Affair

The guy kept looking at me.

God only knows what possessed me to go to lunch at that fast-food joint—which I will not name because I refuse to acknowledge that I've even set foot in it—but I suppose a hard morning's shopping addled my wits. The riffraff that usually haunts these joints would ordinarily make me cringe—immensely fat retirees, male and female, the latter distinguishable only by the flabby, shapeless balloons at their chests; high school kids who talk more than they eat, and make more noise eating than talking; and, worst of all, those poor losers eating alone and finding tables as far away from any other sentient creature as humanly possible. Don't get me wrong; there's nothing wrong with dining alone—why, I'm doing so myself—but it's obvious that these loners are lucky to have had a solitary date sometime in the last millennium.

But this guy was, at least, different. Sure, he was eating alone—and on top of that, he was reading a book. Not a magazine, not a newspaper, but a

book.

Not a new one, but an old one (I'd say from the thirties of the last century),

sans

dust jacket, propped precariously against one corner of his plastic tray. But aside from this token of nerdiness—perhaps to be expected in this college town—he looked rather good. Dark hair, well—and expensively—cut, soft but not effeminate features, and a kind of twinkle in his eye as if he too were saying,

Yeah, I'm slumming here, but it's kinda fun, you know?

And I guess one of the things he wanted to do to make the time go by was to look at me.

And, by God, why not? OK, I'm fortysomething, but I'm a dish. Got that? Pure blonde (not out of a bottle either), chiselled features (all right, some people might say they're a bit sharp or harsh, but my face could have been sculpted by—well, somebody famous like Michelangelo), tits that retained their shape even after all the guys that had tugged on them in the days of my wild youth, legs that go on forever . . . you get the message. I know what I've got. Too bad a certain someone doesn't know it—or know it enough. I'll get to that in a bit.

This guy had come before me, and so naturally he finished before I did. But, as if reluctant to get up and stop staring at my lovely self, he kind of fidgeted there in his chair, with all the messy wrappers and the pitiful inedible fragments of his mass-produced meal in front of him. He at least did one sensible thing and took all the debris to the huge wooden waste baskets spaced strategically around the place (near every door, for maximum convenience), dumped the contents of his tray into one (almost losing the tray in the bin in the process), then . . . went back to his seat! Whereas all the other temporary denizens of this rathole—except the noisy teenagers, who figured this was as good a place to hang out as any—made a beeline for the exits as soon as they'd finished shoveling the unhealthy contents of their meal into their bellies, this guy went back to the same seat he occupied—did it have his name on it, or what?—and continued reading . . . and looking at me.

Well, that didn't last long. I guess his book wasn't as interesting as he'd made it out to be. So after about a minute he got up and headed toward the door—in the process of which he would have to pass right by my table. As he went by, I figured I'd take the plunge.

Now there are a couple of ways you can do this. The genteel, Victorian way would be to say something like: "I couldn't help noticing, sir, that you were casting several glances in my direction." And the thirties,

noir

tough-guy way would be: "Say, what's the idea of giving me the eyeball?" I compromised between the two, saying quietly: "So you like staring."

I hadn't even looked up at him when I said that.

I

didn't have anything to read, not even a magazine or those incredibly wasteful sheets of coupons that inevitaby end up right in everyone's recycling bin, so I was just looking down at my suddenly unappetizing food and doing my best to down it. Maybe my mouth was full, maybe it wasn't. But he heard me well enough.

It was like someone had prodded him with a taser or something. He gave a little jump and stopped cold. But he was smooth, this guy: for someone who seemed like nothing but a brain on legs, he was pretty quick with the

savoir faire.

All he said was:

"Yes . . . when it's someone like you."

He was smiling, as if saying:

This really isn't happening. I don't speak to strangers, and neither do you. This is a movie, right? We've just come from central casting. So what's the next scene going to be?

In other words, he wasn't taking any of this seriously, and he knew I wasn't taking any of it seriously. Just a little harmless banter between two people who, after they went out that door, would never see each other again and scarcely remember that they'd ever spoken.

