I lay back in our bed, still overcome from thinking about our encounter with Ray. Susan has left for work, and I stayed in bed, stroking my cock and remembering how she showed her body to this stranger in a hotel, and thinking of the moment that she went back out to the hot tub to ask him for that drink. That image of how she dropped her towel in front of him, that moment, her choice to drop her towel, makes me cum harder and more intensely than I have for years. I am remembering my wife, naked in front of this strange man, how drunk and exited she was, his eyes roving over her beautiful body, and I find that I am just as confused and excited as I was in that moment.
I try to shake it off. I get out of bed, wipe the cum off my belly with my t-shirt, throw the shirt in the hamper, and walk over to the bathroom. I run a hot shower, and stand under it, thinking about getting back to work. Susan must be at her real estate office by now, getting ready to meet her clients, and I have work too, writing a grant for a non-profit that is trying to reclaim wetlands from a sea of Midwestern corn and soybeans.
I let the water run, trying to get my mind on my day ahead. I turn the heat up until it is almost scalding, as if I could wash the memory of Ray's intense eyes looking at my wife off my skin. I get dressed in jeans and a crisp t-shirt, and with my hair still wet, go to the kitchen to make coffee and start working.
With a cup of hot black coffee at my side, I sit down at the kitchen table where I work and open my laptop computer. The google search screen greets my eyes as it does every morning. I take a long drink of the hot coffee, hoping it will clear my mind, but instead a series of images flash before my eyes. Susan in her bra and panties, pulling herself up out of the hot tub, the white cotton translucent, the steaming water running down her skin. Ray, looking at her, and then at me. Peaking through the curtain of our hotel room as Susan walks back out to the hot tub, after I have asked her to go to Ray and ask for another drink, and then drop her towel in front of him. Susan underneath me, just after she returned naked to our room, the taste of vodka on her mouth, vodka Ray gave her, and how she drunkenly admitted to me she wanted Ray to touch her even though she did not invite him to and he did not try. Imagining his voice, as she is standing naked in front of him, a glass of vodka in each hand, her whole body exposed, as he looked her up and down and told her that he wished she was his wife.
My hand are almost shaking as I put down the coffee and begin to type. r-a-y . . . if only I could remember his last name. Ray, something, it began with the same letter, had almost a ring to it, as if it were a made up name in a movie, and what was it that kept him on the road? Some sort of sales or something . . . I try to think back into that drunken night, to see past the images that are seared into my brain and think. And then suddenly, as if the memory isn't in my mind at all, but comes from outside me somewhere, my fingers move on their own, R-A-Y-M-O-N-D R-O-C-H-E-S-T-E-R C-O-N-S-U-L-T-I-N-G, they type. I see the cursor blinking at me, and I press the enter key.
His website is the first hit on google, and I click it, almost holding my breath. A simple page with his name and contact information. There is a small head shot, in which he wears wears a jacket and tie, his intense eyes unmistakable. The same eyes that saw so much of Susan, and that saw me watching him watch her. And, below, his name, his email address, a street address that I immediately suspect is his home, a phone number, fax number, and just below that, his cell phone. I swallow hard, and drink more of the coffee, staring at the screen, feeling almost paralyzed by the cell phone number, which almost seems to glow as I think about what it might mean to dial those numbers.
I pick up my cell phone, and even as I do so, I know that I shouldn't. That at the very least I should talk with Susan about it, slowly, see how she feels about it. We did not talk about what happened. Both of us waking the next morning as if we had gone to bed early, somehow knowing that we must close the lid on Pandora's box and keep our marriage as it is. We have gone on as if it never happened, living together, sleeping in the same bed, moving past one another's bodies the same way we move past the decade old furniture in our house. Though we never made a conscious decision not to talk about it, we both silently decided together that somehow what happened was a mistake, a drunken indiscretion to be forgotten in the sober light of the morning.
