Tara is feeling fabulous, touching Eggs everywhere, as they kiss. A woman with giant fake boobs shows up and asks to join them; Tara grins like there's a joke the lady isn't in on, and then a little harder when she realizes the girl's actually going to join their little party. "You guys are so beautiful," she says, like there were fake tits at Woodstock, and they laugh; she's a licensed massage therapist, and offers a free round. Eggs obligingly slides over, surprising Tara, and the woman goes to work on him. And while he's moaning, in the hot tub, as his knots uncoil, Tara takes another bemused look around the party, focusing on another level at what's going on.
The music is loud. They're dancing, grinding. Mike and Jane are rolling around on the ground. One woman dry humps a man. A fat man without benefit of pants goes dancing by, flopping in the hot summer breeze. None of the women are wearing shirts as they dance. Maryann, laughing in a forest of bare breasts. This is not how things go, this is not like any party Tara's been to. And if everybody's in on it, if everybody is giving in, then this is that kind of party. She doesn't know about Maryann yet; she thinks these people's minds are their own. And that means they're not like her. Tara looks at Eggs -- eyes closed, smiling in pleasure, leaning luxuriously back into the masseuse -- and grabs her towel, scowling.
Jane's crawled on top of Mike; they both have the black eyes now, groaning like animals. Tara walks past them, on the ground; she walks past a blonde girl against a tree, eyes black, breasts free, pouring a bottle of wine into her mouth, letting it run down her face, down her neck, between her breasts, staring up at nothing, only the taste, the pleasure of it on her skin in the hot summer night. All of them beautiful, all of them terrible, all of them lost to abandon.
In the quiet, away from the music, inside the house, Eggs pursues Tara. She stops on the stairs and he tries to explain: they're all just drunk, just lost and carried away. No harm. Tara shakes her head, jealous and afraid of them all now. "Is this what Maryann's about? Are you in The Lifestyle?" He's confused, because what? "Lifestyle? Tara, that's just a bunch of drunk-ass people trying to let loose, have a good time. That's got nothing to do with us." She shakes her head: there is no "us," she tells him. Not if this is his "scene." I love how we're so relatively ungross, or over it maybe, that we don't even have words for it, so we have to use ridiculous '70s words to even get the point across. That phrase "open relationship" always makes me giggle too.