The Seven Year Itch

I was six years into my marriage. We had two beautiful young children, an amazing home in the country, and seemingly a perfect marriage. And then it all fell apart.

Later, my husband and I would say we couldn't even remember what caused the break-up. We would laughingly blame it on a seven year itch. It wasn't my husband out trying chasing girls and buying sports cars. I was the one who was feeling the need to rebel against family, marriage, and my stable home life.

Six years of anything was a long time for me. It was longer than I'd gone to high school or college, and certainly longer than I had been in any serious relationship before this, but here I was with kids that would be in school for another 15 years, and a husband that I had promised to love, cherish and obey "til death did we part."

It was weighing heavily on me. I was feeling trapped and going crazy. Being somewhat high strung and blind to my own faults, I projected my impatience and unhappiness onto my husband. Nothing he could do was right in my eyes. I was a real bitch.

During our early separation, I found comfort in a man of my own age. I won't say much about him other than that he was wild, sexy and everything my husband hadn't been. (A list that, I later found out, included "faithful," and "mature" and "discrete" as he was none of those things.) But that infatuation was quick and then over.

A much greater challenge lay ahead that made me question my whole sexuality - at least for a while. Her name was Jessica - a woman I traveled with.

We were co-workers and occasionally roommates - the company we worked for being so frugal that they asked their employees to "double up" in hotel rooms after a day spent together in people filled tradeshow convention centers.

If you've ever worked a busy tradeshow, you know that at days end, a quiet hotel room, a little television, a warm shower and perhaps a nip from the self-service mini-bar and a joint if you have it are heaven. The idea of having to share a room and not being able to indulge these small things would usually be hell, but Jessie was different. I enjoyed her company - and she enjoyed mine.

We had traveled together for a few months when it happened - it being very late one night at a Marriot in Atlanta. We had a small balcony that overlooked the city. She had a few joints in her bag and I had aching sore feet. We sat out on the small balcony and lit up, and she reached out and massaged my tortured soles.

It was a simple gesture but it made the night electric.

Having grown up rather poor, my evening bedclothes have always been an oversize tee shirt and the days underwear. My blonde hair, bigger boobs and sloppy attire made us an odd couple. She was in a beautiful but simple nightgown, it being very feminine and almost see-through in places. Jessie was very thin, with chestnut hair and small boyish breasts.

She got up to refill our plastic wine glasses, and was a bit unsteady as she bent to pour my drink. I reached over to steady her as she reached across my body while pouring. From there she was in my lap, and we were kissing lightly, then passionately, and finally our embrace was almost carnal, hands roving to forbidden body parts and under areas clothing had concealed.

I know that it was I who made the move to go down on her. I was on my knees at her feet, my face in between her legs, which she had spread wide, there on the balcony on that summer evening in Atlanta. Down below she was nearly bald and quite beautiful, with small labia and a tight thin opening that could have belonged to a little girl half her age. I literally couldn't help making love to her with my mouth.

I didn't know if she had ever been with a woman before - but doubted it was the case for some reason, so as I nuzzled, kissed and licked her neatly shaved pussy I worried constantly that she would bolt. I held her thighs firmly in my hands as if it would prevent her from moving - though I am sure that if she had shown the slightest desire to flee I would have let her slip away.

She was at first as motionless as a statue - there spread wide in that evening heat. Slowly though, I heard her moan. The moan became a murmur of sweet words that spurred me on. At first the ever handy "oh god" then the more firm "eat me" and even "fuck me." Finally, I felt her hands on my head and then her body tighten as I brought her to orgasm. I felt so good then - so absolutely empowering.

She was quiet for a few moments. I pulled back, lowering the hem of her night dress and finally sitting back in my seat to sip my wine. She looked into my eyes, took my hand, then led me inside where she pushed me onto the bed and returned the gift that I had given her. Her own style was less hurried and more sensual - she spread me apart with her hands and used her fingers to rub my clit while her tongue danced between the lips of my pussy.

She was clearly more experienced at this. We ended up sharing 4 orgasms that night.

We shared a bed the rest of that trip, and then again for others - each time becoming bolder in our desire for each other. Once she came up behind me in the small conference room that was in our trade show display, reaching into my blouse to cup my breasts and kissing my ear. I returned the favor later by pulling her into a small storage area where I held her while I sat and she stood - my face near her sex and I nibbled there through the soft cloth of her skirt. We played with each other whenever we could - under tables a restaurants were favorites - and in the back seats of cabs we distracted more than a few drivers.

We visited an adult store one night and laughed together as we examined vibrators and double side dildos. (We didn't buy one.) One evening after a shared shower, she playfully put one finger in me, then three, and finally all of her small hand. (We never spoke of this - "fisting" as I later found out it was called - being something that even young ladies in love could not find room for in polite conversation.) It was totally adventurous.

At night we would ditch the endless evening company functions, going back into the room and falling into each other. We exchanged small rituals - her sitting me on the counter in the small bathroom where she would trim and shape my bikini area - me beginning each morning by helping her into her clothing after her shower - taking time to nibble and kiss her sensitive areas as I slipped on her bra, panties and hosiery. (I once completed a very naughty word written in hickeys on the inside of her thigh. She told me later it was delightfully painful.)

We shared evening showers, washed each others hair, and kissed each others poor sore feet at the end of each day spent standing in heels at events.

It was the end of a trip to Vegas, and we sat together overlooking a synthetic volcano as it erupted at the entrance to our hotel many stories below. We were nearly naked - having just gotten up from an almost violently passionate lovemaking session - but the glass panes were heavily tinted to keep out the desert glare so we stood brazenly in the window.

(We later found that were were probably quite visible for those that would care to look, though we were high up and at an angle to the volcano display.)

As we stood and touched each other, she began to cry softly and pulled me to the bed. She sat me down and told me that her boyfriend had asked her to marry him, and that she had accepted. I was at first devastated.

We talked throughout the night and the conversation reminded me of what I already knew. While I enjoyed Jesse's touch, and her smell, and the way she knew my body as her own, ultimately, we both knew that this was only a vacation for us. Our real destinies were elsewhere.

We made love once more. Softer that in the past with a tenderness that only two women together can do. It wasn't about the sex, it was about being close and knowing that we would not be again.

So Jessica married her man that fall. I returned to my husband a few months later. To clear the air, I told him of my nights with both the young man and with Jessica, and being a man, he was foolishly only jealous of one of the two infidelities - and the wrong one at that.

I am not sorry for the time I spent with Jessica, and do not feel guilty for it. I would repeat each evening given half a chance. But ultimately, the dreamlike quality of these times only reminded me that reality, for me, was a husband, kids and the home on the hill.