Robert Thirdwall - Swap Talk

I don't mean to say, of course, that I had not been acting under a compulsion, too. But as I've mentioned before, as Helen's drive became more demonstrative and exhibitionistic, my own drifted more toward voyeurism. I've seen about all there is to see along sexual lines, and felt about all there is to feel, and I don't regret it. I can't say I've gotten it out of my system, because you can't get sex out of your system. It is your system. But now that we both know the full physical dimension of it, the mystery is gone and with it the urge to explore. I think well be like native New Yorkers who live in the city for years and never go to the top of the Empire State Building. We know what we'll see when we go to the top, so why should we go.

Only time, of course, can endorse all of this reflection I've been indulging in. Actually, Helen and I have done better than that. For two whole weeks now we've confined our sex to the normal quota for an average married couple, and we've been enjoying it. I had forgotten how nice it could be to fuck your own wife just once, conventionally and unenergetically, and then fall quietly asleep in each other's arms. There's no doubt about it: Helen is a damn good lay.

And there are fringe benefits to calling a halt to our frantic career, as well. I'm able to concentrate on my work better, which is certainly a welcome improvement in my boss' eyes, and Helen and I have more time for each other. In two weeks we've already turned down three dates that would have really turned us on a month ago, one of them a monster party by the Ungers. We haven't quite gotten down to the pipe and slippers before the fire routine, but the idea of it looks more attractive now than it ever has before.

I also think Helen has gotten prettier since we stopped. It's been a long time since I've seen her in blue jeans and an old shirt instead of a transparent dress with net panties. She's regaining a natural look I haven't seen on her since we used to go sailing with our first swapping friends. She looks better without makeup.

I will miss our friends, though. I may someday forget the precise feel of fucking Marie and Judy and Sue Ann, but I'll always remember them as friendsССand their husbands, too, of course. And the other people we've met swinging have been great, too. Back when I used to smuggle sex books into the house and read them on the sly, I got the impression that swingers were all tough, neurotic, callous people who went in for whips and boots and came to a bad end. But I don't think that's the case at all. Swingers I've known are people like anyone else; they simply like sex and don't mind sharing it with others. Some have had some pretty bad hang-ups about it, but on the whole not as bad as other people I've known who bottle their feelings up inside. Inevitably I think we will have to drop our swinging friends. It would be discouraging for them to have us around when they went to have some fun.

Hold everything! A new chapter may have begun. I just went out to get a bottle of booze for drinks with a new couple from next door that Helen had invited over for coffee, and what do I see in the living room when I get back? Helen sucking away at an absolutely gorgeous blonde cunt while this guy from next door is cramming it into her from behind. As soon as I finish this sentence, I'm going to get my pants off and go in there and find out just how hot and tight that girl's slippery little crack is.

I simply can't believe how differently two people can remember the same events. I'm sure Bob never intended to show me what he had written, although now that I've seen it he claims he had planned to show it to me all along. But really I think he let me read it only because I got so mad when I finally realized that someone had been tampering with my diary. I suppose some people write diaries for other people to read, but I don't. What goes in my diary is for me only, and I don't want even Bob poking into it just because I'm away from home for a while.

But after reading what he wrote, the matter of the diary takes second place as an issue. We have in fact, been arguing about this whole thing for days now. There were a few little things I simply didn't know about before, such as that little girl from out of town, whatever her name was, squirming all around on him in an airport parking lot in broad daylight. We had always at least tacitly agreed that if we were going to swing, we should be discreet about it and not do things that might cause some sort of public legal problem. We don't, after all, want to be hounded out of town by a scandal. And I hardly consider it safe or discreet to stick your dick up a minor in public, no matter bow hot her cunt is.

But that isn't the main issue either. I've done some things he doesn't know about, too, as I'll mention later on. The main issue is that he presents a very onesided story, giving only his view of everything. That in itself is bad enough when there are a lot of people involved, but what I particularly resent is that he constantly makes remarks about my feelings and reactions which are as biased and onesided as the statements he makes about himself. Anyway, the upshot of all our bickering over this is that he has agreed to let me add this section to what he has written. We know we could never agree on one single version of things, so this is my chance to give a corrective to some of the things he wrote. Really this ought to come at the beginning, at least I think so, but since it's dependent on the narrative that he's already written, I've agreed to let it sit here at the end.

You can think of this as "Helen's Version," then. Essentially, I have three points to make, or corrections would be a better word. First, I want to change the image that good old Bob (I love him; don't get me wrong. I'm just pissed off at him for being so insensitive to some things. He may have been surprised that I was a good actress, but I can't return the compliment. There's some pretty juvenile writing in parts of his text,) as I say, that good old Bob has left of me as a swinger. As I read his stuff, he makes me look like some kind of shrinking violet who lived a sort of sheltered life until he led me out of it, at which time I gradually became more and more of a nymphomaniacal, exhibitionistic sex nut. Now, I'm not going to dispute his facts; he's at least got them down pretty accurately. But his interpretation is something else.

I don't see how married couples can live together for years and still not really know each other, although as far as I can tell this is the case with most couples. Even a couple like Frank and Marie, who I think are very close to each other, but don't really know each other all that well. Frank, not to mention all other men, thinks of Marie as a vivacious Latin sexpot who likes to swish her little black bun at every man she sees in hopes of getting a cream filling for it. But actually Marie is quite sensitive and emotional with only a flippant exterior. Of all the swinging types I know, she's the only one who always remembers the faces of the guys she screws with and whether they have deep warm eyes and things like that. I actually think she falls in love with a man the minute he touches her cunt and has an emotional as well as a physical experience with him. It's that emotional quality that makes men think she's so hot and like her so much. But what I originally meant to say is that I want to show that I'm not a nymphomaniacal, exhibitionistic sex nut but a normal, attractive girl who's simply become uninhibited enough to genuinely enjoy sex and the additional pleasure that comes from knowing that other people are getting sexual enjoyment from watching her fuck, or whatever. Somehow, I think Bob sensed this kind of freedom in that little teenager he screwed in the bosom of her family, but he can't see it in me because he's too hung up himself about marriage and propriety and so on.