Chapter 1

I turned into the driveway. The grass was showing brown spots in spite of my best efforts. Linda's flowers, always under attack by her enemy -- the snails—seemed to be holding their own. I had pleasant thought of a grand bottle of Pinot Noir saved for just such a Friday night. There was a strange car parked behind my wife's Mercedes.

Walking into the house, I spotted a large note taped to the banister, positioned so I would not have the excuse—I didn't see it. All husbands know that stairway and hall notes are more serious than refrigerator notes. Refrigerator notes mean weekend jobs; stairway notes indicate a meaningful discussion in the offing. Faint voices filtered down from our upstairs bedroom. I had forgotten —the car in the driveway. Linda's voice lifted in laughter.

On the first step sat an ice bucket. Next to it a tumbler with an already mixed martini, a shaker and stemmed glass containing a single olive composed a small cluster. A few steps up lay a man's shirt, then a pair of pants. Higher still, men's underwear draped the top tread. The note with a large arrow pointing upstairs read-- "I've been planning this for some time. I love you." Linda's laugh rang louder than before--she was obviously enjoying something—someone?

I'd been a faithful husband, and I always assumed the same of her. Our sex life had been outstanding in the early years, but predictably we'd settled into a comfortable routine. About a year ago, we purchased some fun sex-advice books and tried games and role-playing. She'd been the hooker in the hotel. I starred as the pool cleaner boy, and we had had sex on the beach in Clearwater. All was pretty tame stuff for 20 years. But this? Linda knew I would be home at this hour. We'd discussed swinging or involving a third person, always philosophically or jokingly. At least, I thought we were joking.

Upstairs, beyond the jockey shorts, the laughter stopped and a nice pair of female legs, wearing heals, appeared on the landing—they weren't my wife's. A female? There's three of them? I froze, but deep in my Dockers, ole Bearegard awoke and began to raise his head. The legs descended the stairs.

"Hello idiot." It was my sister-in-law Alice. Beau relaxed.

"Your car?"

"Yes Steve, I just bought it on the way back from work and brought it by to show Linda. We were upstairs looking at your new bedspread and curtains." She looked at the note, the martini glass and the spread of clothes and smiled, "Guess it's time for me to leave, Studly." We pecked cheeks as she departed.

Halfway up the stairs was another note. "Hope you like the clothes. Enjoy your martini. Use the guest bathroom. I'm under construction, beginning transformation to the goddess of love. Cocktails at 7:30 by the pool. P.S. If you can manage, the steak you marinated is in the refrigerator, and if your delicate male hands can cope, the lettuce for the salad needs shredding."

I picked up the clothes. Yes, sale tags attached in case I didn't like them—I always did. Twenty years of marriage had taught me to wear whatever was on the bed (or stairway) to avoid the subtle hints that always lead to the inevitable wardrobe change.

Later, showered and dressed, I went to the kitchen. We both like to cook, so that morning I marinated a steak with my favorite combination of two parts whiskey, one part soy sauce and a portion of Dijon mustard. (Once a week we deviate from the damn diet and have real food) I shredded the lettuce and took the steaks to the grill. Sitting by the pool, I read the newspapers and sipped another martini. My computer-like mind booted, and I reviewed the day. The office information system was driving us all crazy. Routers wouldn't route, switches wouldn't switch, and the back up server was acting strangely. I pushed the thoughts from my mind and concentrated on the martini.

Linda entered the pool area at 7:30. I powered down computer-mind and was reminded how pretty she is. At 41, she is still gorgeous with short red hair, blue eyes and a smile that could dazzle any man into submission. Unlike most redheads, she has no freckles, and her skin is as smooth as the day I met her. She'd recently gone on a six-month diet (read, we went on a diet) and she looked stunning.

"Ready useless man?"

"Of course my love."

We had cocktails and talked of anything except work. I peeked down her top. Linda is a classy woman who never dresses in anything trashy, although I like trashy. But tonight, she had on a long green skirt with a slightly lower décolletage than usual. It's the type of dress she usually only wears at home for me, although it's perfectly suitable anywhere in Tampa. She caught me looking and did her fake, "Watch it buddy routine." But, I always figure if women dress like that; you're supposed to look. It's all the more fun when they show up "on display" and get huffy when you glance into the valley. Anyway, I enjoyed peeking and she enjoyed showing. In my pants, Beauregard shifted.

Linda produced the California Pinot Noir. I stepped to the grill, threw the steaks and listened to the satisfying sizzle. After dinner, I was completely at ease. Thoughts of the office banned from memory, the wine danced on my tongue, the meal had been delicious, my wife captivating, the world perfect--"Honey can we talk?"