Well, let's see how far this would go. I couldn't exactly kick a chair in his direction to get him to sit in it, since these goddamn rotating seats were affixed to the table; but I could at least nod my head and say: "Well, get a better look."

He shrugged almost imperceptibly and sat down—a bit gingerly, as if the hard plastic seat had a whoopee-cushion on it.

"Do you have a name?" I went on.

Yes, he did: it was Michael. Nice name, and it suited him—there was no chance anyone would call him Mike, if you get what I mean. I said, "My name's Roxanne. Call me Roxy."

His eyes widened just a tad then, as if he were digesting the thought that he might have occasion to call me by my name many times in the future.

So we got to talking. He wasn't exactly a great conversationalist at the start, but he warmed up eventually. Seems he was some kind of science researcher at the U, looking up all sorts of arcane stuff in the science library (not far from this hellhole) for some bigshot professor who collected—and went through—grant money as if it were M&Ms. Hard to imagine someone making money at that kind of thing (I'm referring to Michael, not the prof), but it seems he did well enough.

I of course noticed the thin gold band on his finger. And I'm sure he caught a glimpse of the huge rock stuck to the band on my own finger.

I told him that spending my husband's money was a full-time job, and I did it pretty well. He laughed at that, a bit nervously—whether at the very mention of my husband, or his money, or my little joke, I don't know. He at least had the tact not to ask what the hell I was doing in this joint, for which I couldn't have given him a plausible answer to save my life.

Well, it went on like that. It was lots of fun talking with him—talking to any presentable man (and he

was

presentable—with a goofy, crooked smile that actually did things to my insides that hadn't been done to in a long, long time) would be fun, even though I had at least a decade on him. I asked him if he had to vamoose that instant. His eyes widened just a bit at that, and he murmured, almost reluctantly (he was one of these people, I realized, who just couldn't lie), "Well, no, not really . . ."

"Good," I said shortly. I got up, leaving the tray for him to put away, which he did.

I walked out the door, he following like the good little puppy that he was. Got to my car—Cadillac, of course—and stood by the driver's side door. He came up to me, hands at his sides, not having the faintest idea what to do.

I sighed inwardly, gave him a smile, and planted my lips on his—and wouldn't let go.

At first contact he made a queer little moan of surprise, but it didn't take him long to get up to speed. I had thrown my arms around his neck, and he abruptly dropped the little book bag he was carrying and wrapped his arms around my waist—but gently, as if I were a vase he might break in his clumsiness.

His lips tasted nice, as I knew they would. When my slim little tongue went into his mouth, I could feel his member immediately spring to attention. Funny how that gets them every time.

Now you gotta believe me on this. I've been married for better than fifteen years, but I haven't yet strayed. God knows I could have, or should have, but I haven't. Why? Well, let me be blunt: I like my creature comforts more than I like sex. My husband lets me live in a lifestyle to which I've gotten myself accustomed, and if he's a little slow as far as his marital duties are concerned, well, that's OK. I have my toys, after all.

So I'm a virgin as far as the extra-marital stuff is concerned. Maybe I haven't looked in the right places: I can't possibly carry on with anyone in my own social circle, for the chances of detection are far too great. And, believe it or not, I rather like my husband—he's kind of a teddy bear, and you can't say that about too many investment bankers.

So here I am, kissing this guy I only met twenty minutes ago, right out in public (although, mercifully, not in a part of the universe where anyone is likely to recognize me), and wondering how far I—or he—will go. I won't deny I was a bit shivery—or maybe tingly is the better word. It was like someone was tickling me with a feather all over.

Well, I stopped kissing Michael, mostly to get some air. He needed it too, for he made a huge gasp and looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet. I just smiled and said, "Get in."

For someone who supposedly lives by his brain, Michael was a little slow on the uptake. "Wha . . . what do you mean?" he blurted out.

I opened the back seat for him. Still smiling, I said, "Get in. There. Right now."

He was good at following orders, so he ducked his head—rather as if he were laying himself down for the guillotine—and got in.

The car had tinted windows, of course. And the back seat was pretty spacious. That's what these GM luxury cars are built for—fat Americans who need a lot of room. Neither Michael nor I was fat, but we needed some room.

