So there I was. Married, tired, overburdened, and enthusiastically greeting my new, uh, friend at his home.
It had been hard to part ways when I'd last seen him, and we kept saying goodbye, but continuing the conversation as people reluctant to part often do. We'd texted several times in the last five days and talked once. I showed up at his home, a prelude to going to lunch, expecting nothing, because I knew who I was.
I was older than he thought I was. I was still about ten years younger than he was. I hadn't dressed especially special. I had taken extra pains in preparing my body, but had told myself it was just regular grooming, which I shouldn't neglect.
He showed me around, and I admired his place greatly. We had a great rapport, easy conversation, the ability to joke with one another, and I was enjoying his company and his home. It was decorated in what I would call eclectic, both classic and kitsch, extravagant and minimalist. It was a classic Southern California 1920s-1930s bungalow, well-cared for, with dimly lit rooms and softly cool spaces, no need for air conditioning except on the hottest days.
Juan indicated his bedroom, and I was wowed. There were jewel-colored velvets and enormous dark wood furniture, plus his favorite pieces of Central and South American art. There was an outstanding nude photograph, black and white, very old, like maybe it was from the middle of the last century. There was also an enormous bed.
I turned to smile at him, trying to think of something to ask him because I suddenly found myself tongue-tied. That's when he leaned in and kissed me. Just like that.
He was gentle. He touched his lips to mine in the most careful, deliberately slow way, testing the waters. I felt voracious at that moment, but I didn't accelerate. I just concentrated on his touch, feeling him, for some long and lovely moments.
When I opened my mouth and took his tongue, it was warm and sweet, and still deliberately slow. I was frenzied when I was turned on, and this was both refreshing and excruciating. I wanted him. Now.
A part of my mind reminded me that I had never cheated on my husband, that I had a lot of commitments and responsibilities, that I didn't even have a condom on me. But my body was literally singing with want, a burning need that felt like hot chills running up and down the insides of my legs. I had missed that feeling. I hadn't had it in so many years, I'd almost forgotten.
I was angry with my husband. I knew that much. I was frustrated with him and his endless needs right now, how much I felt like I was stuck doing because he was trying to stay sober and find his health again. He had multiple appointments and obligations all week long, and I was trying to be patient with him and his focus on himself. We hadn't had sex in awhile; I had tried initiating it, and he'd been too uninterested or self-involved to participate. I knew he was still on porn sites on his iPad, when he was by himself (I wasn't checking on his iPad when he wasn't around; I had accidentally walked in on him a couple of times) so maybe it was me that gave him no inspiration. At least I knew, at some level, he was still interested in sex.
With Juan, there was no baggage. Or routine. It was all new, all of it beyond exciting. The new lover is always intriguing, as he is the undiscovered country. Plus, this was clandestine, my secret self, far removed from anyone who knew me. I could be who I chose to be, with Juan.
He was almost chaste at first, his hands on either side of my ribcage, holding me so carefully. When my hands began to roam his body, his fingers turned into claws, digging into my flesh. I pressed myself into his body, wanting to feel him with my whole being.
Juan picked me up and put me on his bed. I kicked off my shoes, and pulled him to me, kissing his neck, along his jaw, across his collar bone. He slowly moved into my body, both of us still mostly dressed, pressing himself down onto me.
I slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting my hands explore the muscles of his chest, his abdomen, then pushing the shirt off of his shoulders. He had a gold chain on, a beautiful contrast on his darker skin. He was also almost completely hairless.
He took over for a bit, gently pulling off my shirt, his fingertips tracing the place where my bra just barely covered my breasts. He found the top button of my jeans, and slowly opened them with one hand, then pushed them off of me.
For a brief second, when I was down to my underwear and he was down to his black jeans, I felt that twinge of remorse. I hadn't yet gone past the point of no return; I could still stop this, remain the faithful wife. This was infidelity. This was cheating.
But that isn't what I wanted, what I was burning for.
I pushed him over onto his back. I was in control of myself, my emotions, and my desire. What I did, I did for me, and me alone.
Slowly, like he had been slow, I began to kiss my way down his body, starting at the middle of his chest. I used my lips, my tongue, teasing and tasting, making my way to the top button of his jeans. He was hard as a rock, his erection pressing into the front of his jeans. I carefully unfastened those jeans (button fly, of course), then slowly moved them off of his body. He was wearing silk boxers – my heart melted. I was so used to the same old white briefs, the practical underwear, usually with a couple of choice holes or stains. He'd prepared himself as well...or maybe he was just always this sexy.
