Laura Meets Jeffrey by Jeffrey Michelson, Laura Bradley

negotiations. Each call is a little oasis in a lonely weekend. I miss Laura. I stay in New York and work on some projects that are due Monday. Laura calls Sunday night to say she made a deal with Sandy. She’s staying in New Hope that night, going to work early Monday morning and she’ll tell me everything when she sees me after work at what she now calls “our apartment.” There are no moments in the day I don’t think of her.
    She comes home and tells me the deal. She’ll continue paying all the mortgage and taxes on the house but contribute only half toward the bills and none of the phone. She doesn’t have to turn over all the money she makes. It was a suckshit deal but it was made. I figured it was a first step and we’d renegotiate later. Anyway, Sandy now knew about me and they talked about getting a divorce so at least the ball was rolling.
    I get Laura a safety deposit box to stash her extra cash. She puts away hundreds of dollars every week and it makes her feel secure and more mature.

14
    Our first threesome
    Summer 1980
    Laura asks me if we can do something sexy like a threesome with another guy and I think of Freddy, my whoring buddy. He’d be great and he’d be grateful.
    Freddy and I have often watched each other fuck the same hooker so I am comfortable with him. We work well together naturally, like a good doubles tennis team. Our egos never bump. Our cocks are about the same size. We both worship slutty women and he always smells clean.
    Freddy is about 5 ' 9 " with a full head of prematurely grey curly hair. He’s chunky, an ex-high school linebacker, once mostly muscle, who now shares his body with the excess calories from too much cheesecake. He drives a new Mercedes and dresses, even though he’s Jewish, like a Mafia don’s kid—lots of Italian knits in tasteful designs and muted tones, high-end shoes, bespoke suits and pants and when he’s dressed up, a Ferragamo tie and a diamond-encrusted, solid gold Rolex President, so heavy he lists to his left.
    I don’t follow fashion but I can listen to him go on about his beloved wardrobe for forty-five minutes before I get bored and move him to another subject.
    When I call him up, I don’t tell him my plans for the evening. He thinks he’s coming over just to meet Laura. He knocks and I tell Laura to open the door for him. She’s wearing a black thong and a black lace teddy, and in high heels, towers over Freddy. He stares and lets out a soft involuntary “Wow!”
    They trade greetings and as he follows her into the living room he’s looking at her legs and ass and keeps repeating soft, “wows.”
    He brings coke and grass and we all dig in. Freddy is as particular about his recreational drugs as he is about his car and clothing. The three of us share a joint of hybrid Indica from Hawaii crossed with a feminized Afghani seed and do two hits each of Peruvian flake from the northern side of Machu Picchu. Then I tell Freddy I want him to fuck Laura right there on the big cushy couch.
    He looks into her face. She grins her approval.
    â€œFreddy was just always ready,” Laura laughs, “He was like, “Yeah, I’ll do that! Sure, let’s do that!!” Freddy was always willing—and grateful—and very kind when the fucking became, uh, very delicate, like in my ass, ha, ha, ha!”
    He wastes no time and kisses her. He gets up and stands in front of her. He slips off his mocha and tan fully-leather-lined Bally slip-ons and takes off his long-sleeve ecru silk shirt already open at the neck two full buttons revealing the oversize gold rope chain that held the dangling matching detachable coke spoon recently in use. Before he can do it himself, she unbuckles his Gucci analine leather belt with 14k gold horse bit buckle, pulls down his tan Italian wool lightweight gabardine flat-front trousers and his Parisian silk bikini briefs better suited to his