The Swap(22)

Abruptly, Freya stopped dancing. She moved to the speaker system and must have turned off the music. When she returned to the men, she spoke solemnly, seriously. There was some back and forth between Brian and Freya . . . perhaps he was reluctant for the night to end. But clearly, the party was over. And then, they disbursed.

I leaned back against a birch tree, and I watched.





18


jamie


I didn’t puke. Nor did I sleep. When I closed my eyes, colors danced behind my eyelids. When I opened them, the furniture swayed and moved. It wasn’t a terrible experience, but it wasn’t enjoyable, either. It just was, and I had to ride it out. And then, when I felt some semblance of my normal self, I could return to the party.

I could have been alone in the darkened guest room for a few hours or a few minutes—time had lost all meaning. Above me, Freya’s carefully curated music continued, the bass thudding through the floor. Other than that, I heard nothing but the occasional tinkle of her laughter. That’s when I wanted to get up and join the fun, but my body had other plans. It wanted to lie on the soft bed, the cozy blanket over me, and let the psilocybin work its way through my system.

Perhaps I dozed off, I can’t be sure, but when Brian entered the room, the music had stopped. The house was dark and silent as my husband moved tentatively through the blackness. I felt grateful and relieved; he had promised to check on me, and now he was. But as he got closer something about his presence was unfamiliar. When he stood next to the bed, I realized . . . that was not my husband. It was Freya’s.

“How are you feeling?” Max asked.

“I’m okay,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows. “Ummm . . . where are Brian and Freya?”

He perched, tentatively, on the edge of the bed before answering. “They’re upstairs. In the bedroom.”

The words didn’t compute. I was still high—very high. Why would my husband be in the bedroom with my new best friend?

“Freya said you talked about it,” Max said. “She said you wanted this.”

I sat up fully. “Wanted what? What’s going on?” My head was spinning, my heart racing. Freya and I had had a frank discussion about sex and monogamy, but had we talked about sleeping with each other’s husbands? No, we had not.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. They were slightly rough, a man’s hands. Brian’s hands were always soft from typing and washing dishes. I found Max’s eyes in the darkened room and felt the pull of attraction. I swallowed audibly.

“I can’t. Brian would never.”

“Freya is very persuasive.”

I knew this to be true. Was Freya seducing my husband right now? Was Brian high enough to forget his moral code? Hot enough for my beautiful blond friend to break our vows?

“Forget about them.” Max’s fingers trailed down my neck. “What do you want?”

My hand moved of its own accord to his chest. When I felt his muscles through his shirt, the heat of his skin, my breath caught in my throat. Oh shit . . . I did want this. I wanted it badly.

“Can I kiss you?”

I should have said no. I should have thrown off the blanket, gotten up, hurried upstairs. I should have called for Brian, phoned a taxi, gone home. But I didn’t. I let Max kiss me. I let his rough hands roam through my hair and over my body. Lust surged through me, and suddenly I was tearing at his clothes, yanking his shirt over his head. My hands ran over his broad shoulders, his strong arms, his powerful chest. I loved Brian’s body, it was lithe, furry, warm. It felt like home. Max’s felt like an adventure.

My fingertips felt the wound first, sliding over the puckered flesh on his impressive pec. Pulling away from his kiss, I peered at the damage. In the dark, I could make out four evenly spaced puncture marks, already turning to scar tissue.

“What happened?”

He moved my hand away from the lesion. “Long story.” He kissed me again and lay me back on the bed. And then, he moved over me.

I could blame the drugs, or the toll infertility had taken on my sex life with my husband. I could put it on my lack of sexual partners, or my recent epiphany about living an indulgent, hedonistic life. But there is no excuse for what I did that night with Freya’s husband. I told myself we were all consenting adults, mature enough to handle this. I told myself it would all be okay.

But I was wrong.





19


It took me several seconds to get my bearings when I woke up in Freya’s spare room. The sun was low in the sky, indicating the early hour. I was alone in bed, and I was naked. The night came back to me in a rush: the ’shrooms, the music, the colors, the visions. And Max. His strong body over me, on me, in me.

Perhaps I had hallucinated the whole encounter? Maybe it was just an incredibly vivid psychedelic trip? God, I wanted it to be. But the warmth of Max’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the sensation of his muscles under my hands was so real. A bubble of guilt rose in my throat . . . guilt mixed with a heavy dose of jealousy. Because, if I had made love to Freya’s husband, that meant she had made love to mine.

Feeling fragile and shaky, I found my clothes on the floor beside me and quickly dressed. I slipped into the bathroom to pee and wash my face. Taking in my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I saw that my skin was pale, my eyes puffy, my lips dry. My pupils were still dilated, making my eyes look dark and haunted. Jesus Christ.