***

Even before today, Yoko had had her suspicions about John and Paul. It was nothing she could put her finger on, exactly. Just…little things. The way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. The way they touched each other for no reason and stood so close together, even when there was plenty of room. The way John sometimes came to her bed reeking of Shag Me, Bitch, the cologne Francie had bought Paul for his birthday, and the way he always yelled “Oh, P-Yoko!” when he came.

Just little things like that.

Then, too, there was John’s jealousy. At first, it had been rather flattering, the way he never wanted her to talk to Paul, or stand too close to him, or look at him too long. And it was amusing (in a dark, cruel, playing-on-a-neurotic’s-massive- insecurities sort of way) to watch how the slightest things would set him off.

John: “What were you and Paul talking about so chummy?”
Yoko: “I told him I liked his shirt.”
John: “Oh, so you liked his shirt, did you? Thought he looked nice in it? Thought he looked hot and sexy and dead fuckable in it? In that thin little barely-there white T-shirt with the rip at the neck that you can just see his collarbone through and his nipples poking enticingly at the flimsy cotton as if to say, ‘Here we are, everybody! We’re Paul’s nipples! Don’t you just want to bite us and pinch us and suck us until he’s moaning like a wanton slut?’ IS THAT WHAT YOU FUCKING THOUGHT, YOU CRAZY BIG-HAIRED BITCH?”
Yoko: “No.”
John: “Oh. Right, then. Me either.”

She’d simply been too trusting; she saw that now. Too willing to give John the benefit of the doubt. Maybe John had lost his guitar pick down the front of Paul’s pants. Maybe Paul had spilled his hot-fudge sundae all over John’s chest and had to lick it off before he got frostbite. Maybe Paul did need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after twelve straight takes of Hey Jude – well, why not? He was, after all, an ultra tenor who had to go a half octave above the tenors’ definitive note of high C to hit the non-falsetto F natural on the "YEAHHH!” Yoko was no expert on pop music or anything, but any idiot knew that.

But today…? Well, there was just no explaining today.

Today. When she’d walked into the studio and seen them, caught them, going right at it. John had Paul pushed up against the amp, one hand down the younger man’s trousers and the other squeezing his ass, and Paul’s hands were tangled in John’s long hair, and their shirts were on the floor and they were kissing, hot noisy kissing with lots of tongue, and both of them were sporting erections so hard they could probably drive nails with them, and—

Well. Yoko had been taken aback, to say the least. Still, she’d kept her cool. She’d never been one to jump to conclusions. She was an artist, after all, a free spirit, an iconoclast, proud of her liberalism and her open mind. And she certainly wasn’t one to jump to dirty conclusions. Yoko felt she had a rather prim streak in her, actually, though no one would likely believe it; why, when she wasn’t recording people’s orgasms or filming long lines of naked asses, Yoko was quite an old-fashioned kind of girl.

So she tried to be as calm and reasonable as possible in her reaction.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU TWO RANDY-ASS QUEERS THINK YOU’RE DOING?!?” she asked, voice rising to a blood-curdling shriek.

Instantly, they sprang apart, staring at her in shock and horror.

“Christ, woman!” John said, pressing a hand to his chest. “You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack! I’ve asked you not to sing without warning!”

“Still” – Paul smiled at her, diplomatic as ever - “it’s an interesting first line you’ve got there.”

Yoko folded her arms and scowled at them, tapping her foot. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Question?”

“What are you doing?”

“What are we doing?”

“Yes. What are you doing, the two of you, here, alone, together, all sweaty and kissing and protuberant?”

“Oh. Oh, that.” John looked at Paul, who looked at his shoes. “Oh, we were just…er…we were just…um…rehearsing.”

Paul looked up hopefully.

“Rehearsing?” Yoko raised a scornful eyebrow. “Rehearsing what?”

“Er…” John looked at his own shoes.

“I’m waiting.”

“Um…”

“Still waiting.”

“A love scene!” Paul burst out. “From, er…Romeo and Juliet.”

John looked up hopefully.

“See,” Paul went on quickly (oh, she was just withering him with the eyebrow, that’s right, pretty-boy, let me see you sweat), “they’re making a movie of it, of Romeo and Juliet, I mean. Some Italian bloke, and he’s…well, he’s offered me the lead, and—”

“Some Italian man wants you to play Juliet?”

