Up For Review:
The Think System (MF cheating, mast)
"If I told you I was a happily married woman, would you believe me?" I tried to see Bernard's face as the motel sign flickered through a crack in the curtain. Flashes of neon pink illuminated the room.
"No. I don't believe I would." His face was unemotional.
"Why?"
"Isn't it obvious, my dear?"
If he knew me, he would know how much I dislike being called dear. But he didn't know me.
"Do you mean to say you don't think I love my husband?"
"I'm sure you love him in a family sort of way - like the way one loves a favored pet."
"You barely know me. How can you be sure?"
"I'm fucking you my dear. It's a pretty substantial clue." His thrust added a much-needed exclamation point that the timbre of his voice was lacking. I let out a small gasp, surprised by his sudden burst of enthusiasm. It coincided with a spark of neon and the creak of an overused mattress.
Not exactly the lyrical sounds of passionate love. But it's what I wanted. Or so I thought an hour ago when I'd agreed to follow him here. It just wasn't turning out to be the quixotic liaison I'd imagined.
We met at the half-price bookstore. I was perusing the romance novels, reading the back covers and trying to decide what historical era I would like to escape to. Ethan and I had argued. Again. Our sex life had fizzled so when I'd found a set of satin sheets at a decent price, I'd bought them, thinking that red satin might spice up the boudoir. Ethan took one look at the sheets and flipped his lid. He'd called me irresponsible and refused to see past the sales slip to the possibility of romance. So I'd left the house in a tiff, set on making Ethan regret discounting my feelings. The bookstore was one of my favorite places to go and get lost for a while. I could pick out a book, sit in the attached cafe and lose myself in romance. My intent was to stay away for a time. Let Ethan stew. I hadn't intended on something as drastic as adultery.
Bernard accidentally bumped me on his way to the philosophy section. Just the idea of the philosophy section gave him the aura of a professor, or maybe it was his neatly trimmed goatee. He smelled faintly of cigar smoke and Old Spice. I immediately pictured him as the dreamy hero in one of my romance novels: a duke with a passion for reading, or a scholar with hidden machismo.
In our mutual attempt to retrieve my dropped book, our heads collided. He offered to buy me a cup of coffee as way of apology. I accepted.
"I don't usually drink coffee." I spoke hesitantly as if my words held the weight of a courtroom confession. He merely shrugged.
"Could that mean you have other ... vices." He leered at me over his cup with chocolate brown eyes, the same color as his coffee. His short, dark hair with touches of gray around his ears added to his professor mystique.
I tried to think of some deep secret I could share with him that would make me appear provocative. Unfortunately, I led a disgustingly tame life. "I'm afraid I don't smoke, rarely drink, and only say, "fuck" when I'm actually doing it."
He grinned and I felt a tiny bit exotic.
As we sat in silence, drinking our coffee, Bernard stared unblinkingly at me. It would be ideal if I could say he hypnotized me in those quiet moments - that his rich, dark eyes reached to my very soul and tugged. Then possibly I could be free from guilt; but I wasn't hypnotized, and his eyes were really rather ordinary.
"How would you like to explore your verbal usage of the word, fuck?" He asked it casually, as if asking for directions.
I teetered at the edge of refusing, knowing there was still opportunity to walk away when we left the bookstore, but the allure of doing something totally out of character was too strong.
I could feel my face flush as I answered, "I think I'd like that."
When he took my hand like a familiar lover, dry heat from holding a hot coffee mug seeped into my fingers like a caffienated aphrodisiac. I found it easy to follow him.
"I've never done this sort of thing before," I whispered.
"You can still say no." He squeezed my hand for reassurance. My wedding band pinched my finger and I wished I'd taken it off. I glanced down but continued to glide along beside him. Maybe I was a little hypnotized - not by him, but by the thrill of being found attractive again.
He led me across the street, past a blinking "Vacancy" sign. When he asked me to wait outside, I considered it gallant.
"No reason for you to suffer embarrassment at the signing in," he offered.
I simply nodded.
I considered the possibility that someone might see me, but chose to deal with it like a three-year-old child - if I didn't see them, they couldn't see me. So I kept my eyes locked on the door of the motel.
When Bernard emerged from the tiny office, jangling a room key, lyrics from "The Music Man" popped into my head. (There were bells all around, but I couldn't hear them ringing.) I imagined him signing the book "Professor Hill" and calling me Madam Librarian. It made me smile.
The room was dank and smelled of mildew. Peeling wallpaper did its best to hide the poorly plastered walls beneath it. In another place, another time, with my familiar man, I might have slung open the curtains to allow the late day sun to brighten the built up gloom, but the ambiance seemed fitting. So I stood, waiting to close the door as he fumbled with the lamp.
And now here I was, recumbent under his soft, pudgy body that his clothes had worked wonders to hide. His diligence toward fucking could be compared to a housewife reading the Wall Street Journal. He barely broke a sweat, and his shoes and socks were still on. I tried to muster up some passion, but thanks to the ceiling mirrors, my view of his clenching, naked ass atop spindly legs struck me as down right funny. Apparently, I'd found the one man left in the world under the age of sixty who still wore gartered socks. And I giggled.
