Charlie’s Lounge on Beacon Street has become your go-to when returning home from business; Boston has always felt more exciting than the small-town life you live in Braintree. Being home is terrific, for sure - Alyssa and the kids are a constant joy – however, one last stop in town never hurt anyone. Charlie’s is great for that, a small restaurant and bar with live music most nights. It hints at the buzzing, lively feeling you get at the clubs in New York, but without the overcrowding and migraine-inducing cover charges. Besides, the food is too die for.
An attractive twenty-something brunette greets you, “Good evening, Sir,” she says, “how many tonight?” You flash a smile at her; restaurants always make sure they hire pretty hostesses, don’t they? Glancing around the room, you see Dan sitting in a booth already.
“Actually, I’m with him,” you say, pointing towards the sandy-haired gentleman. The hostess nods and escorts you over to the booth, places a menu in your hands and informs you a waitress will return with a glass of water. Dan Cunningham, probably the most average guy in Back Bay except, of course, for his marriage. Having met in the fifth grade, you and Dan held no secrets from one another. You knew about his first kiss, his first “lay,” first underage beer – literally everything, and he held reciprocal knowledge. You’d even had the privilege of being the best man in his wedding, a position you’d not given him at your own. He harbored no ill will though; choosing a wedding party is…delicate.
“Hey, Dan,” you say, “how’s it?”
“Evan,” he says, shaking your hand, “same old. Glad you’re back.”
“So, you said there was a new girl?”
“Yes,” Dan beams, “and she is exquisite, let me tell you.”
Elaine, your waitress, sets a glass of water at your place. Elaine isn’t the most beautiful waitress in the joint, but she is the best one. Besides, she’s Charlie’s wife and has been serving his customers for at least thirty years. She jots down an order of “the usual” for Dan and a medium-rare sirloin and side of parmesan-encrusted grilled zucchini for yourself.
“Anyway,” Dan says, “this new girl. Riley Tompkins. She’s a twenty-three-year-old fuck machine. Goes to school over at Boston College with her boyfriend, Randy. The two of them have a similar arrangement to the one Sarah and I have.”
“And how did you meet?” you ask.
“Sarah was one of Riley’s professors. There were rumors that she was…open to sharing. I’m not sure how Sarah brought it up to her, but she’s been over to our place four times now. All-nighters too. Riley’s big thing is toys – she loves riding Sarah’s strap-on while blowing me. And Sarah loves her taste.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve never had a tighter girl, and she’s open to anal,” he says.
You nod your head, enjoying his stories of threesomes with this young Riley and Sarah, his wife. The first time he’d ever mentioned sharing his wife left you astonished; the fact that that sort of relationship might work was beyond comprehension. Thankfully, he’d been willing to share the stories of their wild nights for about seven years now. Seven years is a long time; their marriage seemed intact, and they had new partners at least once a year – college kids never stay long after graduation.
Even stranger than the idea of Dan and Sarah having multiple partners was that it was incredibly arousing; the thought lingered in your mind for days. The next time you took Alyssa from behind, your imagination went wild. It wasn’t her hips you were clutching, but Sarah’s. It was Sarah’s voice which filled the room, begging for more. All the time you spent pleasing his wife, Dan sat in the corner of the room stroking himself, waiting for a turn. Of course, the scene had never come to fruition and if it had, Alyssa would’ve been long gone with the kids, leaving you with a couple grand in alimony and child support. Nope, the closest you came to pleasing Mrs. Cunningham was in those sweet private moments in a New York hotel room, your eyes closed, your breath ragged, cock in hand. It was good though. Always good, she knew precisely how to induce those toe-curling orgasms.
The “A-Minor Band” wraps up their set just as you finish your steak; pushing your plate aside, you order a beer. The room fills with polite applause for the band as they exit the stage; like everyone else, you oblige. The music hadn’t been terrible, it was just a bit too modern – no real timbre, just a typical pop-rock beat under acceptable vocals. It was just the sort of thing your bosses would love, something they could pump out over the airwaves ad nauseam; eventually, though, everyone and their mother would have the lyrics memorized. “A-Minor” would be sporting air-brushed smiles, and a hundred thousand screaming teens would piss themselves just to throw money at the merch. You smirk thinking about the raise you’d get for signing “A-Minor.” Yet, no amount of money in the world could make this music better; something would still be missing – and that something is essential.
