I called Mark on my way home but he didn't answer. It was only after I went through a traffic light that I realized it was red. Slowing down was difficult; I watched the speedometer tick down until I was only doing 10 above the speed-limit.
He waited for me on the couch. A baseball game was on, volume low, and he held a glass of whiskey in one hand.
Mark's eyes met my own when I locked the front door. We studied each another. His eyes traveled down my body, and swept back up to my face.
"Was yoga fun?" he asked, breaking the silence. He didn't ask what I expected—like, "where the hell have you been?!"— and it shook me.
I pasted on a smile and sat down next to him. "Not really, but I made a new friend. We went out to the bar a few blocks away and I lost track of time." I leant over and kissed him. "Sorry," I whispered against his lips. "I should have called."
"It was dickish of you."
He was letting me off the hook. He knew I was lying; he knew me probably better than anyone.
Something tugged at my heart. I swallowed and touched his jaw. His dark eyes stared down at me, fathomless and omniscient. When they stared too hard at me, I pulled away and got up, him following me at the heels.
We went upstairs and I rushed into the bathroom, desperate for privacy and a long, scalding shower. I stood under the water, letting the spray fall over my body. I intentionally blocked out all thought, focusing instead on the tiles in front of me. Darkness would creep back into my consciousness, however. My flesh intwined with Luke's came back in flashes. I swore I could smell his cologne on me.
Then I saw the hickey on my breast. I didn't know what to do, so I scrubbed it with soap until the entire expanse of skin was raw and red. The bruise was already blue, and there was a hint of teeth pressed into it. I rushed out of the shower and lathered lotion on the skin. It was an angry, stubborn mark, an emblem of my betrayal. I'd joked about cum on my breasts representing a symbol of my carnal success, a proud badge I wore showing my slutty accomplishment; now my hickey burned as red as Hester's letter.
I pulled out concealer and did my best to cover it. I rehearsed what I'd say to Mark if he probed into my story further. I tried not to imagine what would happen if he found out, if he somehow knew. I'd never been a good liar.
Eventually I came out into the bedroom with my robe tightly wrapped around me. Mark was there in his boxers, turning down the covers. He looked at me closely, searching for something.
I reached over and turned off the lights.
***********************
The next morning Mark left without waking me up. I rose at noon, disoriented and sore from the night before. A peek at my breast left me anxious; the mark was still there.
Like a robot, I went downstairs and made coffee. I looked around the house, wondering if there was anything to clean up. The maid typically came on Saturdays, yet everything was spotless, per usual. But I was desperate to distract myself, and fought every selfish instinct to run back to Luke.
Would we fuck right away? Would I receive a new hickey on my other breast, one that would also arouse mixed emotions of pleasure and shame? I chose not to go down that road. We had our moment, and we got each other out of our systems.
It was better not to wonder why I still fantasized about the expanse of his back, the dips of skin between his bones, the one side of his smile that curved higher than the other.
So I went shopping. I bought a new Chanel bag and an obscene amount of pricey makeup. A gorgeous ruby ring called to me and I purchased it without even looking at the price. Store and store blended together, and the only thing I was conscious of was the process of swiping my credit card.
But cleaning my bank account wouldn't absolve me of my filthy past.
I sat and tried to think who I could call, who could distract me or dissuade me from ruining my life. It was heartbreaking to realize I didn't have a genuine friend left in the world. I'd abandoned my past when I married. I only socialized with the Stepford Wives, and our relationships couldn't possibly have been more superficial. And how could I confess to them, of all people?
There was David, but he was at work and I didn't know how he'd take my discretion. Affairs were an accepted part of our world; affairs with husbands' coworkers or wives' friends were inconceivable.
It was nearly two in the afternoon when I couldn't find any other excuse to be a good person.
I knocked on the door and he opened it, not looking at all surprised. He didn't look annoyed I was late, either. He wore black silk boxers, which I found tacky and pretentious, but he didn't give me a chance to make fun of him.
He kissed me right there, right in the hall where anyone could see. The sound of a door slamming in the distance registered somewhere in the back of my lust-fogged mind but I didn't care. His hands immediately came to my breasts, hidden beneath the loose dress I wore. He groaned into my mouth when he found me braless.
Wordlessly he pulled away and took me by the hand, dragging me into the darkness of the room.
********
I wish I could say I remembered anything more than us merging together in silence, Luke filling me as expertly and roughly as if he'd done it a million times. I wish even more that I could say we shared love-drenched declarations, or waxed on about great literature, or even said anything that meant a damn.
The truth is we fucked. Purely and simply, primally and needfully. Over and over again, I took him in my mouth or he fucked me from behind. He loved me on top, grinding and using his cock to come. When I screamed I was too tired and went to take a shower, he stalked after me not five minutes later and entered me before I could protest. And I didn't want to protest, anyway.