He sat down on the couch and just waited for developments. I could tell he was rock hard. So I squatted in front of him, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it back so I could see his (nice) hairy chest, then got to work on his belt buckle. He looked at me, and it, as if he couldn't believe what was happening: I'm sure he was thinking,

I really am in a movie—but not the movie I thought I was in.

Pulling his pants down to his ankles was easy, especially since he finally got with the program and raised himself up a bit off the seat. The briefs came off with the pants. His boner sprang in front of me like a rubber stick that has been bent back and then suddenly let go.

In it went into my mouth. He somehow managed to draw a huge intake of breath and groan at the same time. His cock had a really nice texture, and his balls weren't loose and flabby like some old steer's. After a while of that, I figured it was my turn. I got up and squatted over his legs, pulling off my thin sweater in the process. My breasts were right at his eye-level, and he was fixated on them as if they were some kind of hypnotist's watch. I leaned into him, and he got the message: he reached his hands behind my back and unclipped my bra, with only a minimum of fumbling. The bra came off, and I all but asphyxiated him with my melons. He, for his part, licked and sucked at them like a man dying of thirst at an oasis. Good boy!

Now I suppose I should have worn a skirt to make the next part easier; but I didn't wake up that morning with the idea, "OK, I'm going to have sex with a stranger, so I need to make sure my cunt is within easy striking range." So there I was, with my slacks rubbing up against his hard-on while his hands clutched at my breasts. Somehow I managed to get away from him long enough to shed the pants and then get right back on him. He slipped into me with the greatest of ease.

He still wanted to suckle my breasts, overgrown baby that he was. (All men are overgrown babies, I guess.) All I can say is that he felt really good inside me—I like this position for all kinds of good reasons. Every now and then he rubbed my back and grabbed my butt, but his hands kept coming back to my hooters as if they were some kind of magnets.

Just as I was getting in the spirit of things, he came. He almost shouted, although whatever sound he made was all but muffled by my knockers. He kept pumping for a little bit, then stopped. He was clinging to me, his head still buried in my chest. I pried his face away and held it gently with my hand; I could swear his eyes were glistening a bit. I just smiled at him, gave him a little kiss, and got off, plumping down on the seat next to him.

I will be honest and say that, even with hubby, the few moments after sex are just about the most embarrassing and awkward that I can think of. What the hell do you do? Say thank you to your partner? I could tell that Michael was a bit ashamed for being so quick on the draw; it seemed he almost wished to cover up his nakedness and get the hell out of Dodge. He didn't even look at me, even though under ordinary circumstances I'm sure he would have been glad to feast his eyes on an entirely naked woman sitting next to him in the back seat of a car.

He did start to mumble, "I'm sorry I was . . ."

I finished the thought for him: "A little fast on the trigger? Well, there's always the next time."

And with that, I got down on my knees in front of him and began servicing him again. I knew that men's organs are very sensitive after sex, so I held his very gently and just licked it a bit, enjoying the mingled juices that dripped from it. It wasn't long before it was ready for action again—sooner, I think, than he expected. So I rode him again, and this time we took it nice and slow. And this time I got off also.

And so that was how it started. Of course, we didn't keep on doing it in the car. I told him to meet me at a certain parking lot of a certain grocery store near my house, and then we drove back together. I couldn't have him just come to my house, on the off chance that the master of the house was home sick or the landscape gardeners were around or something of that sort. When we got back to my house, I could see his eyes bugging out at the size of the place: well, really, it wasn't all that big, but I guess it was more than a cottage. We walked right in, went right up to my bedroom (separate from my husband's, of course—it's the only civilized way), and got down to it.

This time I let him undress me first. We were nearly the same height—maybe he was an inch or two taller—and that made certain things convenient. Like doing it standing up. I don't think he'd ever done that before, because he was clueless how to manage it, and I had to stick him into me as if handling a tampon. Like the typical man he in many ways was, he didn't ask about birth control—but sensed that I had that angle covered.

