly—that I'm a little too roomy inside. As I've explained to him before, that comes with the territory, having given birth twice, to a boy and a girl, both of whom are college-age now. At any rate, sometimes Kray likes me to put my legs together while I'm lying on my back, and he's above me, inside me, with his knees flanking my thighs. And, at his urging, that's how I received him this morning, wearing nothing but my forced smile.

I may be 47, and the mother of two, but I can assure you I still have IT, as they say. Sans makeup I may look my age at times from the neck up, but from there down my body, though thickening, still looks youthful. I take care of my skin for one thing. Minimal exposure to the sun. I also go to the gym twice a week. I might go more often, time permitting, but, as with Kray, I grow tired of younger guys hitting on me. I already have a husband and a regular lover—I don't need a third man in my life right now.

I still keep in touch by text with my old boss Max, and not too long ago I sent him a nude selfie along with my stats. Hips: 40". Waist: 26". Bust 42". I've been thinking about having my silicone inserts removed, mainly for long-term health reasons. That would reduce my boobs back down to C-up size. Jim is OK with this but Kray protests he likes them just the way they are. His mother has silicone implants he told me, though her boobs are much smaller than mine. I'll leave the mother/lover connection there, to the psychologists. Though I will add one thing: the last person Kray dated before he began hanging with Jim and me again, and before he and I became lovers, was an artist-turned-cakemaker in her early sixties. Her name was Arlene, as I recall. Kray digs older women, what can I say?

Anyway Max is always after me to get back in the biz. He claims MILF's are the hottest thing going these days; the hottest thing in the industry aside, of course, from she-males. He says even if I came out two, three times a year for two weeks of shooting, I could be big again. The Second Coming of Michelle Moons. A legend in my own time.

I try to patiently explain to Max that I'm too old for this kind of thing, MILF or no MILF; that I'm married; have two beautiful kids; a full-time legit job; I'm still working nights toward my undergraduate degree in English; And also—Duh!—that I'm a typical middle-class American: lucky to get one solid week's vacation a year out of the cheapskate company I work for. Max says he can almost guarantee thirty thousand a year plus expenses. For six weeks' work, max (pardon the pun). He'd pair me up with up-and-comers (ditto!) who were young enough to pass for horny college sophomores. I informed Max that, all well and good but I make double that at my current job. He replied that maybe, in a pinch, he could go forty.

I've discussed it with Jim and he's not a hundred percent against the idea. Although my dipshit husband may not be the best source of wisdom on this: he gets a hard on just thinking about me fucking other guys. What do you think the attraction was in the first place, a million years ago? Jim suggests that if I took up Max's offer I could quit my job and then, between trips to LA, work as a temp. If I could pull down thirty thou from that, and another thirty or forty from my acting gig, I'd be ahead of the game. Or at least even. I haven't brought the subject up with Kray, and don't intend to. He doesn't even know I used to be in the industry, let alone that I won tons of phallic-themed hardware (now in boxes in a closet) and had a famous stage name.

I could kick myself for sending Max that selfie. What was I thinking? What am I, like, 19? Rumor is Max has put on a lot of weight recently. He supposedly weighs over 300 pounds now. And to think he used to bang me on his office couch back in the day...

After Kray finished in me—he wanted to fuck me up the ass but I told him no way, not at seven in the morning—and he headed off to the shower, I got up, wiped my crotch, pulled on cotton panties, wrapped a robe around my just-used body and headed downstairs, drawn by the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

I found Jim sitting on a high-backed stool sipping his coffee and reading the news, none of it good, on his tablet. I pulled up a stool next to him, yawned and said, "Coffee..."

My husband the robot obediently got up and filled my embossed "MOM" mug, the one my daughter had crafted for me in some off-campus ceramics class, filled it with coffee, 2% milk and two spoons of sugar and delivered it back to me, along with a sloppy kiss on my left cheek.

"Thanks."

"Kray showering?"

"Using up all the hot water? Yeah."

"Is he staying for breakfast?"

"Has he ever turned down a free meal? He has some kind of music thing at his church this morning but, yeah, he'll stick around. You better get on it, though."

"OK. Blueberry pancakes? The usual?"

"Sure. No bacon, though. Last thing Kray needs is more nitrates in his diet."

