"Touched Down Deep"
Or
"The Smiths Family Return, Part I"
Elaine stood on the front porch of her suburban home, searching the darkness around her for the glim of a cigarette. Of course, none was to be found. That would be typical for things in her life here lately.
Sighing, she leaned against the railing, hating herself for wanting one in the first place. She had quit years ago, before her first pregnancy, and then again after having take up the habit again for awhile after the twins were born. At the time, it had helped ease the stress of reentry into the job market, and formed the basis of a connection with some of the younger women she worked, and competed, with. David, her husband of 19 years had finally gotten enough, and launched a covert campaign in concert with the four kids.
Cigarettes had disappeared to be replaced with gum and the patch, the lighter thingy in her car was abducted, magazines left open to anti-smoking adds, and pictures of smokers lungs placed in her purse had all be tactics they used in their guerrilla war against the cancer stick, as they called it.
But wasn't it his fault that she wanted one, she thought? Yeah, with her eyes still closed she could rationalize it that way. It was all his fault, she thought as she squeezed her legs, still feeling the heat.
It had started several month ago, when David had asked if anything was wrong. She could not place it really, but she knew she was in some kind of rut. But at age 40, with your oldest about to turn 16, and with all that meant for teenage boys, and with a 14 year old, and two 6 year olds, plus two dogs, three cats, a turtle, a ferret, and two birds, plus a husband who worked to much, and a job that took to much time as well, who would not be?
Several days later, her husband had come home with several pizzas and two rented videos, placed the kids infront of the TV, and taken her out to dinner. There he had announced that he had given up golf, sold all his equipment, and registered her for a class at the local community college.
"What class?" That had been the only response she could muster in her stunned state, as he pushed the course catalog across the table.
"Literature 420. I remember before Sarah was born, you wanted to take that poetry course, but the pregnancy got in the way. So I decided I would sign you up for it."
That night they had made love, not the perfunctory sex that seemed to be part of the relationship ritual after all these years.
So she had gone to class two nights a week, and enjoyed it so much that she signed up for the follow on course. There she had meet Andre.
Andre was, of course, French. A recent immigrant to what he called "the nation of fitness," he was a had chocolate brown eyes, black hair, a body to die for, and was a out of work fitness trainer.
After getting him a job at her Y, he was ever grateful, and very attentive during her random workout sessions. Just one more thing she did not really have time for. They had become study partners, often sitting in one of the coffee houses off campus after class, reading poetry, and flirting.
Eventually the sideways glances she had not experienced since college had given way to slight touches, and heavier flirting, which lead to poems written for one another, and not-so-hidden hugs when they saw each other. He sometimes would add what he called the "customary" kiss on her cheek, leaving her feeling hot and flushed.
One night their tongues had danced in what she thought was her most passionate kiss ever, after he read a poem she had written, his intonation and inflection bringing out parts she did not even know were there. He replied with a poem describing very explicitly, yet sensually what his tongue would do to her. It made her wet just to think about the things he had said.
They had studied together for the final they had taken tonight, and gone out with much of the class afterwards to celebrate the end of it, and the experience it had been.
She had no idea how much she had to drink, but he had bought a bottle of wine at the bar, and then they had polished off half of another one at his apartment. He had read her another poem, "written just for you," and before she knew it, she was in his lap, tongues dancing back and forth, his hand everywhere.
Her next conscious memory was of clothes flying everywhere, and the heat of his lips on her skin, roving her like a dog marking territory. And she was in heat. He had lifted her in his strong arms, his teeth nibbling and suckling on her nipples as he carried her into the bedroom.
She figured he had planned this, from the candle light dancing on the sparse walls, and the cool, crisp, fresh sheets. His hands took over on her full breasts, as the heat and moisture of his tongue headed south, finding her lips and pushing past them to find her clit.
It felt like forever, but was probably only seconds that it took him to tease it out from under its hood, and become gorged with blood. Wrapping his tongue around it, he sucked, licked, flicked, nibbled, and teased it, until the soft shock of her first orgasm of the night had shot through her.
Closing her eyes, she surrendered herself to the sureality of the situation, hands grasping the sheets for support as he drank her juices and continued to pleasure her with his mouth.
One hand had abandoned her tit, tracing the skin on her tummy to her ass, squeezing it, before a finger had pushed into her. Along with his tongue, the motion had been a soft seesawing of in and out, stimulating her clit and labia in a explosion of sensation.
The next orgasm raced through her blood like electric current, as he pushed his finger all the way into her, touching her G-spot, and brought her back to reality.
Pushing him of her body, and grabbing her clothes, she had raced out of his apartment before she had time to think about having second thoughts about her second thoughts.
The drive back had been a emotional roller coaster, as she battled with herself to turn around, continue home, or find the closest bar, and get totally drunk. The first seemed appealing, as Andre had described the things he would do to her, if she only let him, those dark eyes imploring her to let him, just let him.
"What is wrong with me?" Cheating, she knew, was totally normal. The girls in her office talked about it the same way they talked about what color shoes was now in. there was wide and varied reason, and she could fit most of those criteria.
Lack of sex in her marriage? Check. It was not even that there was to little of it. It was simply that it had become routine, perfunctory, and unexciting. Like probably all women at her age, she wondered if she was still attractive to her husband, but then again, if a the young Frenchman wanted her, should that not parlay her fears?
Of course, some of the older women often spoke of a desire to do something for themselves as a reason to cheat. To have something away from husband, family, obligation, something free and independent. She sighed once more, then turned and walked into the house.
The living room was dark, except for the flicker of the TV, some announcer on MSNBC explaining the market moves just before closing, and what they meant, since tomorrow would be a holiday, and no more trading until Monday.
She stood, looking at the scene before her in the twilight of the flashing numbers and talking heads. Her husband was sprawled across the couch, his body taking the entire length of the leather furnishing, the TV reflecting back in wild distortion on his balding head, glimmering in his graying hair.
The twins had curled up atop their father, and his arms held them to him in the way that a father will invariably protect his youngest daughters, especially in the stages of young childhood. Sarah, their oldest daughter was laying atop the whole display, her head between her two younger sisters. Atop the back of the couch, her two cats had made themselves at home, while the floor had become the refuge for three of four blankets, atop which the dogs, the ferret, and her son had bedded down for the night. She was sure that Hamlet, the ferret, and Rookie, their giant lab, provided enough warmth for John.