Oh hell, meaningful discussion. I turned on computer-mind and stumbled through a number of intricate scenarios—it wasn't her birthday, not mother's day, I had said nothing bad about her mother...

Seeing my face she laughed, "Don't worry it isn't one of those talks."

I relaxed and let computer-mind wander to the pool pump, that had been acting strangely lately. Maybe if I changed the seal...

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes honey."

"What was I saying?"

'Uh."

Rolling her eyes she continued, "I was saying, do you remember Maggie Schmetterling?"

Computer-mind searched my data banks. Maggie Schmetterling was a cool, efficient, but good-looking woman that my wife used to work with. We had been very good friends for years with her and her husband Roger. Maggie always seemed secure in her role as high-powered executive, complete with protective shell. Efficient, direct, in charge, she had all the assets that marked her as an up-and-coming person. (Speaking of assets, computer mind dug into the archives and remembered she also had a great ass, but that was a hidden file and not to be displayed at this delicate moment.) Roger and I partnered many times at charity golf events and had been quite good friends.

"Yes, but it's been some time since we saw them."

"Well as you remember, she and Roger moved to the Fort Lauderdale office last year."

My mind returned to the pump seal. Just to be cautious, I directed a subsystem routine to monitor Linda's comments.

"She and I ran into each other at the convention last week in Miami and spent some time together. We had lots to talk about."

Computer-mind centered on the pump's main seal.

"Do you really love me?"

Alarm bells, code red--I'm fully alert now, "Honey, you know I do."

"I want you to promise to still love me, after I make the next statement."

This, of course, is one of those no-win situations husbands dread. "I will, I will."

"I never thought I would be saying this, but Maggie and I had too much wine one night, and we sort of discussed our sex lives, and well, we both thought it would be sort of fun if the two couples sort of took a uh 'adult'weekend sail." She picked up some dishes and quickly went to the kitchen.

Adult weekend sail? What the hell does that mean? Adult weekend sail? I switched on computer-mind and thought of Maggie. Tall, dark hair, she had blue eyes that looked right through you. But then there was that good body, long legs all assets. On the other hand, hair perfectly coifed, tailor made business suits, executive bearing, large strong husband, there were plenty of deficits to ponder. Then computer-mind came up with the answer; there is more than one meaning to adult.

Linda returned with coffee, and sat quietly. Switching off computer-mind, I ventured, "By sort of adult, you mean no kids."

"No, I mean sex with them."

I missed the table with my glass, spilled a ruby dollop of Pinot Noir on my pants and spent a minute with a napkin moping my lap.

"You two did drink a lot of wine."

"Sure, but you do like the idea, don't you?" As usual, my computer security system failed and she could read my mind. "We've talked about it before, and so did Maggie and Roger. We compared notes, and it seems safer to find a couple that doesn't live in the same town. It's not like meeting strangers, since we've known them so long. I checked with her, and we both have an open weekend in May."

There is one thing for sure about my wife. She's often slow to take to new things, but when she does embrace a new idea, sport or activity she goes all the way. She hated snow skiing. But, setting her mind to it, she practiced and became better than I. The same holds true for sailing, our latest passion. When I purchased my first boat, a Catalina 22, she was terrified when the boat first heeled. But soon, she got completely into the sport, and I couldn't keep her out of the boat. Now, we own a 40-foot Beneteau named "Hammerhead," or at least the bank owns it.

She's also an inveterate planner. Checklists, how to books, videos, discussions with her sisters are all standard practice for any of her endeavors. I love sailing for the challenge, the navigation problems, the wind, the sea and the topless women. Linda is the brain who makes sure we have exquisitely planned meals, an itinerary within reason and all the proper guide books, towels, sheets, etc. on board.

In other words, she had the weekend planned. I thought about Maggie's nice rear end, but caution prevailed.

"Well, I guess."

Computer-mind turned to Roger--damn he's big. One day, while he was putting, I'd noticed how large his hands were. We played well together and with his massive hands and big wrists he appeared to lazily stroke the ball off the tee for routine drives well over 220 yards. But he couldn't putt, and I can. His hands just never seemed to cooperate as his putting stroke consisted of stabbing vainly at the ball. I remembered the old locker room bromide--big hands or feet mean a big cock. Of course there isn't any truth to those old sayings—I think.

Linda broke the silence, "I'm really not sure about all this, I just brought it up to talk. You're not upset are you? After all you started this."