"His heart?"

I looked over at dumbass. "No, his big cock, Jim."

"Oh."

"Speaking of that..." I pushed the Wall Street Journal's online "paper" back in front of Jim and said, "How can you read this shit?"

"What?"

"All the bad news all the time.

"No. Speaking of...WHAT?"

"Oh," I said. "Before you got in bed with me last night, and fucked me. You down on your knees sucking Kray's cock. That's a first. Or is it?"

My husband ignored the question. The latter half of it. "He told me to."

"You do everything he says?"

"In the bedroom? Yeah. Kinda."

"He's not your Dom, Jim."

"No I know but...he kinda directs things. Do this, do that. He's kind of the Ringmaster."

"It's not a circus."

"It's kind of a circus," my husband laughed. "One ring, three animals, but..."

"Animals? I like to think of myself as something more than a—"

"You know what I'm saying."

"I don't know what you're saying. And you put two much milk in my coffee. Again."

"Want me to pour it out?"

"No, it's OK."

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself," Jim alleged.

"When? How so?"

"Lying there fingering yourself while you watched me sucking Kray?"

I shrugged. "I was playing the part. I'm a former actress, remember?"

"If you say so," my asshole husband said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying..."

"That I wasn't an actress? Just because it was adult films? You know how many Best Actress awards I won?"

"I know."

"They don't count?"

"I wasn't saying that at all."

"What were you saying then? And why were you so expertly sucking Kray's cock last night? Fondling his balls? Where'd you learn that trick? From your gay sex videos?"

My weirdo husband had a small collection of gay porn which he watches while Kray and I go out on twosome dates. Then and who knows when else. Kray claimed, insultingly I might add, it wasn't like with straight porn where there was always some kind of flimsy bullshit plot. With gay sex it was just a bunch of young good-looking studs getting it on. It was like sexual gymnastics, my husband liked to say. Or rationalize. As if he were merely watching the Olympics in my Friday-night absence.

"Expert?" Jim replied. "I wouldn't say that. Sucking a guy's cock kind of comes naturally. It's not like it's—

"I'm beginning to wonder about both of you assholes," I said. "Where are my smokes at?"

"I can't believe you started up again."

"Well believe it. I found out last night I have a gay husband and gay lover. Wouldn't you want a smoke?"

"I'm not gay!"

"You know...," I began, riffling through my nearby purse, "...five-plus years in the industry and not once—once—was I ever in a bi video. Ask Max."

"What about the lesbian ones? And I don't know Max."

I could have slapped my husband silly. The prick! "Gay isn't bi. I'm talking about porn films where a woman is with two guys and she doesn't know whether they're interested in her or in—"

"Wait. You mean in the script?"

"What script?"

"That's how the script is written?"

"What are you talking about, Jim? What fucking script!"

"What's all this talk about porn I hear?"

Kray had just made his descending appearance. Dressed like something out of an Ayn Rand style-book: sockless penny loafers, chinos, striped button-down shirt with silver Cross pen clipped to the pocket. His spiky hair wet from all the water he'd wasted. The silver cross he'd failed to tuck in, dangling from his neck.

"Nothing," I replied. "Jim was just about to make us pancakes. Weren't you Jim?" my smile about as sour as an unripe blueberry.

Kray put an arm around my robed waist. He kissed my right cheek. He tried to peel around and kiss my lips. I pulled away. I was sick of men. Not males actors but, you know, men men. "I'm going out for a smoke."

"You're smoking now?" my soon-to-be ex-lover asked.

"Hey, Kray? I have an idea. While I'm outside having a smoke why don't you get Jim to get down on his knees and suck your cock again?"

He looked at me, open-mouthed. He was speechless. Both men in my life were.

[Grade: B-

Michele - that's the highest grade I can give you for a story with this dubious subject matter. Frankly, it's not something I'll be able to share with the rest of my creative writing class. I admire your moxy [sic] however, if this is indeed a true-life confessional. You've come a long way in one semester and I hope you'll continue with your writing. If you'd like some personal tips on where you might publish "adult-themed" stories of this type please see me after class before you depart for L.A. At any rate I wash [sic] you the best. Happy writing! —Prof. Ellison]