Looking down at my cell phone, I know somehow that if I asked Susan, we would talk, and she would wisely say no. She would explain that we were not kids anymore, that what happened with Ray was exciting, but that sex was only a small part of life, and that we had jobs to do, and money to save, and maybe a child in a year or two. That we needed stability, and not all the potentials of jealously, uncertainly, and all the risks of strange sex in our life. That we are not a couple of college kids anymore, even if we acted like it on a weird, drunken night far from home. I hesitate, thinking of all this, knowing it as certainly as I have ever known anything in my life.
And yet, I know too that underneath that reserve, there was something else that I glimpsed, something that I want to see again, something I need, that I am craving, something that will carry her away, that will turn her into a different kind of woman, the woman that is now seared onto my brain, my skin, my cock, this other Susan. And I know that I can never bring out this other Susan alone. To not act is to let that Susan go, probably forever. As I admit that to myself, my hands shake, and I feel my cock start to throb, and I slowly dial Ray's number.
I press the phone to my ear, and I hear it ringing. I count, one . . .two . . . I think I should put the phone down. . . three. . . .that I am being crazy. . . four. . . that I am betraying my wife Susan to this other Susan, almost like I am cheating on her with her some else, her best friend or her sister. . . five. . . and just as I pull the phone away from my ear, I hear on a click and a strong voice, "Ray Rochester," he says, expectantly.
I freeze.
"Hello?" he says.
"Hi," I say, hesitantly, softly.
"Hello. Can I help you?" he says, gently.
"Ray, um, this is a little odd, I met you a few weeks ago," my voice trails off. I don't know how to begin.
"Where did we meet?" he asks.
"Well, its a bit awkward to say it, but. . um. . . I met you at a little hotel, just after Christmas, on the road . . .with. . . with. . . my. . w. . . .wife," I admit.
"Well. . .hello, he says," his voice warmer now, more intense suddenly, as if he had suddenly come closer. "Yes, I remember. Her name was Susan, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Susan," I whisper, feeling as if I am betraying her just by saying her name to him.
"Yes, I remember, and your name was?"
"James," I say, a little more confidently, settling my nerves a little. He doesn't speak right away.
"Well James, it is very nice to hear from you, and I very much enjoyed sharing a drink with you and Susan."
"Yes, I enjoyed it too," I reply. I pause, and neither of us say anything for a moment.
"So . . . " he says warmly, slowly, "how are you James?"
"Well, I say, I'm not sure." I just admit it. I'm confused, the images of Susan and Ray flash though my mind again, I'm shaking, my pulse racing, and my cock is as hard as it has ever been. "I'm just a little confused," I tell Ray.
"I see, " he says. "I can imagine that you are, really. Was that the first time something like that happened to you two?"
"Yes," I tell him.
"Well, something like that can be very intense. How long have you and Susan been married?"
"This will be the start of eleven years together," I say.
"That's very good James," he says. "I'm sure that married to a beautiful and intelligent woman like Susan, well, that you want to stay very happy with her."
"Yes, that's true," I agree.
"Tell me about how that night was for you," his voice is warm, deep, and firm. A command.
"It was. . .well, very exciting, we never did anything like that. We almost just went back to the room when you came, but then you had that vodka, and , well, one thing led to another," I explain to him.
"I see, and that makes sense," he says. "And you enjoyed it?"
"Yes, I. . . I even suggested that she go back out to you, and . . . an. . . and ask you for those two last drinks," I say.
"I see," he replies. "And did you tell her what to wear," his voice is even deeper, his breathing on the phone suddenly audible.
"I, yes, I asked her to put on just the towel," I admit.
"And was it her idea to drop it, or did you ask her to do that, too," he asks.
"I asked her to," I say.
"Mmmmmm, I see. That is good James, I'm glad you called me."
"Thanks for talking to me," I say to Ray. "I'm happy you remembered us. I've been thinking about what happened quite a bit. "
"I have too, James," he says warmly.
"Really?" I ask.
"Yes. Susan is a very beautiful woman."
"Yes, she is," I agree.
"Can I ask you something, James?"
"Of course," I say.
"Does Susan know you have called me?"
"No," I admit.
