Chapter Seven: Holden
“Whatcha thinking about, partner?” Wynn asked. He was sitting in the passenger seat of my Honda with a steaming cup of McDonald’s black coffee in one hand and an Egg McMuffin with cheese in the other. He looked like a surfer dude with his deep tan and long blonde hair blowing in the wind coming through the open window. I had to smile because he looked like the same cocky kid I met my freshman year in college twenty years ago. Tall, broad-shouldered, with lots of lean muscle, the aforementioned tan, and hair courtesy of hanging out at the Malibu beach house where he now lived.
“I was thinking that it’s about time you started to age like the rest of us,” I said. “You can’t maintain this surfer dude look forever.”
“Just you watch me,” Wynn said, smiling as he bit off a chunk of the Egg McMuffin with his perfect, white teeth (courtesy of his new Malibu dentist). “Ah hell, Holden, you’re holding up pretty good, for an old psyche professor.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“Fuck you back.” He grinned at me as he chewed. “In fact, watching you hammer it to Jude last night, you look like you’re still in pretty decent rugby shape. Maybe we can scare up a match with some of these jughead students while I’m here.”
Funny, it wasn’t the least bit odd or unusual for Wynn and I to talk about each other’s bodies while we were with a girl, probably because we’d been naked around each other so many times it just seemed natural now. A lot of guys probably would have accused us of being gay. The truth was, we were two of the most heterosexual mother fuckers on the planet. The first time our cocks even got near each other (double blow job from a girl back in grad school) we both got the heebie jeebies. Now, we were just totally comfortable being naked and hard around each other. The only thing that bugged me was that Wynn’s fully erect cock was twelve-inches long, which was longer than mine by a couple of inches. The bastard. Rich, good looking, and hung like a fucking horse. Sometimes life just ain’t fair!
“I don’t think we’ll have time for rugby,” I said, turning onto the main street that ran down the center of campus, which would lead us to Conner Hall, the building where the Psychology & Sexuality in The Modern Age weekend seminar was being held. “Unless you’d prefer to spend time kicking a ball down a field as opposed to spending time going down on Jude.”
“Uh, I think we can play rugby some other time,” Wynn said. He took a careful sip of the hot coffee and sighed. “You were right, man. Jude really is something else. Just an amazing girl. Hot, horny, so fucking smart.”
“I told you,” I said with a proud smile. “She likes you, too.”
“Well, it is always good to be liked,” he said, giving me a nudge with his elbow. “You sure you’re okay with this? Me third-wheeling you guys, I mean?”
There was the question that had been biting at the back of my mind since Wynn arrived a couple of days before. He and I had shared a lot of women over the years, but mostly one-night stands and girls we met at swinger parties or orgies. We had had our regulars, like Marsha Clarkson and a few others, but mostly the girls we tapped had just been one and dones.
Jude was the first girl we had ever shared that I had feelings for, though I wasn’t a naïve kid. I didn’t love Jude, at least not in the “in love” sense, but I did care deeply for her and wanted her to be happy. That’s why I allowed Wynn to join our little party. Jude was hypersexual. She loved to experiment and try new things. She was young, single, and unattached. And sex made her happy. Sex with me made her very happy. Sex with me and Wynn drove her over the fucking moon.
There it was, the answer to my question. Jude’s happiness was all that mattered.
“Hey, as long as Jude is happy, I’m happy,” I said with a smile that I hoped backed up the sentiment of my words. “I told you her nymphomania theories.”
Wynn’s head bobbed. “You did. And my limited time with her tells me that your diagnosis was one-hundred-percent correct. Nymphomania is simply an old school term for hypersexuality. There is absolutely nothing wrong with Jude Allen. To the contrary, she is young and healthy, with a sex drive most women would die for. And most men would die to experience.”
“Exactly,” I said. We pulled up to a red light and I took the opportunity to take a sip of my coffee, which had been riding in the cup holder on the dash. I took a careful slurp—why is McDonald’s coffee so fucking hot??—and set the cup back in the holder and popped on the lid just as the light turned green.
