Happy Birthday

A true story. I changed names but nothing else.

Unicorn in the snow. A “unicorn” is what a single female is called in group sex situations.

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“We’ve never had a unicorn before,” she told me in a conspiratorial tone, as I cut into my steak. Her blue eyes were glowing with excitement, but Michel’s brown ones flashed a warning in her direction.

“We don’t need to label it,” he said, a light reprimand in his voice. Morgan nodded and dropped her gaze. I flushed furiously, flattered to have acquired such a prestigious place in their relationship, but self-conscious of the level of attention such a position entailed. I wished I was at least a little tipsy. When the waitress returned with a water pitcher to top up our glasses, I resisted the urge to order some wine.

I wondered how the three of us must look to her. Would she think us a family? The dashing middle-aged father and his two twenty-something daughters who looked nothing alike? I doubted it, the unspoken naughtiness giving me a thrill. Later that night, the three of us would be fucking each other. We each knew it, our thoughts bent on that moment like the centrifugal force of a racecar speeding through a turn. Morgan raised her glass of water in a toasting gesture, and Michel and I followed suit.

“Happy birthday!” she declared, looking lovingly at Michel. He smiled and squeezed her hand.

“Happy birthday!” I echoed, nodding and smiling. His eyes held mine. Or perhaps it was the other way around. His were dancing, scintillating, ravenous, and I wondered how much my expression mirrored his. For Michel’s forty-seventh birthday he was receiving a gift that was every little girl’s dream: a unicorn. However, in the sex world, this didn’t mean a majestic white horse with a rainbow mane who shat glitter. In the sex world, this meant a single woman, willing to play. Me.

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“So,” Michel said. The three of us were standing in the kitchen, having just returned from some post-dinner dancing at a local nightclub. “You like the kinky stuff.” It wasn’t a question. We had been sexting for weeks and I had made it clear that I would very much like to be tied up and fucked by him. I’d been fantasizing about just that ever since we met at a swinger’s party last October, where I had overheard Morgan ask, “Is this okay, daddy?” to which Michel had replied, “yeah, baby, suck that nice man’s dick.” While Morgan had been busy with the nice man’s dick, Michel had run his hands up my naked sides, kissing my neck, my breasts, my mouth. I had been craving more ever since.

“Like, girl on top?” I asked, playing dumb. “Yeah, definitely.”

Michel smiled. He rarely showed his teeth when he smiled, but when he did it was downright charming. The smile he gave now was slow and sultry, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a soft knowing way.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he said.

“No? Doggy style’s good too,” I said, sticking with the bit. His eyes were sparking with something that I recognized. A kind of repressed conflagration that could only be controlled with deliberate slowness. His body was rigid. Morgan leaned shyly against the opposite wall, watching us.

“You like restraints,” he murmured, unfazed by my banter, running his eyes over my body, as if imagining where he would fasten them.