"Me? I was just sitting here enjoying my wine."

"Yes but, you were the first to bring up the subject about a year ago." True to form, just when I thought I knew where we were heading, she did a 180-degree turn and left me hanging.

"Well, it's an interesting thought—let's think it over and come to a rational decision." Which is always a good way to stall.

So, we spent a week rationalizing, meaning the first three days, we acted like the question hadn't come up. Then we talked around it—careful never to close on the actual issue. We had discussed sex with others, mostly as a joke. We both agreed, just for discussion purposes, of course, that cheating was bad because it way lying. Swinging was in a different category, since all involved know what's going on. After all, the whole point is a little sexual experimentation for fun, which has nothing to do with love. Linda had never actually agreed to the last two last statements. But, she hadn't disagreed either.

The next Friday, as we left for work, she said, "I told Maggie we would call her tonight, so I guess we better make a decision." Oh crap, I thought, a real test of "husbandmanship." I spent the day acting like I was listening to the young computer whizzes explain our latest configuration problem.

By cocktails that evening, I had my plan. We were enjoying an excellent Mosel from my favorite wine stube on the Saar -- "Honey it's decision time."

"Yes," she looked worried. "You first"

I've been down the "you first" trap before. No dice this time. I handed her a piece of paper. "You write down what you want to do, and I'll do the same. Then we'll hand the notes to each other and read them aloud." She frowned, but took her slip and the pen I offered. Aware of her trickery, I added, "No ambivalent statements. You either write—I want to sleep with Roger, or I do not want to sleep with Roger. On second thought, I always hated that word sleep. It's either I want to have sex with Roger, or I do not want to have sex with Roger. I'll do the same. Agreed."

"Check"

With a studious, look she wrote on the paper, folded it in half and handed it to me. I did the same.

"Ok, "she said, " for once, me first." She opened my slip and read, "I want to have sex with Maggie." She looked up, and to avoid her gaze, I looked down to read her answer, "Can we make this decision later?"

"Damn, you did it to me again."

She grabbed her slip back, wrote more and handed it to me. "So sorry, I want very much to do it with Roger."

"Do it?"

"What happened to the rule."

"I followed it."

"Is doing it, sex?"

"Yea"

"You're sure this is all ok?"

"It's fine."

"So, you like Roger?"

"He's so cute, I always want to pat his head, except I can't reach it."

"Roger turns you on?"

"Well, just a little?"

"What's just a little?"

"Well, we sort of danced at one of the office parties once. And I was, sort of, thinking, what I would do if he, sort of, tried to kiss me. But he's so nice he would never try that."

"And you, sort of, hoped he would?"

"Sort of."

"And what would you have done if he had, sort of, tried to kiss you?"

"I would've let him. Nobody, except you, has tried to kiss me for a long time. Does this upset you?"

"No, not talking about it."

"If I had let him kiss me, and later told you and even said I encouraged and kissed him back, what would you say?"

"I'm not sure. Did he kiss you?"

"We went around a corner and were out of sight. I enjoyed it, so I kissed him back. It was fun."

She watched me, " So, it does turn you on, I can see it."

"Well, uhhh not really. Did you make this up?"

"No--Yes, you're so easy."

My head spinning, I thought of Roger kissing her, but then he really hadn't-- then I thought of Maggie. I felt a rustling in my pants, ole Beau put in a vote.

"Then it's settled. I'll call Maggie. She'll be so excited." Linda zipped off after the phone. I just sat there, out maneuvered again.

The two weeks before the sail were nerve testers. I had some second thoughts, but the visions of what must be under Maggie's tailored suits pushed them away. At least I think there's a real woman under those clothes.

Again, I thought of the stupid old golf joke. I wondered exactly how big is Roger's "putter?" But then, I'm not sure how long my putter is either. In a ridiculous moment one evening, I decided to measure ole Beau. Now, getting hard was easy as a teen. Just saying the word "girl" out loud did the trick. But at 42, it required some stimulation. I dragged out our only porn movie. (A real camp piece called Flesh Gordon.) So all six feet, two hundred pounds of me stood in front of the TV, putter at hand. Sometime after a flock of "Penisaurus's", controlled by the evil Emperor Wang, attacks Flesh and Dale, Beau got the idea and rose majestically. Unable to find a ruler, I took up my trusty, yellow, retractable-tape measure. Where the hell does one measure, I thought, on the top or the bottom? I laid the cool metal atop Beau and eased the metal head into my stomach to obtain the maximum possible results. Unfortunately, I also accidentally pressed the retract button. The metal clip on the tape caught Beau's head and the pain caused him to drop immediately for cover. Somehow, I lost interest at this point.

