Eight

It had been a fun night. Lover and I had gone out to dinner at a crowded Italian restaurant, where he made fun of my ability to eat "kid food" even when I was away from my child.

"You're basically eating macaroni and cheese," he said shaking his head at me. "Worse yet, you eat like a bird."

He sat across from me devouring his surf and turf. I stabbed one of his butter-covered, steamed broccoli heads and brought it to my lips. "There. Happy?" I asked chewing.

"You can have more if you want some," he offered pushing his plate toward me.

"I'm quite happy with my penne in vodka cream sauce," I responded.

We had a quiet nook in a far corner of a noisy restaurant to ourselves, and I was loving every minute of the fact that I had grabbed the chair by the wall, so I could see the rest of the room, but Lover could only see me.

When the check came, I reached for my coat, which was hanging of the back of my chair, to get my wallet.

"I've got it," he said.

"No, really, Lover, how much do I owe you?"

"I said, I've got it."

I stared into his eyes for a few seconds. They were way more determined than mine. However, everything between us had always been split right down the middle. I liked to think it was an economic reflection of our equal interest in each other.

"Well then, thank you for dinner," I said gratefully.

As we got up to leave, he took my coat from me and helped me put it on. I buttoned the front and put on my hat and mittens. The weather in Montreal was bitter cold in January, and we had a 20-minute walk back to the condo I had rented for the weekend.

"I've got a bottle of wine back at my place, if you don't have to run off too soon," I offered. He had work tomorrow, and a home to go home to, so I was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to spend the night.

"I'd love that," he replied. "Let's pick up some dessert on the way there."

The distance on the Plateau between the restaurant and St. Louis Square was short of bakeries at 10 p.m., so we ran into the corner store for a pint of ice cream.

The condo I rented was a one-bedroom apartment overlooking the square. It was on the top floor and I shared a private elevator with the owner, who lived in the condo next door.

"You do always pick places to stay that aren't boring," Lover said laughing when the tiny elevator door opened on the top floor. We walked into the bright hallway in front of my apartment door. I opened the door with my key and held it for him. He cocked an eyebrow up in dismay as he reached over my head and held the door in place. I sighed and walked in first turning on the lights. We took off our winter outerwear and left our snow-covered shoes neatly by the door.

The apartment was about 1,200 square feet. It was old, but well maintained. It had a small dining area with a glass table and four metal chairs next to a tiny bay window. The cramped kitchen looked out over the living room, which had a full sofa, a giant lounge chair and a tiny TV. There was also a full bathroom and then a bedroom with a queen-sized bed in it.

"Have you actually cooked in the kitchen since you've been here?" he asked standing in the living room regarding me in the kitchen through the large service window in the wall as I retrieved the bottle of wine.

"No," I answered. "But the bottle is at least chilled." I handed him the bottle and the opener and brought out two wine glasses from the cupboard. "Ice cream, now or later?"

"Definitely later," he said pouring the wine into the glasses and handing me one.

I clinked his glass with mine without a verbal toast, sat down in the oversized chair and put my feet up on the dark wood coffee table. I was wearing weather-appropriate clothes, which meant that under my typical gray cashmere blend sweater and my jeans, I had on silk long underwear to keep me from freezing my ass off while we trudged through the wind and snow. Lover, in his usual work attire of a black button-down shirt and dark-colored jeans, piled up the couch pillows at one end and sat down leaning against them. He was so long that his feet were resting on the arm of the couch.

"You're thinking about something big," he said staring at me.

"I loathe when you notice things like that," I responded.

"Then you're going to have to get better at hiding your emotions. Your face is pretty easy to decipher."

"I was thinking about how much I hate that I love being with you," I replied.

He nodded and said, "You know I'm not this guy, right?"

"What guy?"

"This guy on your couch who you're keeping on some pedestal in your head."

"Does it make you nervous that I revere you?"

He was silent for a minute. "I like how you look at me," he said. "It does wonders for my ego, but I keep waiting for you to notice that I'm nothing special." Lover sat up in the middle of the couch and leaned back. He looked very somber. "When you figure it out, I don't think you'll be quite as infatuated."

I tried not to laugh at my nervousness. Years of thinking of Lover as my mentor in the bedroom had covered up what I knew to be true. I understood what he was saying to me, but what he didn't understand was that he was both people, not one or the other. When we began, I thought he knew everything. But as we got closer, I always figured there was a certain amount of him that was relatively vulnerable underneath the dominant/submissive role-playing aspect of our relationship. I guess being held in such high esteem can be stressful for even the most high-quality human.

I put my glass down on a coaster and leaned forward for a moment in deep thought. Our adult characters were finally about to crack open a bit to show the goofy kids still below. I could feel it, and I felt like the moment required me to reveal something intimate about myself. So, I rose, walked toward him and straddled his lap.

"Okay, you told me a secret, so I'll tell you one," I said staring at him. "I'm afraid that when we separate, I'll have nothing to look forward to. And I know on paper there is absolutely nothing wrong with my life, but I rely on this -- on moments with you -- to give me bliss. Being with you makes me feel alive, which I know is a lot of pressure for you when neither of us is even supposed to be here."

He sipped his wine and then said, "You can want me, but you can't need me. And you're getting needier the longer this goes on."

"I know."

