The theme over at Sunday Scribblings this week is "Spicy." Below is the continuation of "The Most Beautiful Thing About Her." I said when I posted the first part that I thought it was only going to go about another 500 words. Well, the story got not only a little "spicier" as I continued but also longer. I guess that's what happens when you write an actual scene into a story. It's at 1800 or so words now, and I'm guessing it'll wrap up in about another 700 words, but who knows? The first part, if you're interested, is here.
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When I first met her a few years earlier, she waited tables at the place where I tended bar. She’d just graduated college with a degree in political science, and she was seeing a woman who would bring guys home and tell Lauren to suck their dicks, to let them fuck her.
Lauren. That’s her name. The woman I knew for a while three years ago and who had come back to town and asked if she could stay at my place with the depressed guy who’d lost his job.
Lauren’s girlfriend brought the guys home as a kind of test. She knew Lauren had been with guys and wanted to see how it all went down, to see how Lauren reacted to their dicks now that the two of them were in a relationship. Only she didn’t give her much of a choice. She’d bring the guy home and tell Lauren what she wanted her to do to him. Lauren disobeyed only the first time.
This had been going on for four months, I found out later, when the three of us were drinking at their place one night after closing. There was a DVD playing in the background—something Disney, animated, it was probably supposed to be funny in an ironic way—and we were drinking chilled sweet red wine and shots of tequila. Lauren and I talked about work mostly. Her girlfriend sat with her elbows on her knees, holding her wine glass in both hands, and listened. At some point—the movie’d stopped playing and the television screen was blue—her girlfriend sat back, took a sip of wine. “I’m kind of looking forward to watching this,” she said.
Lauren’s hand made a fist around the stem of her wine glass. “No,” she said. “You’re not.”
Her girlfriend smiled, but there wasn’t any kindness in it. Lauren set the wine glass down on the coffee table, put the hand that had been clinching it on my knee.
“I’m not?” her girlfriend said, one eyebrow raised.
Lauren put her head on my shoulder, fixed her eyes on the carpet. “Look,” she said to me, her voice a whisper. “Would you—”
Her voice broke off, and though I couldn’t see her face, I knew she was crying silently. It may have been the first time I ever heard her do it.
Lauren’s girlfriend took over for her. “What I’d like to see happen is this,” she said.
She didn’t get too explicit. Instead, she told me about how this had been going on for a little while, how it was a way, however strangely, for Lauren to do something for her enjoyment. She enjoyed watching, she said, enjoyed watching Lauren, but she wouldn’t join in. “I know you’ve at least thought about this since you found out about the two of us. Since you found out Lauren wasn’t just friends with that chick sitting at the end of the bar most nights during closing.”