Melville Tatum liked to say at the close of his house parties—with everyone fed and filled up on his liquor—the best way to end such a jolly night was for him to empty his balls in some lucky guest.

He relished the anxiety that ran through his get-togethers as everyone waited for the inevitable moment when he’d appear at the top of the stairs in his heavy silk dressing gown and blue velvet slippers to announce it was time for one of the wives to join him upstairs.

A reedy little guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a closely groomed bit of a moustache that came off more creepy than charming and urbane, Melville—drunk on his own liquor and his own claw-fisted sway as president of the homeowners’ association—would single out one of his guests to fuck.

It was an unspoken obligation of the homeowners in this attractive—and exclusive—neighborhood on the far edge of the new development.

Installed by the developer and supported by the association’s charter which favored him entirely, Melville cemented his influence with financial favors and sweetheart deals to the young couples—like you and your wife—hungry for a spot on this flaring rocket of home equity. Real estate wizards were calling it a ‘swinging sixties’ post-war housing boom. Developments were going in everywhere with people eager to get out of their city apartments or away from their small towns, to live the intoxicating suburban dream idealized in the television sitcoms, daytime soap operas, and women’s magazines on sale at newsstands everywhere. You and your new neighbors all owed Melville in one way or another.

So you were expected to show up for his house parties, and submit to his energetic and creative—as well as boundless, it would seem—sexual appetite. Not something mentioned in the peppy color sales brochures. Soon-to-be neighbors—eager to lower the odds of Melville choosing their wives—left this out of their happy talk to prospective buyers, checking out the neighborhood.

You and your wife didn’t get the low-down until after you’d closed on your house.

Butch, from down the block, stopped by, doing the new neighbor thing and giving you the ‘skinny’ on the other residents. Not much in the way of surprises. Mostly like you. Young, married only a couple of years, first time buyers, jobs in the city, wives at home. A real Leave it to Beaver quality of life—without the Beaver. In this little wedge of newly constructed, freshly planted suburbia, kids were something to consider when all the dust settled.

Over beers, while your wife was busy hanging laundry in the back yard, Butch let you know that if you wanted any special dispensation from the homeowners association for improvements to the house or the property, like turning your garage into a workshop, using your own special choice of grass for the lawn, installing a brick barbecue grill, or—your wife’s obsession—an in-ground pool, you had to pass it by the association, which was Melville. And that would cost you. Not in money, of course. But showing up for his house parties was a necessity.

There was no set schedule for his get-togethers, said Butch. Just whatever date might strike him. Melville favored the odd holidays—Flag Day, Arbor Day, fucking United Nations Day for crying out loud. Some he’d made up. No way to plan for it. You get an invitation in the mail and everyone’s expected to be there—with your wife, ready for a night of food, booze, and Xavier Cugat—or whatever it was guys his age favored—on the turntable.

Butch paused and gave a little grimace, then added how Melville caps it off by picking out one of the wives to join him upstairs while everyone else stands around waiting. The husband usually hovers by the bar sucking down whatever’s left of the liquor by the end of the night.

Waiting for what, you asked.

For Melville to finish with her. He appears in his fancy robe and slippers, and makes his little announcement, thanking us all for coming—like there’s a choice. Then he’ll call out the lucky wife’s name. I’ll tell you, said Butch, there’s a sigh of relief from the rest of them, the ones he didn’t choose.

He’ll have her undress—right there in front of everyone, saying something like you won’t need those where we’re headed, honey. He says it every time like it’s the funniest thing anybody’s ever said. So she’s got to undress with everyone watching. Sometimes—and this is a bitch—sometimes her husband has to help her with a zipper or something. You imagine that? Guy’s going to fuck your wife and you have to help her undress. Some of the women wear revealing stuff, really low-cut, or slit up the side, or strapless. Really sexy stuff, right? Like she’s inviting it. On the theory that Melville is more likely to choose some other wife who’s doing her best to make herself unattractive, with turtlenecks, dark colors, loose blouses, full skirts, like that? On the theory that Melville has no self-control and he’ll choose one of the wives whose clothes’ll be easier to get off her. My advice? whichever your wife decides to do, make it easy to get out of. Melville likes to watch them undress, but he hates to wait.