Paul frowned. “No. No, love. He wants me to play Romeo. See, Juliet’s a bird, and I’m a fella, you know, and I could never—”

The man was dumber than mud.

“I get it, Paul!” she snapped. She turned her piercing gaze on her lover. “And you, John? Are you in this film, too?”

“No. I was just helping Paul…er…learn his lines.”

“I see. And that’s why you were kissing him?”

“Of course.”

“And fondling him.”

“Er…yeah.”

“And grinding him into the amplifier like you were Siamese twins attached at the testicles.”

“We weren’t grinding, you know…” John mumbled.

“Felt more like thrusting to m—OOOF!” Paul gasped as John drove an elbow into his ribs.

“I see,” Yoko said again. She forced a smile. “Well. I guess I don’t have anything to worry about, then. You’re just…rehearsing.”

“Yoko—”

“I guess I’ll just go then, and leave you to your…rehearsing.” She smiled even bigger.

“Yoko?”

“No, it’s all right, John, really. I can see you’re busy. I have some errands to run, and I’ll come back later, and maybe by then”—she was smiling so hard now her cheeks were starting to twitch—“you’ll be all done with your…rehearsing.”

John goggled at her. Clearly, her sudden acceptance unnerved him, and she held onto that grim victory as she walked to the door, keeping the smile glued on her face, even stopping in the doorway to turn and blow John a kiss. Outwardly, she was the picture of cool, calm, and collected.

Inside she was seething.

The bastard. The bastards, plural, both of them, that lying fuck she called a boyfriend and that other lying fuck he called his…well, whatever fags called their partners-in-fagdom. How long had they been fucking around behind her back? How many times had John come straight from that ditty-spewing hack’s bed to hers? How many times had he held her and kissed her and made love to her, all the while thinking about him, pretending it was Paul he was screwing, wishing it was? Christ! Did he compare them? Was Paul a better lay? Did he give better head? Or was it just that he was prettier than Yoko? Yoko felt fairly sick at the thought. If pretty was all John wanted, she had no chance against Paul, none; that fucker’s eyebrows alone were enough to make Miss America feel butch.

Most infuriating of all, John had lied to her. She honestly didn’t know what was worse - the fact that she had caught John and Paul en flagrante at last, or the fact that they would tell such a preposterous cover story and think that she’d buy it. Rehearsing. A scene. From Romeo and Juliet. God, how stupid did they think she was?

They didn’t even have amplifiers in sixteenth-century Verona.


***


Over a calming cup of tea and this month’s issue of Titty Power, seething moved to plotting. She was going to break up this little romance, one way or another. She could do it. She had scrounged in garbage cans for food. She had fought for her own identity in a man’s world. With no money, no connections, and no discernible talent of any kind, she had forged a reputation as one of the premier avant-garde artists of her time. She was tougher and stronger and smarter than John and that slab of bimbo-bait put together, and she would have her revenge.


***


Later that night, John in bed with visions of big-eyed slutboys dancing in his head, Yoko sat at the kitchen table and pored over her astrology texts.

She was an Aquarius. John was a Libra. Paul was a Gemini. Air signs all, and, as such, supposedly extremely compatible – at any rate, they could probably have some wicked threesomes – but that wasn’t the issue at hand. Paul was the issue at hand. Paul was the wild card here, and Paul, fantastically enough, was a Gemini.

Not just any Gemini, either; his chart was lousy with Gemini influence. Gemini was his Sun Sign, but his Mercury, Saturn and Uranus lay in Gemini as well. Uranus in Gemini pointed to inventiveness and ingenuity (Yoko jotted Strip Monopoly? on her pad) and Mercury in Gemini indicated an avid curiosity and the desire to learn (bring Kama Sutra, she noted diligently; take stern-but-sexy headmistress costume to cleaners). His Saturn in Gemini lent itself to sound judgment (get him drunk, and don’t let him see the camera), and he did have his Mars in Leo, which could be trouble, as it indicated excellent leadership abilities and a drive for power (no strap-ons, and leave handcuffs at home). But it was the Gemini influence that was most pronounced, and it was the Gemini influence, Yoko knew, that was going to be his undoing. Because she knew something about Gemini men that most people didn’t, something that wasn’t in most of the texts or the charts or the little blurbs the newspapers called horoscopes.

Gemini men were some horny motherfuckers.