There was something a bit appealing in the faint flabbiness of his midsection—too much time spent in a sitting position, no doubt—kinda like baby fat. But he was no baby in other ways. Once he got over the shock and novelty of having sex with a strange married woman, he did his job like a trouper. He would come two or three times a session—although I could tell that the last one was a bit of a strain, and perhaps not even a whole lot of fun. But he knew well how to please a woman, how to use his hands, lips, and tongue, and every now and then he surprised me by taking charge in no uncertain terms and showing me that his brute strength was no match for my own wiry toughness. I don't usually let a guy manhandle me, but I let him do it: it was almost as if I were a disembodied spectator watching myself.

It wasn't long before we got to talking. I really had to figure out why he strayed without so much as a second thought. Do all men discard their marriage vows so easily the moment an opportunity presents itself? OK, I guess I came on pretty strong in that parking lot of the fast-food hellhole, but still, he could have said, "No thank you, ma'am," if he really wanted to.

So there I was, resting my face on his chest and getting my nose tickled with the fine down around his nipple, and I said:

"So, do you love your wife?"

He looked at me aghast, as if I had asked him if he were an anti-Semite. "Of course I do! How could you ever think . . ."

He stopped then, finally realizing how comical he sounded.

But I took pity on him—I didn't want him to feel more rotten than he must have felt. "Is it just that I'm so seductive, or do you have some 'issues'?" (I hate that word, but I guess it fit the context here.)

He frowned, almost scowled, as if I'd put to him a particularly difficult problem in differential equations.

"Well, the thing of it is . . . I really love Mona in every way—except sexually." He gave me this pleading look:

Don't you understand? How can I explain this to you without talking from here till Kingdom Come?

"We've been married about eight years, and it's just fabulous. . . . We never argue, we get along great, we have lots of fun doing things together, I love going on vacations with her, getting together with our friends . . ." He paused, then went on, as if the words were being forced out of him: "But I . . . I really don't find her sexually appealing anymore. . . ."

I propped my elbow on his chest and looked him in the face. "And why is that?"

He couldn't stand to look me in the face. "Oh, lots of things. . . . She's gotten a bit heavy, and I guess I don't care for that. She's still very shapely and beautiful, but there's just . . . a little more of her than I wish there were." He breathed heavily. "But that's not really it. What it is . . . is that she's just so sexually unadventurous. Wants to have sex the same way every time. Doesn't like oral sex—sucks my cock as if it were an unpleasant duty, and doesn't like being licked at all. Doesn't like unusual positions. Closes her eyes during the whole process. . . . And when she comes, it's almost as if she's done something to be ashamed of."

I looked at him a bit quizzically. "Is she Catholic?"

His face showed a bit of surprise. "Yes, how did you know?"

"Oh, just a guess. . . . But you have no children?"

"No," he said. "You don't either?"

"No." My tone of voice basically said:

I really don't believe in the propagation of the human race.

He tried to turn the tables on me.

"So how about you? I guess I'm only the latest of many lovers you've had."

I really startled him by telling him he was the first. When he asked why I'd waited so long, since I was plainly dissatisfied with my husband, I just said, "You were just the first who fell into my lap." But both he and I knew that was a cop-out. I guess I was as tongue-tied as he was in explaining how and why my marriage had gone awry.

"Look, Michael, my husband is a real nice man . . . hard-working, kind, considerate . . . not exactly an Errol Flynn in the romance department, but it takes a special man to be like that. And I really don't stick around just for his money—that would be just too contemptible. Life is too short for that. I may not love him anymore, but I like him—a lot. I would never do anything to hurt him—which means there's no way he'll ever find out about us. But I don't need to tell you what happens, sexually, when you get married. . . ."

He took up the thread right away. "I know exactly what you mean. You're involved with so much mundane stuff with your spouse—balancing the budget, mowing the lawn, going to the grocery or the drug store, entertaining your friends . . . you basically become roommates, don't you think? You work so hard to keep the place looking nice, you kinda feel like a servant in your own house."

That was a novel way of looking at it. Of course, I couldn't quite agree with him on that score, since I had a little army of maids and gardeners to do that kind of thing for me. But I got the gist, and fundamentally he was right. The bottom line is:

Sex ceases to be romantic or forbidden or naughty or exhilarating when you get married.

There's just no getting around it.