You’re thinking Butch was yanking your crank. But you didn’t say that, trying to be neighborly.

It’s all a show for Melville, I’m telling you. Pretending it’s a hard choice trying to decide who he’ll slip the dick, watching them cringe but pretending not to cringe. Then, when he’s singled one of them out, watching her undress while everyone’s looking, watching her make her way up the stairs, without a stitch on. But once she’s up there, he wants to get right to it, because he’s going to take a while. For a scrawny old guy? He’s got stamina.

He gets very creative, said Butch. I’ve never seen it, but I hear his whole bedroom is like something out of Rogue or Cavalier, real men’s magazine stuff. He’s got all kinds of ways for tying them up. Bent over for spanking and then boning them in the ass. Spread-eagled, dripping hot wax on them, and then boning them face to face, using their tits for handlebars. Kneeling, with their wrists handcuffed behind them, fastened to their ankles and he’s got them by the head so they can suck him off. Whichever way it is, he takes his own sweet time. Sometimes all three. The way one of the wives put it? No hole goes unpunished. He’s a walking cum bottle. I believe her.

That was a little hard for you to believe.

Like a machine, some of the wives say. But, you can’t tell how much of that’s real, or him coaching them to say that, you know? Another way, if your wife’s got big tits—does she? Have big tits? If she does, another way he likes is fucking her between the boobs and finishes up, shooting cum all over her face. Can you imagine that? Extra points for her if she licks it off herself. I’m telling you, I get hard just thinking about it. I feel bad for them, I do. My wife hates it. But damn, she’s got her heart set on adding a family room which means ripping up part of the driveway. Boy. Things you gotta do to get a thumbs-up from Melville. One good thing? He spreads it around. Doesn’t choose any of them twice in a row. But whoever he chooses better give it her all. And, boy, do they go at it. All we can do is stand around waiting, like I said. Hard to find things to talk about while you’re listening to them. He likes it when she makes a lot of noise. Your wife make noise? When you do it?

You weren’t sure how to answer that. Or if you should.

Never mind. But she should. Like it’s the best fuck she’s ever had. Better than anything you ever did to her. Then, when they finish, he’ll send her back downstairs. Some’ll strut like it’s no big deal, some hurry down, trying to cover themselves with their hands. All of them, though, make a pit stop at the punch bowl—which is mostly straight vodka by the end of the night.

Then like some high mucky-muck potentate, Melville appears at the top of the stairs, and thanks us all for a delightful evening, telling us we’re free to go. Mister Charm with his ‘good night’ and ‘we must do this again soon’ shit.

Sounds like we may skip it, you told him.

If you owe Melville money, you better be there. With the wife.

You do owe him money. You didn’t admit that to Butch, but he knows. You didn’t have to tell him.

He thanked you for the beers and headed back to his house, his civic duty done.

Your wife came in with the laundry basket under her arm and asked who it was that had stopped in for a visit. You told her, then held a beer out to her and gave her the rundown.

She took it better than you expected. The way she figured, it’s a small price to pay for getting a foothold in a place like this. Her appetite for the new suburban life—whetted by watching too much of Donna Reed and Jane Wyatt on television, too many episodes of Father Knows Best, Secret Storm, and The Edge of Night in a cramped apartment in the city—she seemed ready for anything.

So when the invitation showed up in your mailbox—like Butch said it would—you both primed yourselves to play Melville’s lottery of lust.

Watching her, hair up in curlers as she slips into her bra and panties, bending over as she straightened her stockings, you couldn’t help seeing Melville’s crusty old hands slipping along the skin of her thighs and popping loose the clips of her garter belt, sliding upward under her panties, pressing his thumbs into her puss, prying the lips apart to reach the glistening pink—you took another hit of your bourbon. Maybe her number won’t come up this go-round.

Finally, hair done, twisting into her party dress, she tells you she’s ready, and has you pour her a pre-party drink as well, then asks what you think.

The thought of Melville choosing your wife, undressing her, sticking his dick in her mouth is unnerving, and—strangely—arousing. She sees the life in your trousers and takes it as a compliment. You don’t tell her what it is that roused your pecker.