***


She had her plan; now she just had to pick her day. Carefully, though. She couldn’t chance John being at Paul’s house when she got there (though they really could have the hottest threesome, three air signs in one bed was enough to make your nipples explode) or walking in on them. She decided to talk to Francie first, before even approaching Paul or John. Francie would know. And Francie was sweet, but she wasn’t too bright.

Still, she’d have to be subtle. Feel her out a little bit. Coax the information out of her without the other woman ever being the wiser.

“Hi, Francie. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I was just wondering what day this week I might find Paul totally alone in his house without any chance whatsoever of you or John or Martha or the housekeeper walking in on us even though we would absolutely not be doing anything even remotely sexual in nature?”

“Well…” Francie scrunched up her forehead. “Thursday might be good. It’s Rosie’s day off, so she won’t be there. Martha gets groomed on Thursdays, so she won’t be there. And they don’t record on Thursdays anymore - not since you told John that leaving the house on a day with an ‘H’ in it gives you cancer – so Paul should be home all day. Unless he decides to go out for a drive or something. Hey, Yoko, have I ever told you how much Paul likes getting blown while he’s driving?”

“Yes, you have.” Yoko’s mind was racing. “And you? Where will you be?”

“That depends. How much cash you got?”

“Fifty pounds?”

“You got a deal.”

They shook on it.

“Thanks for your help, Francie.”

“Oh, sure, don’t mench. We women have to stick together, don’t we? Men are such worms sometimes. Hey, Yoko, did I ever tell you about the time Paul and I were out driving, and he stopped the car and got out and went into this house, and he came back, like, an hour later and he’d obviously just fucked someone else while I was waiting, and then we went home and he fucked me, too?”

“Yes. You did. Francie, are you sure about Thursday?”

“Sure as I’m sitting here.” She frowned. “I am sitting here, right?”

“Yes…”

“Whew! That’s a relief.” She giggled. “Those Columbian breakfasts really fuck with my head, and I’m not talking coffee! Hey, Yoko, did I ever tell you how Paul likes to smoke weed first thing in the morning and then take me out into the garden naked and pretend I’m Tatianna the Tree-Nymph and he’s a rustic woodsman named Burt?”

“Yes, you—Uh, no.”

“I haven’t? Well, what we do is, we—”

Yoko held up a hand. “Save it for the book, honey.”


***


John: “What were you and Francie giggling about this morning?”
Yoko: “I asked her if she had any plans for the weekend.”
John: “Oh, so you asked if she had any plans, did you? Thought she might have plans? Plans with Paul, maybe? Plans to fuck him? Plans to climb on top of him and ride him and look down on him when he’s all sweaty and glistening and drowsy-eyed with lust and run her hands lovingly over his taut, straining body and thrill to that incredible sound he makes in the back of his throat just before he comes? WERE THOSE THE KINDS OF PLANS YOU WERE ASKING ABOUT, YOU DIRTY NO-TALENT ASS-FILMING SLAG?”
Yoko: “No.”
John: “Oh. Right, then. Forget I mentioned it.”


***


“Yoko? What are you doing here?” Paul’s smile was puzzled, but warm enough, she supposed. At least he wasn’t calling the cops or screaming “Rape!” or trying to sic Thisbe on her. Yet. “Where’s John?”

Yoko gathered her nerve. “John’s at home, Paul. I came alone. I need to talk to you.”

“Talk to me? About what?”

“Just…some things.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed. “If this is about that ‘MacLenOno Music’ thing again, Yoko, you can forget it. It sounds like something you'd catch off a Haitian girl."

“It’s not about that.”

“Or hiring that greasy git Klein to handle our affairs—”

“No.”

“Or putting the four of us in a daisy chain on the cover of the new album and calling it All You Need Is Tongue—”

“Or that, eith—Hey! That cover would be the shit, you provincial pop tart!”

Paul just raised his annoyingly perfect eyebrows and folded his arms.

Yoko gritted her teeth. “Look, Paul, I only need a few minutes of your time. It’s very important; you know I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Paul just leaned against the doorframe and studied his fingernails.

“I’d like to come inside,” Yoko continued with grim politeness. “I’d like to talk to you about this in private.”

“I’d like to be tied down, drizzled in chocolate and tongue-bathed by the Supremes,” Paul shrugged, “but so far, you know, no luck.”

Yoko clenched her fists. Okay. If this was how he wanted to play it--

“Paul, I know about you and John. I know you’re sleeping together behind my back. There’s no point in lying about it. I’ve seen the signs for months and ignored them, but I can’t ignore what I saw the other day.”

