Blue Monday

by Kodiak Armstrong

With the other girls I bear-walk on all fours until our backs are against the wall, our legs spread, our heads between our legs, a position.

With my love’s girlfriend, though, I tiptoe as if between armies of tail-cocked scorpions.

I’m learning to be flexible. Monday nights I have flexibility class. I can almost do a split.

A form of social flexibility is “polyamory.” I am polyamorous but I must become more flexible, less brittle, less snap.

The word polyamory itself, both Greek and Latin, denotes a stretching out, a connection. A bridge between people and their worlds.

To my love’s partner, flexibility is life; a lifetime of aerobics, fitness, aerial arts. She has hard working friends, high-level athletes. She’s a performer.

Months ago, in winter, the two were cleaning out their closet when I arrived. It was a strange energy to interrupt. Sharp-edged while soft and sweet. They have no central heat in their lair. It’s all auxiliary. Woodstove. Fire signs. They were sweating, and I was shivering.

I was shy, and unnerved. There are fires not to be extinguished.

I’m flashing onto different memories and futures like handholds–footholds on a rock wall, changing lanes. Building muscle. I don’t hug her, I don’t touch her, we barely speak. This is the understanding. She is surrounded by a feminine force field.

For a year, I was allowed over to drink wine and play with my beautiful friend.

Once, in the very beginning, in once upon a time, the three of us lay together in bed in a hotel room. I stroked her tender nipples and I held his celestial cock. I can barely believe it.

At their home, she did not mind me giving him head on the living room floor in front of the fire. I grinded against him while he lay naked on a fur blanket. Once she gave us ‘permission’–knowing the types of gifts he likes.

Parity is the state of being equal. Equity is something altogether different.

There is a psychological term, ‘blue lies’. I do not know why lies are categorized by color, other than there is usually hierarchy. I am not saying that he lies, only that he has told me: “I lie”–and that we all do, I do. I think when we are together we more blue than lie.

Faux pas in French means false step. They are dancers, acrobats. Francophiles. They are serious about steps. Steps toward a goal, upward infinitum. Falls cinched at the last moment. No faux pas.

 

She flies magnificently, with perfect grace. An example of our species. He says she rides the waves of Einstein’s gravity. She is fond of faeries, those wicked, winged beings. And she reminds me of one. Dark flight. All-seeing, ancient magic.

Now she is performing to Orgy’s Blue Monday in the neighborhood bar up the street. She’s as restless shimmering beautiful as I’ve ever seen, her chest heaving, weaving the air into shape and motion on the silk fabrics.

I can’t stop thinking of the lyrics: “When you lay your hands upon me / and show me who you are.”

When they are alone, is he not most himself?

I think of him laying his hands upon her. The depth of their intimacy.

Who is he really? I wonder. Who is she? And who am I?

I fall upon him when we are together.

“How does it feel?” The song asks, “To treat me like you do?”

She knows about us, of me, of course. She isn’t threatened.

How handsome he is wearing a tight pair of leather pants and white shirt open at the throat. How sexy she is in her snakeskin minidress.

They trailed through old graveyards in France. It was like a reverse baptism, I think. They came back newly committed in their ventures together and I envied their ability to pick and choose an auxiliary member. I understood it would not always be me.

They both dye their hair blue. What a favorite color. Cool blue. The color of light through melting ice, the darkish hue of an overturned iceberg.

How I wish at this moment I were nuzzled between the two of them in bed, feeling that light behind my sternum that feels like love.


Kodiak Armstrong lives in Seattle. She crafts stories and essays, and runs a reading series for the Pioneer Square Art Walk. Her work appears elsewhere in Squalorly, Hobart, 94 Creations and Coastlines.