"You're the worst kind of womanizer," David remarked one day over beers.

We were sitting in his living room, watching television on a Sunday afternoon that was fading into evening. It was one of those sad attempts to recapture youth, though we hadn't known each other then. But we were alike, alike enough to have spent drunken afternoons in college, yelling at television screens while watching shows like Beverly Hills 90210. Today, we had decided on a double feature, starting out with Barfly, a quasi-literary movie starring Mickey Rourke, followed by Over the Top, Sylvester Stallone's quintessential film on professional arm wrestling, the hope being that we would be drunk enough by the end of Barfly to truly appreciate Over the Top, or at least drunk enough to tolerate it.

"I don't use women for sex."

"John." He raised his eyebrows. "You use them for their emotions. Because you know it will get you in bed with them. The best way to a woman's pussy is through her heart."

"It's not sex I'm after. I'm looking for love."

"No argument there." He turned back to the television. "I'm just saying I wouldn't let you near my sister, if I had one. Or my mother, for that matter."

"What about your wife?" David's head spun slowly towards me with a smile on his face. "Oh, you're not serious!"

"We've talked about it."

I stared at him, the unspoken question that we both knew the answer to hanging in the air. Finally David smiled, obviously embarrassed.

"You've got to do all the work though," David said.

"Call her. Piss her off a bit."

"Easy enough," David said and picked up the phone. "Hi, honey," he said into the receiver. "John's staying for dinner. Can you cook? We're watching a movie." He opened his mouth in a silent laugh. "Yes, of course I know. But I've been telling him how good your lasagna is."

"I'm dying to try it, Shelia," I called out.

"Of course I know, but . . . I'll cook all week. You know how much you like my fried chicken and instant rice. I'll make it twice. . . Very lucky. Could you make garlic bread too, not the store bought kind, but the kind with all the cheese? . . . John will help. I'm too busy watching Over the Top . . . It's the one where Stallone plays an arm wrestler." He hung up and burst into laughter. "She'll be home in an hour, after she stops by the store."

An hour and twenty minutes later, Shelia strode into the room, blonde, a bit on the short side, with a pretty face that had seen a bit too much sun, but her legs . . . her legs were a marvel. "Hi, John," she said, without a trace of annoyance. David stared at her and she looked back with an expression I couldn't read. She crossed the room and I followed her into the kitchen.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"I'm going to help, with dinner I mean. And don't say I don't have to. I want to. Your husband," I paused, "tells too many stories."

"What sort?" she asked, fetching a pot from beneath the stove.

"That sort that you repeat three or four times. I think the alcohol has damage his memory. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy, and a great friend. I wouldn't try to hurt him." I leaned back against the counter.

"Well that's good. I guess," she began filling the pot with water and I picked up the garlic bread and a knife and started slicing it. "You're going to half to tell me how you want this cut or I'll ruin it."

"You're doing fine."

A few minutes later, I asked, "Are you happy, Shelia? I don't mean at the moment. You seem . . . neutral at the moment. I mean more in the abstract sense. We're all mocked by the dreams of our youth. Do you have any from the past that you regret even having?"

"John," she groaned, with mock annoyance.

The alcohol fueling my courage, I walked behind her, placed my finger under her chin, turned her head and kissed her.

"I thought I'd make it easy for you," she said with a smile afterward.

"Not easy enough. Do you realize the courage that took?"

She grabbed me by the head, a hand on each side, and dove at me, kissing me with reckless abandon. Settling into our rhythm, I began to run my hands over her body. Our lips broke when my hands moved to her breasts, my thumbs fanning out over her hard nipples as she watched my arms, "You're so fucking beautiful," I told her, "I've wanted you for so long. Can I have you? Can I have you finally?" She nodded her head urgently. "I knew a bisexual woman once," I said as I slid down her body, "who would sometimes say, `I could just drop to my knees and eat you out.'" Shelia began to quiver some in anticipation. She kicked off her shoes as I struggled with her belt. When my tongue slid into her, she let out a loud moan. I worked at her pussy slowly, teasing her clit, letting her excitement build as she murmured words of encouragement, her hand holding the back of my head. When I began flicking it around with my tongue, she began stifling herself and, finally, let out a long, shuddering sigh.

"You bastard," she said. I looked up at her, puzzled. "I supposed you needed his permission." She bumped my face with her hips, smiling. She began rubbing her crotch against me in circles, giggling slightly. I let her, anxious to fuck. "I'm giving the orders, John. The choreographer, if you prefer. If you don't listen to me, you're going to leave here very sad. Oh, poor John." She put the tip of her finger between her lips. "I do like you, don't worry. " Laughing, she jogged up the stairs at the back of the kitchen.

"I'll be up there in a minute," I called after her, for David benefit, and then turned off the stove and undressed. Shelia stood in the master bedroom, naked before the bed. When she saw me, she glanced down at my cock then back up and raised her eyebrows indifferently. I walked towards her and she turned away and walked round the bed to the side. When I approached her again, she did the same, with a look over her shoulder at me. I smiled and grabbed her from behind, pressing my dick into her back, wrapping my hands around her, running them up her torso, grasping her breasts. She tried to pull away but I wouldn't let her.

"Don't. My husband might be here any minute," she groaned, too serious to be teasing.

"I hope he is."

"You can only cum in his mouth."

"Oh dear Jesus!" I spat.

Shelia spun round. "This is his fantasy, my way. Or is it my fantasy his way? You decide. It shouldn't be too hard for you." She grabbed my cock, firmly, and squeezed.

I smiled. "I think I'll like your way more."

"Smart man."

"Smart woman." I glanced at the doorway. "How do you want him to find us?"

Shelia mounted the bed on all fours, her ass facing me. I pushed into her and with a groan and stood still. She flexed her muscles around my cock and let out a loud, theatric moan. A moment later, we heard footfalls on the wooden front stairs. "Don't," Shelia moaned. "My husband. He might find us. He might find out. Please, John, it feels so good, so wrong but so good. Don't stop. Fuck me like a man." I smiled down at her, impressed. "David!" Shelia cried, turning her head around. "It isn't what you think." She pulled off me and sat up on the bed.

"I think it is," David said. "How could you, Shelia?"

"Maybe it is, then. But how could you blame me? John's a man. And a man has needs."

Holy fuck, I thought as Shelia continued to subtly berate her husband, not paying attention to what was being said until David lurched forward.

"I can prove it," he said, dropping to his knees before me.

"Do and I'll reward you with a nice fucking," Shelia said as David's mouth engulfed my cock.

I hadn't told either of them that I couldn't cum that way so, smiling to myself, I began to fuck David's face. He really was an astonishing good cocksucker. It wasn't until I felt his hand squeezing my balls to bring me under control that I realized he was gagging.

"You son of a bitch," he said, pulling away from me.

"Was it the best you've ever had?" Shelia asked.

"Not by a long shot," I answered.

"How can we make it up to you?" She asked with raised eyebrows. I looked from Shelia to David, back to Shelia. "It'll be heaven," Shelia said as David stripped off his clothes.