Paul opened his mouth to protest.

“No, Paul. Don’t bother to deny it. It insults my intelligence and demeans me as an individual and makes me want to use the spurs on you when I finally get you in the sack, and, whoopsies, did I just say that out loud?”

Paul’s taunting smirk had vanished; he looked openly horrified.

“Paul—”

“Is that why you’re here?” he demanded. “So you can get some half-arsed revenge on John by fucking me?”

“Of course not! It’s just, it’s more, I thought, that is, well, yes.”

Paul gaped at her. It would have been an ugly expression on anyone else, but he made it look downright stunning. Damn him to the fiery bowels of Hell, Yoko thought admiringly.

“Yoko…” Paul straightened away from the door frame and cleared his throat. “I think you’d better leave.”

Yoko lifted her chin defiantly. “Not until I get what I came for.”

“If my willie's what you came for, love, you’re fucking leaving empty-handed!”

“I don’t think so.”

“'Course you don’t! You’re a loony, aren’t you?”

“I always get what I want, Paul. Always. I don’t take no for an answer.”

“Well, you’ll take it now, you daft chit, because I’m not doing this!”

Yoko picked up her satchel and rattled it temptingly. “I have toys,” she crooned.

“I don’t care what you have, I…” Paul cast a rather longing look at the bag. “What kind of toys?”

“Well…”

“No! No, I don’t care! I won’t do this. John’s my partner—”

“I have bo-OO-oks,” Yoko sing-songed.

“—my best mate—”

“I have a stern-but-sexy headmistress costume to appeal to your Mercury in Gemini!”

“—and I won’t fuck his bird behind his back, it just wouldn’t—”

“I have these,” Yoko offered, and lifted her sweater.

“—be right, I’d feel so oh my God TITS!...okay.”

Geminis, Yoko thought, and smiled. Gets ’em every time.


***


She was still smiling an hour or so later, watching the bright morning sun stream through Paul’s bedroom window, and it surprised her a bit. She’d expected to get what she came for, sure, but she certainly hadn’t expected to enjoy it quite so much. Or quite so loudly. Or quite so often.

At least now she knew what John saw in him.

But Paul, poor dumb man-thing that he was, did not appear to be basking in the afterglow. On the contrary, Paul seemed ashamed and miserable and slightly traumatized, and that irritated Yoko just a little. He was also hogging all the weed, and that irritated her a lot.

“Don’t bogart that joint,” she said, reaching over and plucking it from his hand. “What are you moping about anyway?”

“I can’t believe we did this,” he mumbled. “I can’t believe we did this to John.”

Believe it, big eyes, Yoko thought with grim glee, but of course she could say no such thing. “We didn’t do anything to John that you and John haven’t been doing to me for months,” she pointed out as nicely as possible.

Paul looked blank. “We called John a hairy great bitch and laughed at his utter lack of talent behind his back?”

“No, you moron, I mean—the hell you say?”

“Oh!” Paul suddenly wailed and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. “I’m the worst friend in the world!”

Yoko rolled her eyes.

“I’m a rotten, treacherous, sneaky piece of shit!”

Yoko took a pull off the joint.

“I’m a pathetic, weak-willed, horrid excuse for a human being!”

Yoko watched a bluebird land on the windowsill.

Paul lifted his face from the pillow. “You can stop me any time, you know.”

“I’m waiting for ‘pedestrian songwriter prone to mawkish sentimentality’.”

Paul sat up abruptly and wiggled his fingers. “Just give me the spliff, bitch.”

She gave it gladly. Paul could be as insulting as he wanted, now; it didn’t matter. She’d gotten what she came for, even had some fun in the process—and if Mr. Pointy-Pants thought he felt guilty now, well, just wait until John confronted him with the pictures. That’s when the shit would really hit the fan, when John saw those pictures. These pictures. Of today. Of her…and Paul…doing it…right here…

Oops.

“Oh, shit!” Yoko yelped, so suddenly that Paul jumped and dropped the joint. “I forgot to set it up!”

“Set what up?” snapped Paul, smacking frantically at the smoldering bedspread.

“The cam—” She stopped abruptly, alarmed by the look he was giving her. “The cam…the cam…the camembert.”

“The what?”

“It’s, um, a cheese. A French cheese.” She laughed nervously. “I just love a good cheese after sex, don’t you?”

