Truth and memory at a sex party (Stag at a sex party, part 2)

I pulled my boxers on, leaped over the ottoman between Bill and Ginny and the bed, walked past Ofri and Michelle, fucking away, into the living room. There, I saw Moshe and Shuli, a Hasidic couple. Were they the same ones I’d written about here and here? I didn’t think so at first.

Shuli – a pretty, garrulous woman with an infectious laugh – and I started talking. “We’ve met before…” she said to me, slyly.

I guess it was them.

“The weekend of Hurricane Irene, I think it was…. You were pregnant.”

She looked at me as if I were from Mars.

“I definitely wasn’t pregnant. If I were pregnant, I wouldn’t have been here, I can promise you that.”

But it was her. It was him. He was wandering around, looking at the action, his white t-shirt tucked into his black boxer briefs, his dark socks pulled almost up to his knees, his kipah ever-present.

Later, I saw her, nude but for her nude stockings, panties, and bra, splayed on a bed, waiting to be fucked. It definitely was her, and she definitely had a belly.

Did I mis-remember? Hadn’t we talked about her pregnancy? I could swear we had.

Was I mis-remembering? Was she?

My truth is that she had been pregnant. Her truth is that she hadn’t. I guess the proof would lie in the answer to the question, “Does she have any kids born in the couple of months after Hurricane Irene?”

I didn’t ask her that.

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