A new thought came to mind as I worked my way through the sparse morning traffic. It was Saturday. There were no classes today, so most of the students at Midwestern were still asleep. I said, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, tell me more about your conversation with Lane Curtis.”
“Ah, good old Dr. Lane Curtis,” Wynn said, sighing the words. “Hang on. He sent a text sometime last night I didn’t see till this morning. Let me read it to you.”
Wynn worked the lid back onto his coffee cup and set it in the cup holder next to mine. He fished his cell phone from inside his jacket and tapped open the text messaging program. He read the message from Lane.
“Trip confirmed. Coming to see you this evening at MW. Will rent a car and drive to Holden’s place. Looking forward to meeting Holden and Jude.”
I frowned at him, a little taken aback that he had taken the liberty to mention Jude to someone I didn’t even know. “Seriously? You told him about Jude? What the fuck, man?”
Wynn shot me a defensive look, then rolled his eyes. “He asked if there were any hot girls at Midwestern and I mentioned Jude,” he said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I did not promise him anything.”
“That’s fine,” I said, huffing a little. “She’s not yours to promise.”
“You have a problem with Jude having a go with Lane?” he asked. “Or a problem with Lane joining our little party?”
I should have been offended by the way he was talking about Jude, like she was some ride at an amusement park, but that was just Wynn’s way. He could be a dick—an insensitive asshole, even—but at the end of the day, he had Jude’s best interest at heart. He knew Jude enjoyed sex with two men, and would probably enjoy it with three. She loved to experiment and experience new things. He was simply talking out loud.
“Whether or not Jude has a go with Lane is totally Jude’s call,” I said, giving him a stern look. “I just think it’s a little presumptuous of either of us to decide what she should and should not do. And who she should or should not fuck.”
“Is that what you told her about me before I came to town?” Wynn asked, eyebrows up. “That it was up to her whether or not she and I had a go?”
“That is exactly what I told her,” I said. “Jude is the boss of Jude. She’s not our plaything, Wynn, and she’s not some pawn in a sex game. This isn’t Fifty Fucking Shades of Grey, you know.”
“I realize that,” he said as he slid the phone back inside his jacket and reached for his coffee cup. “I just get the idea that Jude is enjoying herself immensely, and might enjoy a foursome if given the chance.”
“Again, that is Jude’s call,” I said.
“So, if Jude is okay with Lane joining our little game…” He asked the question and let the words hang in the air for a moment.
“If Jude is okay with it, so am I,” I said, shrugging. I slowed the car to pull into the parking lot of Conner Hall. There were already several dozen cars in the lot, and early attendees milling around. I parked at the end of the row and switched off the key.
“Looks like a good turnout for the morning session,” Wynn said, picking up his cup and reaching for the door handle.
“We still have a couple of minutes,” I said, holding up a hand. “Finish your breakfast. And tell me more about this book idea you had with Lane.”
He popped the last bite of Egg McMuffin in his mouth, then pulled the lid off the cup and dropped the trash in the floorboard, then leaned back with the coffee resting on his knee.
“Well, Lane called me to ask if I would be interested in coauthoring a book with him. As you know, he’s written six New York Times bestsellers on psychology, sexuality, relationships, and such. And has parlayed that into an empire worth a fortune. The guy must be worth at least ten or twenty million bucks now if he’s worth a dime.”
“Marsha Clarkson calls him ‘the sexy Dr. Phil’,” I said with a smile.
“Yeah, if Dr. Phil was six-foot-four, with all muscles, and perfect teeth, and movie star good looks,” Wynn said, chuckling. “I love the guy, but I hate him, too.”
I could not argue with Wynn’s assessment. I had seen Dr. Lane Curtis many times on book covers, in magazines, on videos, and TV. He was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular build, with short dark hair and dancing blue eyes (Marsha’s words, not mine).