To the American Dream, you say, holding up your glass.

And the swimming pool, she emphasizes, holding up her glass.

It’s a short walk to Melville’s house, which is lit up, strung with paper lanterns, the front door wide open, and a peppy sort of music—jazz piano, sax, and vibraphone—floats out over the lawn.

Butch was right. Everyone in the neighborhood is there. Living room furniture is pushed back for dancing, but no one bothers. Instead, they all seem to be killing time with nervous small talk—new house, the commute into the city, work, recipes, vacation plans. Melville circulates with hearty greetings and gentle reminders of his largesse.

Sizing up the women, one guy says, talking into his whiskey, keeping an eye on Melville.

Morbid joking about the whole point of the evening percolates below the party chatter, swallowed up whenever Melville drifts close enough to listen in.

You and your wife are meeting people, but you can’t avoid picturing how each wife would look without her clothes. You’re having trouble remembering names.

Soon enough, the buffet is thoroughly picked over, the doctored punch scraped to the bottom of the bowl, a collection of empty wine and whiskey bottles tossed under the table, tumbled about.

One of the wives standing behind you says, here we go.

You turn to see Melville standing at the top of the stairs, in his velvet dressing gown and blue opera pumps. As he looks down on the partiers, you can feel the anxiety rise. The way he beams out at the upturned faces, it’s obvious how he feeds on it.

Your wife stands close by, a wine glass in her hand, having braced herself with copious amounts of Zinfandel. She waves her glass at you and whispers that if she gets enough to drink she could fuck the guy. It’s not like he’s going to live forever. She winks at you. She’s really juiced.

Melville scans the room and booms out why no one reminded him about National Opposite Day.

He waits for a reaction, but of course there’s none. No one’s ever heard of it.

Well, there was, and we missed it, he says. Just—schwoop—went right by. Don’t you think we ought to have a little fun with it?

Again Melville scans the room, this time craning his neck, looking for someone in particular.

The wives all hold their breath.

Then, with a look of satisfaction, he points at you, calling out your name.

Not your wife’s name. Your name.

Did he mean for you to fetch her? Really making you squirm?

You turn and look to her, but Melville says, no, you, and he says your name again. Let’s have you come join me.

As if registering the confusion on all the faces below him, he reminds everyone that it’s Opposite Day, then adds, sorry to disappoint you, ladies.

Again, no one offers any sort of a comment. At least none that Melville will hear. But the crashing conflict of feelings raises the tension in the place. All the wives would sigh in relief—if they could. All the guys would bark out their dismay—if they could.

It’s starting to sink in that he’s summoning you for whatever sexual recreation he’s got in mind. Again, you glance at your wife, but you’re not sure why. For confirmation you’re reading this right? For her to heroically offer to take your place? She’s the one who said she could fuck him if she had enough to drink. You definitely haven’t had enough to drink—if that’s what he’s got in mind.

You’re not sure what you’re expecting her to say, but it’s clear enough she’s urging you—with those severe eyes and a tilting of her head—to get on with it. She makes her meaning clear, mouthing the words ‘swimming pool’ at you. In case you’ve forgotten.

You start to move toward the stairs, through the crowd of guests, and Melville tells you to leave your clothes on the sofa there, because you won’t be needing them. He laughs, but he laughs alone.

Your brain freezes, leaving you at a loss about what the etiquette might be for removing one’s clothing at a party with a festive dress code.

Again, your wife mouths ‘swimming pool’ at you, more slowly this time.

You pause only a moment longer, then, like diving into cold water on a cloudy day, you kick off your shoes, shuck your jacket and tie, undo your shirt, unbuckle your belt and step out of your trousers, tossing each item onto the sofa pushed up against the wall.

The other guys are pretending to watch, without looking. It doesn’t feel right seeing a guy undress outside a locker room, with women watching, who are making no secret of it.

Down to your whites, you don’t bother glancing over at your wife again. You know where she is on this. So you slip off your tee-shirt, slide off your socks, and then slip your thumbs into the waistband of your briefs—pausing only a bare moment—and slide them down and off, making a small effort to be smooth about it, to avoid catching your foot in the fabric of your briefs, avoiding the indignity of hopping around on one foot.