Paul stared at her.

“Right, reckon that’s enough of this, then—” He leaned over and tossed the roach in the ashtray.

“Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“Close your eyes for a minute, will you?”

“Why?”

“I need to do something.”

“What?”

“Just close your eyes!”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Close your eyes or I’ll hurt you.”

“No.”

“Close your eyes or I’ll hurt you bad.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Close your fucking eyes, Paul, or I’ll…I’ll…I’ll sing.”

He paled. “You wouldn’t.”

She drew a deep breath.

“All right, all right, I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

He closed his eyes. Yoko scrambled to the end of the bed and found her bag on the floor. It took only a minute to dig out the camera, set the timer, and tuck it discreetly amongst the man-trash on the dresser; she was sliding back between the sheets before Paul had finished bitching and moaning.

“Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“You can open your eyes now.”

“Mm. Don’t want to now.” He sounded sleepy, and Yoko had a moment’s panic. He couldn’t zonk out on her now.

“Open your damned eyes!”

“Piss off.”

She regarded him with desperate contempt. Why were men so fucking useless after sex? It wasn’t as though they had to be. Any man with an ounce of consideration for his partner could do something to keep himself semi-conscious afterward. Light another cigarette, maybe. Sit up instead of just rolling over. Decrease his refractory period beforehand by mastering some semblance of control over his pubococcygeus muscle, thus learning to achieve orgasm without ejaculation in the first place. Jesus. Yoko was no expert on the male sexual response cycle or anything, but any idiot knew that.

Still. Maybe it was possible. He was a Gemini, she had to keep that in mind…and she had to get these pictures.

“Paul. We need to have sex again.”

Well. It got his eyes open, anyway.

“Trust me on this, Paul. We really need to have sex again. Now.”

“There’s no bloody way in hell I’m doing that again, Yoko!”

“You mean you can’t?” she taunted.

“I mean I won’t! Now, look, Yoko! You’re a fab shag and all, but you’re still John’s bird, and I feel guilty—”

She pulled the sheet down.

“—enough already without oh holy Christ TITS!...okay.”


***


The third time was a complete accident. Yoko would have sworn before God on His throne that she had not intended to have sex with Paul a third time, or, indeed, ever again. Even if he was a rather fab shag himself. Even if the second time had been even better than the first. Even if it was amusing (in a spiteful, jealous, trying-to-destroy-a-lifelong-friendship sort of way) to watch Paul’s paroxysms of post-coital remorse.

No, the reason Yoko found herself screwing Paul a third time was simply necessity, born yet again of her own carelessness.

“Oh, shit!” Yoko yelped, so suddenly that Paul jumped and dropped his cigarette. “I forgot to load it!”

“Load what?” gasped Paul, smacking frantically at his smoldering pubic hair.

“The film—” She stopped abruptly, alarmed by the look he was giving her. “The film, the film, the…The Filmmakers’ Guide to More Natural Lighting in an Indoor Environment.”

“The what?”

“It’s a book, a textbook.” She giggled wildly. “I just love a good fact-laden textbook after sex, don’t you?”

Paul considered. “While we eat the cheese, or after?”

The man was dumber than gravel.

“Close your eyes, Paul.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! What now?”

“Just do it!”

“No!”

Yoko cleared her throat menacingly.

“All right, all right, all right!”

This time she was even quicker, loading the film and jumping back in bed before he had stopped whimpering in abject terror.

“Paul.”

“What?”

“We need to have sex again.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned. “What do you think I am, Yoko, some kind of machine? Even I can’t just oh Christ again with the TITS!...okay.”

“I didn’t show you my tits.”

“Yeah, well, I just thought I’d save us some time.”


***


Yoko chalked up interludes four, five, and six to scientific curiosity. And a certain morbid fascination.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have some sort of genetic disorder I should be aware of?”

“Um. Don’t think so, love.”

“Chemical imbalance?”

“Not that I know.”

“Do you take anything?”

“Not too much, actually. Just grass, you know. And booze. And some coke now and then. Okay, maybe every day. And acid. Well, some. When it was legal, you know. Oh, and uppers. When I really need them. And sleeping pills. Sometimes. If I’ve had too much of the other, you know. And heroin. Just the one time. And Brian Wilson gave me something once called a Quaalude, and that was pretty different. And—”

“I meant supplement-type stuff. Vitamins, hormones, powdered essence of elk velvet antler?”

