I was asked why all my sluts are single and swingers, what about the sluts that are cheating? Well, here it is.
I wouldn't say I was in a downward spiral. It didn't feel that dramatic. I was in a trough. I thought the very sound of it was perfect. "Trough." I woke up, I sent the kids off. I pretended to work. The family would come home eventually. It was hot and we would sit around watching television until it was late enough to go to bed. I would lay in bed beside my husband. I didn't want to hit on him. He never said no but there is really nothing worse than trying to sex someone who would rather just go to sleep.
I surfed the internet for porn that was artistic enough that I didn't feel gross looking at it. I read erotica online because its free and it's not as embarrassing as having a bunch of porn show up on my kindle. Did I mention it was hot? It was August and it was just miserable. I wanted to get away but I didn't want to go to the effort of leaving.
I masturbated daily. I would lie on my belly with my hand tucked up under me. I would move my hips to simulate actually fucking but it was just my finger that was getting laid. It was awful doing the grocery shopping. I would walk the aisles with my husband. He would scowl at my selections, too unhealthy, and watch the other men in the store to see if they noticed me. I stopped wearing a bra. My tits weren't what they once were but they were still large. The store would be cool enough that my nipples would be evident. I watched for them to notice. Some did, staring in that dead way that men stare at you. Just smile, goddamnit.
It was late on a Saturday night when his request came in. He wanted to be my friend on my social media page, you know the one. I hadn't heard from him in ten years. I couldn't sleep. How did he find me? Why did he find me? Was he looking for me?
I didn't particularly like Brent. He was kind of an asshole. He was the type of guy who began every conversation with a double entendre. He dropped a hint at his last workout into every interaction. He wasn't particularly good looking. I don't know how you can be attracted to someone you don't like. I hated that I was attracted to him. Fuck.
I will admit it. I am a shitty wife. I like to think I am not shitty, we just aren't a good match. I like to think that if T had found the right woman he would probably be a great husband to her. T likes to fuck. It takes about eight minutes and he wants to do it twice a week. One is really all he needs but he will go for it a second time if he is in a decent mood. He is a shitty husband because he is as foreign to "intimacy" as he is to Mandarin Chinese. It leaves me awake at night desperate for attention. This isn't anything new, is it. Women like me have been bitching about this since the first caveman rolled over and let his new discovery of fire burn out leaving his cavewoman cold and alone wrapped in an elk pelt. I don't think wanting to be kissed more makes me a shitty wife. I am a shitty wife because I do more than complain about it. I accept a friend request from an asshole I can barely tolerate, take a two hour bath shaving every square millimeter of my nether regions, and head out to meet him.
I had no intention of sleeping with him but had let it play out in my head over and over with that exact result. I don't think that makes any sense but that's exactly what was going through my head as I drove to meet him.
I guess it's fair to say he was older. He shaved his hair down to stubble to hide the fact there wasn't much of it. He was softer around the middle. He was still an ass. He ordered a grilled chicken breast sandwich but then pestered the waitress about how it was prepared as if he were training for the Olympics. He insisted there was no mayo because it had too much fat but guzzled down three IPA's and smelled of beer when we were done. I had a burger and three glasses of acceptable house red.
One wall of the restaurant was a ceiling high mirror. It was there solely so that I would have to look myself in the eye as I contemplated cheating on my husband. I couldn't help but think my lipstick was too pink, my hair to poufy, and my eyes were desperately in need of some sort of collagen therapy. I looked good in the little white sundress. I again had skipped the bra. I would have had to wear a strapless one and they never looked right. They didn't prevent the droop enough to be worth it so I skipped it. I could see him staring at my nipples. It was up to him now. All he had to do was ask.
In my mind I imagined a hotel room. It didn't have to be a nice one. I had imagined him undressing me. I imagined being on top. I don't know why I wanted to be on top, I can get off in any position, from what I hear from my friends that's a gift. I did not imagine the parking garage, the back door of my minivan slid open as he fingered me. Sweat was pouring off of me. The front of the white dress was soaked through and was transparent. He didn't say anything when he swapped out his finger for his cock. He didn't use a condom. He just stuck it in and went to work.
I came before he did, thank god because when he was done, he was done. He kissed me. He was a good kisser. He waited for me to move to the driver's seat and drive away. It wasn't the worst.
My dress was a mess when I got home. The front was sweat stained and the back, well, it was stained too from where he dripped out of me as I drove home. It wasn't an expensive dress so I had no reason to try to save it. I used a fresh garbage bag and took it all the way out to the can before anyone was home. Brent texted me that afternoon. He thanked me for the best lunch he had had all week. I figured that was his version of a complement. I asked him where he at last week that was better. He sent me an LOL. Does anyone even say LOL anymore?
It took me a while to decide to go ahead and send the message but in the end, I sent it off anyway. I told him next week I wanted a hotel room and I wanted more than three minutes out of him. He replied promising to leave me walking funny.
