"I guess. It just seems so…wrong."

"That's because society says we should all be monogamous and have missionary sex three times a week." Alex drawled in a monotone voice. “You got to say “F you” to society Jules, and do what floats your boat.”

The car in front of us moved up, and I ordered a Whopper combo with a Coke for Alex. I added a medium strawberry shake for myself.

"Have you every had a threesome?" I asked. We were now parked in the restaurant’s parking lot. Alex had his food, and was noisily sucking on his Coke's straw.

"Yeah. A couple." He stuffed a few ketchup-laden fries into his mouth.

"Did you like it?"

"One experience was really hot - one wasn't. A lot depends on who you do it with - kind of like sex. You know - like how you can have missionary sex with two girls and one is f**king hot and I come in two minutes, and the other one I fall asleep during?"

"Well I don't know exactly what that's like, 'cause I've never f**ked a girl missionary-style, but yes, I understand your point."

"So when are you doing it?"

"I don't know. I guess in a week or so. I don't really have any reason to wait. I'm kind of using this experience to decide if I want to date the guy."

"Like a test?"

"Like a qualifier."

Alex shook his head. "Man, I don't understand women."

This coming from the guy who was eating post-nooky breakfast with a 60-year old woman last Monday. I shook my head with a smile and started the car, headed home.


Friday Broward returned. I rode up the elevator, noticing brand new carpet beneath my feet, nervous about seeing him. I felt like something had changed between us since he told me about his wife, but that may have been me feeling paranoid because of my actions with Brad. The wing buzzed with activity all day, everyone working on the normal workload plus the documents related to the mediation settlement. Brad called my office around 3pm, and I smiled when I saw his extension show up on my phone.

"Yes.." I said coyly.

"Got dinner plans?"

"No, but I don't plan on doing anything with you until I can make a decision about us."

"You mean you want to skip the cheap talk and go straight to bed?"

"Theoretically speaking," I said.

"Well, I need to find out what you want so I can set it up. We can either do that over the office lines, or you can bear the pleasure of my company for some brief time."

I thought for a minute. "Fine. How about breakfast at your house this Monday. Then we'll do the dirty deed on Saturday night."

"Why Monday? Why not Saturday or Sunday?"

"No. I want my weekend. Plus," I added wickedly, "I want to meet Martha."


The weekend passed quickly, mostly due to a MTV Real World Marathon, in which I watched the entire season of Real World Hawaii and ate about nine bags of butter popcorn and three Digornos pizzas.

Monday morning I rang Brad's doorbell at 6:30am. I was dressed in a grey knee-length pencil skirt and black sleeveless sweater. I had black pumps on, cute but not too sexy. The door was answered by an African-American woman in her 50s, my height but about 250 pounds. The woman was dressed in a faded red shirt, jeans, and white tennis shoes. She crossed her hands over her huge br**sts and made a show of looking me up and down, blocking the doorway.

I gave her my friendliest smile. "Good morning. You must be Martha."

"Uh-huh." She lifted her chin slightly then twisted slightly, calling over her shoulder while she kept her wide body blocking the doorway. "Bradley! That girl is here for breakfast!" She turned back to me, her face unmoving, holding her bodyguard pose till Brad appeared over her shoulder. He patted her and she moved, grudgingly, taking a few steps back and continuing to stare at me. Talk about the Gestapo.

I stepped inside, and offered my hand to her. "I'm Julia." She looked at my outstretched hand like it was a piece of diseased meat. Finally, with Brad staring at her, she shook my hand. "Nice to meet ya," she muttered, then turned and waddled into the kitchen. Brad smiled at me, stepping forward, and giving me a quick kiss. "Brace yourself," he whispered in my ear.

I sat at the island counter next to Brad, Martha on the other side of us, loudly banging pots and pans and doing a lot of muttering under her breath. From my seat next to Brad I could smell the soap from his shower, and see a small nick where he cut himself shaving. Martha said something that included my name and turned to look at me.

"I'm sorry, what was the question?"

"Your eggs. How do you want them?!" she demanded, giving me a strong look that indicated what she thought of my intelligence level.

"Scrambled please." I shot Brad a dismayed look and he tried to hide a grin under his hand. I poked him under the counter.

Martha served us at the counter. She had prepared eggs, bacon, grits, and biscuits. The woman may be a tad prickly, but she could cook. I dug in.

"I'm going upstairs. I'll let you two eat and be back down after you leave for work. Just scrap the plates and put them in the sink."

"Will do. Thank you Martha." Brad said, spreading grape jelly on a biscuit.

I smiled and waved goodbye at her. "The food is delicious."

She glared at me. "Thank you Miss." Ripping her apron from around her neck, she hung it on a hook by the door and left, the screen door hitting with a loud smack behind her.

Brad and I looked at each other, then burst out laughing. "I told you," Brad said, starting to choke on his bite of biscuit.

"And you pay her? Is it just me or is she like that with all of your women?"

"She's like that with any women - though she's only met a few. Most of the time I try and keep them away from her."

"I can see why!" I took a big gulp of milk and fanned myself, trying to clear her hostility from the air.

"Okay, getting down to business," Brad said, scooping up a pile of eggs. "Have you decided what you want to do on Saturday?"

I blushed, and focused on my breakfast plate. "Are we sure Martha's gone?"

Brad raised himself off his stool and leaned over till he could see through the double window above the sink. "Yeah. I can see her sitting on her balcony."

"Okay. In Vegas, what I did with the girl from the strip club…" I trailed off.

"Montana." he prompted.

"Right. Montana. That turned me on, but not because of her, though she was really hot. What, ah, turned me on was the group of people. Around us. Like, watching. So, anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I don't think I want to be with a girl. That doesn't really do it for me, at least not on its own."

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