“You think I’d put shit like that in my body?”

“Sorry.” She shook her head and poked at him through the sheet. “Well, how ever you do it, it’s amazing. You remind me of Priapus.”

“Old boyfriend?”

“He was a god, Paul—”

“Glad I measure up, then.”

“—who had a constant erection. He tried to rape a goddess, and the other gods punished him by giving him a giant set of wooden genitals.”

“Kinky.”

“There’s actually a medical condition called priapism, in which the erect penis does not return to its flaccid state for hours and hours.”

“Very convenient, that.”

“Try excruciatingly painful and potentially dangerous. Priapism can cause thrombosis, damage to blood vessels, and even gangrene, in which case a penectomy may be necessary.”

“A who-what-o-my?”

“They cut off your dick.”

“Shit.”

“Yes.”

Paul cocked his head at her. “You know, you’re an awfully smart bird, Yoko.”

The praise was so sincere and so unexpected that Yoko blushed. “Well…no. Not really. I’m no expert on medicine or mythology or anything, but any idiot knows that.”

“I didn’t.”

“Sorry. Almost any idiot.”

“I kinda like it, though.”

“You like it.”

“Kinda gets me revved, if you know what I mean.”

“See, now, Paul, that’s what I’m talking about. Most guys wouldn’t be ‘revved’ by this conversation.”

Paul shrugged.

“Especially the part about the gangrene.”

“What I mean is, love, I like the way you talk. I like that you’re smart and arty and interesting and know bizarre little bits of things that nobody but a swotty dateless bookworm would ever know, or even want to know. You know?”

“Uh—”

“It makes me feel differently about you. It makes me want to…I dunno…”

“Get to know me better as an individual and a human being?”

“Well…”

“Treat me with the same respect and consideration you would another man?”

“Er, not really.”

“Finance my next five incomprehensible and pretentious art films with millions of your hard-earned pounds?”

“Christ, no!”

“Fuck me again?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


***


After the tenth time, Yoko finally had to admit they were doing it strictly for kicks.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Today was…fun, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, love, it was brilliant.”

“Yeah.”

“Coulda, maybe, done without the spurs, you know…”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Ah, don’t worry. A few stitches, a tetanus shot, I expect I’ll be good as new.”

“Wish I could say the same. How am I going to explain to John about this hickey on my ass?”

Paul thought about it. “You could tell him it’s a birthmark.”

“I could, probably. If you hadn’t written ‘Macca was here’ under it. Complete with date. In permanent marker.”

“That’ll be worth something someday, love, mark my words.”

His grin was impish and engaging, and Yoko found herself almost charmed. She supposed he really wasn’t such a bad sort after all. Actually, when you got him alone, he was quite a decent sort, warm, rather sweet, energetic and frighteningly limber…decent enough, anyway, for her to feel a little guilty about doing everything in her power to make his life a swirling torrent of horror and misery.

“Paul, I think I owe you an apology.”

“I told you, Yoko, I forgive you for the spurs.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I—”

“And the rope. And the riding crop. And the branding iron.”

“Paul—”

“And the full-size vibrator with no lube or preparation of any kind. Hey, everyone has their kinks, right?”

“Paul.”

“That cheese-and-book fetish is a bit creepy, though.”

“PAUL!”

“Yes, love?”

“What I’m trying to tell you is I’m sorry I’ve misjudged you! You’re”—she swallowed hard—“you’re a nice guy, and I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better sooner, and I’m sorry I did everything in my power to…well, to…”

“Make my life a swirling torrent of horror and misery?”

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s it. Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.”

He patted her arm absently and handed her a cigarette. They puffed in silence for a few minutes, each lost in private thoughts.

“Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s occurred to me that we have something very important in common.”

“We both have black hair?”

“Yes…yes, we do, but that’s not what I was talking about.”

“We’re both naked?”

“A little less immediate, Paul.”

“We’re both mammals?”

He’s a great fuck, Yoko reminded herself grimly. Just keep that in mind. He may be dumber than a really dumb thing, but he fucks like a rabid mink.

“We’re both Japanese?”

“We both love John, you idiot!”

Paul frowned. “So?”

“So I think it would be very nice for John to see the two of us getting along.”

Paul said nothing.

“We are getting along, aren’t we?” she ventured.

“Sure, yeah, I guess so.”

“I certainly have a much higher opinion of you naked, I mean now, than I did before.”