We dozed for a while. I asked him about another tattoo on his back, a swirling dark wing; belonging to what being, I couldn't determine. Something he got with a bunch of his friends, he said, but he didn't explain any further. His fingers trailed the length of a scar on my leg.
"How'd you get this?" he asked, kissing it.
I fanned my hair out on the pillow and pulled the covers up over our heads, so that we were inside our own cloth cocoon.
"I fell off my bike."
He smiled against my thigh. "Really? I thought you said you didn't know how to ride a bike."
"I don't. My dad tried to teach me but I kept falling, and he got impatient... and I tried to do it by myself and fell. My mom screamed at my dad the whole time we waited in the ER."
His hands slid up my legs and he pushed his body up so I could just feel the faint whisper of his breathing against my pussy. "Your parents were abusive?"
"No," I moaned. I cleared my throat. "No. They were just normal parents. They fucked me up as much as any parents do."
"Have you heard of my father?"
I remembered the gossip when he first came to dinner. An influential man, supposedly, though I didn't recognize the name. I didn't know much about the names of people who hadn't always been in my circle. "Yes. You've barely mentioned him, though."
"He's not worth mentioning. He fucked me up much more than the average father does. I'm like him in a lot of ways, though."
My fingers ran through his hair and his scruffy cheek nuzzled my hip.
"I don't think I've called my parents in at least two months. Maybe more. I'm a bad daughter."
And a bad wife, I thought to myself.
He kissed me right on my clit and my legs flexed, grabbing hold to one of his. He exhaled in a slow, hot puff. I could literally feel the wetness seep from me. The need for him was desperate and inexplicable, and all I thought was more. More, more, more. I'd die with that word on my lips if it meant his were on me, touching me anywhere.
The desire was embarrassing. I'd never wanted a man like this, and if I had, he certainly was never made aware of it. I'd had my boyfriends in high school, and they pursued me. If I really liked them, I ignored them. I made them work for it, because men never want what's easy. Not for long, anyway. What they say is true: it worked. They sent me flowers (this went on as early as when we were thirteen). They called the house, or they waited for me at the end of the hallways at school. They groveled on their knees, and I loved every minute of it. I was Woman, and I fucking roared.
To know now that this was what it felt like for them was... humbling. Luke was a blurry shape to me; the lines of his personality were barely defined. I didn't know if he could play chess, or if he liked any of the books I did, or if he even tipped waiters well. To find him during this part of my life was torment because my life was already written.
He was someone I was actually myself with, and that was horrific and shattering for me because then he could truly hurt me. All my life I was a stereotype, and how I loved it! Blonde, busty and bitchy. It wasn't who it was, but I let it be what I was. Men idealized me and that was all swell. I played coy with the men that liked that; I was domineering with the men who liked a challenge.
Now I was in bed with a man I didn't know at all, who was this strange dichotomy of rich and poor, of kind and cruel to the point he was fucking his partner's wife, of surprisingly soft and devastatingly hard. Everyone had to be human, I supposed. Everyone possessed shadows that held all of the things they were, they could be, they wished to be, that they failed being. Everybody was really a shapeless drawing on a blank white page. Weren't we told time and time again in life that no one was really as you thought them to be? That the human mind was far more creative, far kinder or sicker, than reality? Christ, even what we see every day is inverted in some complicated process in our eyes. We see the world upside down. And who fucking cares? We seek meaning, anyway.
I couldn't add up the pieces of Luke I held. Who was this man? And why did I want him so badly? Maybe because he was in control, I decided. For the first time someone owned me, and not the other way around, and it was maddening and addicting. He controlled me.
He moved up my body and pressed his cock against me. "You look upset."
"I'm not upset."
Luke smiled and kissed my chin. "You're a terrible liar. What's wrong?"
My hands touched his ass and pulled him closer to me. The proximity of his cock was torture, but it was the kind of torture a person loves. Like when you poke a bruise, or run your finger over a cut, just to make sure it still hurts. I wanted him, but I wanted More. I knew I wanted more even before we were finished. The wanting was unbearable.
Maybe he saw that naked desire in my eyes, because he stopped asking and just pushed inside.
His mouth found my throat. "You like this."
It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. There would be no point in denying, or attempting to be shy about it. The terror in my heart whispered I wanted this and liked this more than he did. He maintained in control. His black eyes still spoke no secrets. His mouth opened only when he felt it should.
I caressed the tattoo on his back and wondered just who was fucking me, just who I was throwing my life away for. And if it mattered.
He sped up and I stopped thinking. He pushed back so he could watch himself enter me in one dive, and pull out in a regretful slide.
"It's so hot to see you sucking on me even as I pull out," he sighed. It pleased me that he sounded as if some of the cautious control he held slipped.