The day before the sail, Linda was going crazy over the details of boat supplies, food, and water. I inventoried the rum and beer supplies and packed my bag. Minutes later, she unpacked my bag and threw all my underwear in the drawer. Back in went recently purchased, brand-new underwear. They were washed, of course, as there is some rule, known only to females, that one can't wear things straight out of the plastic wrap. She gave the explanation, "Well, you never know. I want you to look good."

On the day of the sail, we went to the boat early and later watched Roger and Maggie walk down the dock. Maggie was perfectly dressed as always--every hair in place, color-coordinated outfit, matching bag, expensive shoes, her manner regal. In spite of her dark hair and tanned skin, she looks like an "Ice Queen" I thought. I, on the other hand, felt a bit shabby in my worn boat shoes and khaki shorts, but I was sporting a set of my spanking new underwear.

Ice Queen's stride was purposeful, direct and strong. She carried her own bag. Ambling next to her was all six feet three of Roger; his graying brown hair blowing in the wind. He was obviously in a mood for a sail, as I saw him check the direction of the flags on the marina building, glance at the wind arrow atop our mast then slowly lower his gaze to Linda. His handsome face broke into a smile, and beside me, I could almost feel her melt. Ice Queen exhibited a dazzling smile and her blue eyes sparkled. She extended a hand with manicured nails. "So good to see you again." It was high tide, so I pulled her up to the deck. Next Roger reached up, damn what massive paws that bastard has. But what the hell, he can't putt.

On Tampa Bay, "Hammerhead," handled superbly. Both Roger and Maggie are good sailors, so the four of us made a smooth series of tacks to the Skyway Bridge. The heading changed into the wind, and we turned on the "iron genny" (motor) and made the Gulf at the head of Tampa Bay. Turning south, we settled in for a long beam reach towards Longboat Key. Sailing conditions were perfect, and we managed to engage in a number of matches with other boats. "Ice Queen" was coolly efficient and paid strict attention to sail trim. After two hours in the wind, her hair was fashionably mussed, but still stylish. She changed into a conservative one-piece suit, and her lithe body showed the hours she spent in the gym. Beau did note the outline of nipples protruding from her small breasts.

On the other hand, Linda with hair flying wore my favorite bikini. When she turned the winch, the muscles in her back flexed, her breasts spilled over the top and an occasional half a nipple showed. Soon, sweat built up from exertion molding her suit to her pretty cheeks. Ole Beau constantly checked both women and was "a little stiff" all day. The four of us worked the boat extremely well, and the joy of a good wind made the day memorable. Roger was as good-natured as ever and kept the beer coming. Ice Queen worked hard during sail changes and perfectly popped the spinnaker during a crucial turn in a match with the crew of a Hunter. I almost hated to see the day end, as the beer was cold, the women beautiful the wind a steady 15 knots. What else could a man ask for?

We made Longboat key and navigated the difficult channel under the drawbridge. A few miles down the intercoastal waterway we arrived at the Pirate's Inn, a waterside motel- nightclub, restaurant complex. Normally, we would have anchored and slept on the boat, but this was not a "normal" trip. The Pirate's Inn is a favorite of the locals and boaters, as it has deep-water slips, good food and entertainment. We pulled into our slot, secured the boat and went to the front desk. Both Roger and I pulled out our credit cards and filled out the registration forms.

There was a moment of hesitation. We'd been sailing all day and not one of us had actually discussed the evening arrangements. Sure Linda and Maggie had talked on the phone, but Roger and I never discussed it and... We all four just stood there. None of us looking the others in the eyes. Moments passed. Decision time, were we going to chicken out? I decided to break the ice.

"Come on Maggie," I took her hand. "See you guys for cocktails in a bit."

Maggie's mouth opened slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Linda looked a bit shocked then took Roger's hand.

After grabbing two of the luggage carts with wheels that never work (how could we have this much for an overnight trip?) we all went to our rooms. I struggled with the damn credit card key and finally got the door open. Once inside, I turned and looked at the Ice Queen.

"Well, let's unpack, change and go for drinks." The efficient businesswoman began to organize the room. With my wife this process was all second nature, but with Ice Queen, several important decisions had to be made--one drawer for her, one for me and one for dirty clothes. Lastly, a delicate discussion ensued as to the all important-- which side of the bed do you prefer, so as to know where to put little stuff like car keys, wallet and purse. We solved these vexing situations, all the while chattering like this was a normal motel check-in.