“Ta.”

“And you seem to like me a little bit better.”

“’Course I do. You have great tits and a killer mouth, and you know all about Greek gods and cheese and the male sexual response cycle. What’s not to like?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I know all about…wait a minute. I never mentioned the male sexual response cycle!”

“But your appreciation for my pubococcygeus muscle control was written all over your face.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “It is remarkable, I have to say...”

They grinned at each other.

“Yoko…are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That you’re not quite as hopelessly stupid as I originally thought you were?”

“No…but that’s awfully sweet of you, thanks. No, I was thinking it’s really a shame John can’t…you know…actually be here right now. I mean, just to see, you know…how well we’re getting on together.”

Yoko’s grin grew even wider. “That is a shame, isn’t it? It would probably be very good for John, too. To see that.”

“This.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s such a big bed.”

“Yes. Very big. And soft.”

“And we are all air signs.”

Okay. So he was definitely not as stupid as she’d originally thought he was.

“Do you…?”

“Should we…?”

They dove for the phone at exactly the same time.


***


John: “Have you seen Paul or Yoko today?”
George: “Oh, hullo, John. What are you doing here? It’s Thursday, y’know.”
John: “I know what fucking day it is. Just answer my fucking question. Have you seen them? Either of them?”
George: “No, I haven’t. Why do you ask?”
John: “Oh, so you want to know why I ask, do you? You think I have some reason for asking? You think I think maybe they’re off together somewhere? That I think they’re off fucking somewhere? That I think they’re getting it on? Doing the nasty? Bumping uglies? Knocking boots? Making piggies? Whacking the donkey? Twirling the squirrel? Pounding the snow possum? Playing here comes the beef train? IS THAT WHY YOU THINK I’M ASKING, YOU DAISY-EATING MANTRA-CHANTING BONY-ARSED GIT?”
George: “Yes.”
John: “Cor, you have a filthy mind!”


***


“Still no answer.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it?” Paul said, watching Yoko hang up the phone. “Where could he be? He must know it’s a Thursday.”

“Mmm. It is strange.” Yoko gnawed her bottom lip. “I hope everything’s okay.”

“Ah, I’m sure he’s fine. Probably kipping in front of the telly or something. We can call again in a bit.”

“Yeah, I guess so…excuse me, what are you doing?”

Paul grinned. “Well, I just thought…since we have some time to kill…we could…you know…”

“Oh, you’re not.”

Paul shrugged.

“Oh, you couldn’t be. Not again.”

Paul pointed.

“Oh, my God. You are.”

“’Fraid so.”

She looked at him closely. “You’re really an alien, aren’t you? There are pods in the basement, and the real Paul is strapped to a table on a spaceship somewhere, getting a probe shoved up his ass.”

“No…but I’ll try anything once, you know.”

“Ah, what the hell. Take me, you kinky bastard!”


***


They were on page thirty-seven of the Kama Sutra – “Okay, Paul, now throw your legs over your shoulders and run in place” – and Yoko was rummaging through her bag for the cattle prod when the bedroom door banged open.

“John!”

“Yoko!”

“John!”

“Paul!”

“Yoko!”

“Paul! Don’t shout. I’m right next to you.”

“Sorry.”

John glared at them from the doorway. His hair was wild and snarly; his teeth were bared; his chest heaved and his granny glasses glinted menacingly in the dim light. Yoko thought he looked wonderful.

“John, honey! What an amazing coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

“Oh, so you were just talking about me, were you?” he mocked. “Talking about what a fool I am, maybe? Talking about how much fun it is to fuck each other behind my back? Managed to squeeze in a cozy little chat about blind, stupid, trusting John amidst all the grunting and thrusting and throwing legs about and running in place? IS THAT HOW YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT ME, YOU TIT-FLASHING, CATTLE-PRODDING, BOYFRIEND-SHAGGING BINT?”

“No.”

“Ha! I knew it!” John wagged a triumphant finger at them both. “You’d have no time for talk, would you? Too busy playing ‘Paulie-On-The-Alien-Spacecraft’ for that.”

“Actually, we were talking about how nice it would be if you joined us.”

John’s glare faltered. “Eh?”

“We were, you know,” Paul nodded. “Just rang you up to give you the invite, not five minutes ago. Right before Yoko started licking my—OOF!” he gasped as Yoko drove an elbow into his ribs.