He sighed a bit and closed his eyes. I took his glass from him and drank the last gulp. I placed it on the coffee table behind me and then leaned forward and kissed him gently.

My hands lay flat on his chest as I pressed my lips to his again. "May I undress you?"

He nodded without opening his eyes. My fingers found the first button at the top of his shirt and slowly, ever so slowly, I undid each one, until I could brush away the material and feel his bare chest with the palms of my hands. I held his right hand and kissed the base of his palm where it met his wrist as I undid the button on his sleeve. Then I did the same on his left hand. I pulled his shirt off gently and leaned forward to kiss his chest, then the left side of his neck and finally to his ear.

Lover let out a soft moan. In response, I leaned back so that my face was in front of his. He opened his eyes and took me in, and suddenly everything just poured out of me.

"I trip upstairs, all the time," I said. "My first job I was so nervous, I would stumble in the hall every time I passed the president of our company. Before he really knew my name, I heard him refer to me as the smart but klutzy girl. My mother, when she wants something, has always calls me my sister's name, my father's name and the dog's name before she gets to mine. I can't sing worth a damn. I dream of getting plastic surgery sometimes to defy what gravity has done to my breasts and to help out with the mommy pouch. I hate it when you touch me there, by the way. My favorite color is blue, like the color of your eyes. I have to hold my left leg down with my hand when I drive an automatic rental car to keep from stepping on the brake pedal, because I've only ever driven a stickshift. My father is a complete right-wing nutcase who gives money to people like Pat Buchanan and Pat Robertson. My best friend spent most of her life suffering from anorexia, and deep in my mind it always makes me uncomfortable knowing that when she goes to bed, she thanks God that she doesn't look like me. I preferred working a full-time job to staying at home with the baby because at work I'm a hero and at home, I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm afraid I'm ruining him, my little boy who I love more than anything. My ears are uneven, which makes me look like I've bent my glasses. I'm a pretty normal girl. And I have always known that you're a pretty normal boy."

Lover was staring at me with a curious intensity. It was a lot of random information that I had just sent his way in my soliloquy of babble. When he finally spoke, he was smiling. "Well then, should we do what normal boys and normal girls do?" he asked running his hand up my spine until his fingers could trace the back of my neck at my hairline.

I kissed him. "Be gentle, mon pitou," I whispered before pulling my sweater and long underwear top over my head revealing a pink lacy bra. He kissed me affectionately while he stroked my nipples through the material. I slid off of his lap and onto the couch. He stood and undressed the rest of the way. Then he put his hands on my jeans and unbuttoned them and lowered the zipper. "Nice long johns," he said giggling.

"We can just pull those pants right back up again, you know?" I joked reaching for the material.

Lover gripped my jeans tightly and pulled them down over my legs. I quickly discarded my underwear and bra and pulled him on top of me.

"Don't you want a little warm up?"

"Enough foreplay," I said. "Seriously, you don't have to be Superman every time. I enjoy the foreplay. I really do. But right now, I just want to feel you inside of me."

In a flash, Lover slid into me and started to move at his own even pace. I kissed him softly and pulled my feet up so my legs wrapped around his back. Lover let out a deep sigh and adjusted so he stroked deeper and deeper for several minutes until he came.

His face was red and his mouth hung open. His eyes never left mine during his orgasm.

When he was done, he buried his face into my breasts and caught his breath.

"For the record, as much as I liked that, I like it better when you come, too," he puffed.

"No argument here, but think about where you are right now," I said. "It's plenty nice."

"Yes," he replied.

"Normal people, non-porn star sex does have a purpose," I said.

He put his fingers over my mouth to shut me up. "You talk too much."

I put my lips to his ear. "You never seem to mind me talking when I am screaming your name in pleasure over and over again," I whispered.

I felt his back go rigid at the comment.

"That's it. Stand up!" he commanded rising from the couch.

It turned me on when he was authoritative, so I gave him a wicked smile. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Up."

I sat up.

"Stand!" he shouted.

I stood. He paced back and forth between the living room and the dining room a few times. He was obviously plotting.

Small drops of his semen slid out of me and hit the wooden floor as I waited. Finally he snapped his fingers and faced me.

"I once thought I got three women pregnant at the same time in the same month," he said waiting for a reaction, when he didn't get any, he kept going. "I was curious, so I slept with a man I hardly knew in the middle of Mont Royal Park when I was 25."

Nothing.

"I don't like to talk to you about my marriage because I'm really quite happy with it and have no idea why I'm here. And I rarely think of you when I know you're not around."

Nothing.

"I like to fuck you in front of people because I think it reflects well on me more than I care about how it gets you excited."

Nothing.

"I hate that when you look at me, you look at me like it doesn't matter that I've done or said. You look at me like you want to fall in love with me, even when you know I'm probably never going to feel the same about you."

He stopped talking. I sighed. He sighed.

This is why affairs are bad ideas. I already knew all of this, and I still came to see him. So the recap did nothing to dissuade me. I always felt like our barriers were that I needed this and he didn't even know why he wanted it, let alone me. He had no idea why he was here.

I looked out the window. It had started to snow again. I met his eyes again. He was waiting for a response.

My stomach growled.

"Ice cream?" I asked.

"Only if you'll let me drip it onto you and lick it off," he declared wearing a vicious smile on his face.

"See, you are Superman. You read my mind."