Dr. Lane Curtis was the latest psychobabble slash self-help star who rubbed elbows with the likes of Oprah and Deepak Chopra and Tony Robbins. He was a former football start at UCLA who blew out his right knee before he could make it to the pros. So, he focused on academics, went on to get his doctorate in clinical psychology, practiced psychiatry for a few years in his hometown of Encino, California, then wrote a book called Is It Me or Is It Me, which explored the topic of narcissism and its negative effects on the relationship between men and women. The book was an instant hit, Lane became an instant star, and the rest was history.
I knew that Lane and Wynn had become fast friends, especially since Wynn’s book What’s Your Vagina Thinking had become a bestseller in its own right. It didn’t surprise me in the least when Wynn told me that Lane shared our interest in swinging and alternative lifestyles. A lot of people in our profession leaned toward the non-monogamous style of life. Maybe because when you studied the human brain for years and came to understand how it worked, you realized that monogamy and love are just illusions, probably created by women to keep men in line, just as Hallmark kept inventing new holidays on which to sell cards.
I know, what a chauvinistic, asshole thing to say…
Oh well, I’m a dude.
Sue me.
“Yes, he is the sexy Dr. Phil,” Wynn said, still chuckling. “Though I’m not sure he’d appreciate the comparison. Anyway, he thinks there is a synergy between the stuff that he writes about and the stuff that I write about.”
I gave him a quick sideways frown. “So… how do I fit into that picture?”
Wynn huffed and held out his hands. “Dude, you have written some really great shit on the topic of human sexuality and the myth of monogamy,” he said.
“How the fuck would you know that?” I asked, a little confused, and a little flattered. I had never written a book like him and Lane, but I had written dozens of articles for various psychology magazines and journals over the years. I never expected Wynn to read any of my stuff.
“I still have a subscription to the Psychology Monthly Journal,” he said. “I read your shit all the time. In fact, it’s the only thing worth reading in that dated old rag. When you stop writing for them, that’s when I’ll cancel my subscription.”
“Wow, I guess I should be flattered,” I said, shaking my head with my eyes on the road. “You read my shit in a dated old rag. How fucking flattering is that?”
“Ah, don’t let it go to your head, my friend. I still have a subscription to Big Tittie Monthly, as well,” he said with a grin.
“Fuck you,” I growled.
He laughed and held up his coffee cup. “No, seriously, man, your theories are cutting edge. Really great shit—I mean—great stuff. Imagine how great a book you, me, and Lane could write if we joined forces? We each could cover a different angle of one common theme. It would fucking knock the world of psychology off its fucking axis.”
“It could be interesting,” I said thoughtfully, suddenly imagining the world that might open up if I became a bestselling author like Wynn and Lane Curtis.
I could see myself leaving Midwestern to move to Malibu with Wynn.
I could see myself traveling the country signing books and speaking to thousands of adoring fans. And fucking my fair share of them.
And the money… Jesus, what could I do with a little bit of cash in my pocket? I loved teaching, but the pay was shit, and the benefits were nil. I’d probably make more co-authoring a book with Lane and Wynn than I’d made the entire ten years of teaching at Midwestern.
“It could be interesting and profitable,” Wynn said, nodding, giving words to my thoughts. “I pitched the idea to Lane and he was intrigued. Part of the reason he’s coming here is to talk about doing something together, all three of us.”
“That’s just part of the reason,” I said resolutely, my mind circling back around to Jude. “What’s the rest of the reason.”
“He’s coming here for the same reason I did,” Wynn said, poking me with his elbow as he opened the door with his other hand. “To meet Jude.”
To meet Jude…
As I watched Wynn get out of the car and hurry toward the building to greet a few of his fans who must have heard he was in town, I started to wonder if introducing Lane Curtis to Jude was the right thing to do.
I wanted Jude to be happy.
And to experience every pleasure that life had to offer.
But I wondered how much of my enthusiasm for Lane’s visit was for Jude’s benefit and how much was for my own.