“The important thing, Paul, is that John’s here now.” She gave John her sexiest smile. “And doesn’t he look wonderful?”

“Mmm,” Paul agreed, a bit breathlessly. “Dead sexy. Dig the way his grannies are glinting.”

“Ooh, yes. So menacing.”

“Yeah! That’s it. Menacing.”

John’s glare was melting. He shuffled a few steps closer to the bed, eyes sweeping the tangled sheets, the clothing strewn here, there and everywhere, the toys and exotic oils and the odd jar of mayonnaise littering the handsome hardwood floor. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and you can just forget about it, all right? Yoko with that coy smile, Paul batting the fucking cow eyes at me…well, it won’t work! I’ve caught you dead to rights here, so don’t try playing fucking games with me head!”

“Oh, sod your head,” Paul snapped. “I just want your arse.”

Yoko glanced at him approvingly. “Good one, Paul!”

“Yeah, well, I’m horny. I get stroppy when I’m horny. John, are you in or not?”

John stared at him. “You’re bloody serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes! I’m serious! I’m also horny, did I mention horny?”

John looked at Yoko. “You, too?”

She smiled again. “It’s a big bed, John.”

John bit his lip. “You want me to join you.”

“Yes.”

“Get in bed with both of you.”

“Yes.”

“Have sex with both of you.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of standing here screaming a lot of jealous, impotent nonsense designed to scare you both away so you won’t get close enough to see the vulnerable child-man lurking deep inside.”

“For fuck’s sake, John, yes!” Paul snarled. “Now get your fucking clothes off and get in this fucking bed and start fucking something or somebody before my balls explode!”

John grinned.

“Well, I don’t need it dropped on my head, now, do I? Budge over, son!”


***


One hour later.

“That was…”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”


***


One hour, three minutes and fifty-seven seconds later.

“So. Who’s game for another go?”

“Oh, for the love of…John, where did you find this freak?”

“Found him in the park, funnily enough. Brilliant, isn’t he? Like bloody Priapus or something.”

“At least I know now why you keep him around.”

“’Course. Well, he can sing. A bit.”

“A bit? Why, you—mmppff!”

“Ha! Not so stroppy now, are you, Mr. Horny?"


***


Three hours later.

“Guys, I have to pee.”

“So go.”

“But I don’t want you to start without me.”

“We won’t.”

“Sure, love, we’ll wait.”

“I mean it, now. I’ll only be a second.”

“We’ll wait, we’ll wait! Just…hurry it up, will you?”

“Promise?”

“Christ! Yes! We promise!"

“Pinky swear?”

“WILL YOU JUST GO??”



***


Three hours and three minutes later.

“Hey! You promised!”


***


Three hours and ten minutes later.

“Um, guys? Helloooo? Remember me?"


***


Three hours and eleven minutes later.

“Guys?”


***


Three hours and twenty minutes later.

“Gah.”


***


Five hours later.

“No, not like that…no, John, it looked better with Paul on top…just turn your head a bit so I can see his…yeah, that’s it. Oh, that is definitely it…Holy fuck…Okay, now, just hold that right there…and I’ll…Christ, where’d I put that camera?”


***


Two weeks later.

“Hi, Francie. Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?”

“Nah, you kidding? They’re still undressing each other. God, they’re fussier than a couple of chicks, aren’t they? Hey, Yoko, have I ever told you how much better Paul looks in my underwear than I do?”

“No…but it’s not something I’d brag about, Fran.”

“I’m not bragging, I’m jealous. Dude's got legs like Betty Grable. Oh, hey, look! They’re finally naked…oh, and they’re…they’re…oh, wow.”

“Yeah.”

“This one-way mirror was the best idea ever, Yoko.”

“Thank you.”

“Look what we’d be missing otherwise.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Ooh! Did you see that? Ohmygod! How do they do that?”

“Much practice, I’d guess.”

“Oh, God. God, that’s so pretty. They’re so pretty. I just love Slash Night, don’t you?”

“I invented it, didn’t I?"

“Think I could bring a few friends next time? They’re all just dying to see.”

“Sure. Yeah. I guess so. Whatever. Now be quiet, please. They’re starting to get noisy in there.”

“Yay! I love it when they make noises. Hey, Yoko, have I ever told you how sometimes when Paul gets really excited, he squeaks like a salt-marsh harvest mouse?”

“Francie! Shhh!”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Here. Have a Jujubee. And pass the popcorn, would you?” 

***