"You s-sound am-mused, m-my dear." Bernard's stuttering was rewarding. It showed a small crack in the veneer of passivity he was trying to pass off as wild abandon.
"Did you know the ceiling is covered in mirrors?" I asked.
"I hadn't noticed." He cocked his head back to look up. "Kind of kinky, isn't it?"
Apparently, it was all Bernard's lounging libido needed. His hips began to jackhammer - rapid, short jabs, causing coffee to slosh around in my stomach looking for a way out. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I tried to remember what I'd found alluring about him. The cigar smell suddenly seemed bitter instead of enticing. His brown eyes were more like muddy water than rich, deep coffee. All the dukes in my historical romances were smooth, robust lovers, and the scholars were tender and attentive. Bernard had the sexual expertise of a rutting pig.
He continued to piston on top of me. Our skin slapping together like the clang of cymbals, only off tempo. I opened my eyes again and watched the scene in the mirror. Was that really me? It was my body, no question. I could see the three freckles on my right shin. And the smallish hands, professionally manicured, also belonging to me, flittering along Bernard's back.
"I'm going to come, my dear." His voice was back to the professor, teaching his Philosophy 101 students. If I was waiting for seventy-six trombones to lead the big parade, I was out of luck. He could have just as easily been lecturing me on formal logic. His body tensed and I felt three quick spasms from within his condom-clad penis. He fell over to the bed, sprawled face-up. I caught his eye in the mirror above and he winked.
"That was lovely, my dear. Thank you."
I suppose if I compared it to being stuck inside a washing machine on heavy cycle, then it was lovely, but I couldn't think of any sexual frame of reference that would align what I'd just experienced with "lovely."
In what seemed like milliseconds, Bernard was snoring. His mouth was slack and his paunchy belly fluttered with each exhalation. The condom crinkled like an accordion as his penis shriveled inside of it.
I lay motionless, staring at myself in the mirror. Oh yes, it was me. My hair was mussed, but it was still the shoulder-length blond as before. My breasts bulged above the black lace of my bra, jostled from position. My thighs were covered in red blotches from the jackhammering and remained slightly apart.
I reached to cover my exposed pubis and felt the cool gel of lubricant from Bernard's condom. It was such a contrast to the warm stickiness I was used to when I had sex with Ethan. The thought of Ethan stabbed at my gut and my eyes blurred. I blinked a couple of times and was able to focus. I looked at the reflection of Bernard and me. The coupling we'd just completed hadn't been arousing, but I found something increasingly erotic about the woman staring back at me.
I watched her legs open further and saw glimpses of shiny, pink flesh surrounded by light, curly pubic hair. I watched as mauve tipped fingers dug between puffy labia and separated the lips to expose the clitoral bud. I saw her hips rotate and rise slightly from the bed as her fingers brushed over the clitoris and disappeared deep within.
I shifted my eyes to see her other hand yank at her bra and let her tit pop completely free from the black lace. I willed her fingers to pinch the hardening nipple, and watched as they complied. My heart raced when they proceeded to maul the entire breast.
I glanced again at her hand making slow, revolutions over her widespread pussy. My eyes batted shut, and I was lost in the feelings watching her evoked. She was provocative. She was seductive. And she was me!
The cool lubricant pooled with feminine oil as my fingers trailed the path between clitoris and cunt. I sucked in air, gasping and climbing toward the peak. I forced my eyes open again to watch. Bernard was awake and was staring at me. I didn't care. I slid my hand from my breast down over my belly and held it above my womb. It became a puissant magnet, pulling the orgasm out of me. I saw my mouth form the word as I felt the eruption shatter through me.
"FUUCCKK!"
My legs slammed shut and I held my fingers in place, clenched between the folds, absorbing the aftershocks. I thought I might hyperventilate in the quiet until Bernard broke it.
"Wow! That was amazing, my dear." He sounded incredulous.
I tried to ignore him.
"I've never watched a woman masturbate before."
I wasn't surprised. I looked at Bernard once again in the mirror. His cock had extended again but the condom had slipped off. It pouched on his groin like a boil. And I had the sudden urge to get out of there. I jumped up from the bed and gathered my clothes.
"You're not leaving, my dear?" He whined.
I nodded.
"But after that little show I need more." Bernard's penis bobbed in agreement.
I stood still as realization blossomed in my brain. I hadn't lost my sensuality. I was still the same woman I had always been. And I was sexy!
"That's funny," I said with a smile, "I suddenly feel like I don't need anything else."
I adjusted my bra, slipped on my jeans, and pulled my shirt over my head. As I turned to leave, Bernard sat up on the edge of the bed.
"B-But I don't even know your name." As he hesitated, I could see his mind scrambling, trying to remember if that were true. I'd told him my name was Lori, back at the bookstore.
"My name? My name is ... Marian." And with that I walked out the door.