She was pacing again. Up and down the hall. Like an irritated feline, just looking for something to pounce. I wanted to say something. Anything to make it all better. But I didn't. I just sat on the couch and watched her burn a track in the carpet.
Truth was, she didn't deserve my kindness. I was tired of her pacing. Tired of all the faux aggravation. She could get over it, if she only tried. Life isn't fair, we both knew that. There wasn't anything to be done about our situation. It wasn't like she entered into things with eyes closed.
I told her when we met that I was married. He was a kind man. Some would even call him gentle. And I was the bastard for cheating. He was an ignorant bystander. That 'was' could only be referenced in the past tense. He was no longer ignorant.
She didn't deserve to pace. There was no right in her anger. She made it happen, when she broke the rules. It was her decision to meddle. Her decision to call him up and have a conversation. She was the stupid one to think he'd leave. He wasn't the kind of man to give up without a fight.
He surprised me. First he turned into a little boy and then he surprised me. The crying wasn't a surprise. For days I watched him sneak around and listened to his private tears. At first he hid in the bathroom and then the closet. The more he hid, the more I heard. I was the one that had to force a scene. And I was the one that let him hit me.
I hit him first. Many times I hit him. My face stung for a minute after he struck me, but he was left with huge bruises all over his torso. I know he hit me, but only after I beat him. The violence worked. It brought him out of his shock and gave him a voice.
He said awful, terrible thing. All of which I deserved. He called me names I never would have expected. My gentle man was still a man. He wouldn't be castrated, not without a fight. And when he left, I knew he would return, because there were words left unsaid. There were words he didn't know to say yet.
An hour later he walked into our bedroom and made his only demand. He loved me and he wasn't going to stop my indiscretion. I wasn't one to be stopped and he knew that. But if I got cake, then he deserved a taste. If not with her, then someone else. He deserved every man's fantasy.
The idea didn't bother me. Quite the contrary. I found the idea exciting. Wasn't that half the fun of cheating? The deviant in me got off on escapades into the perverse. I loved her and I loved him and I was willing to share. And what a way to repair the damage? Sounded like more cake for me.
She, on the other hand, was not willing. She didn't want to share. And the idea of me seeking other partners was worse than the idea that I wasn't going to be hers alone. I flirted with the idea of letting her go. She could be such a hassle, with all her drama and demands, but she had yet to force my hand.
I wasn't sure the thing with her would last much past the repair of my marriage. I wasn't sure I wanted it to last. To my great surprise, my husband liked the idea of exploring our options. He didn't want divorce. Neither of us wanted that. Wasn't that the reason I cheated in the first place? I wanted to keep my marraige, so I hid from him the things I thought he couldn't handle.
I was not a woman hard up for attention. There were plenty of chances for me to move on. I could divorce and still live the lifestyle I wished. But he was a rare breed. He was a kind man and kind men are hard to find. He let me be myself and lived happily with my eccentricities.
She wasn't nearly as understanding. The love she gave me was full of conditions. With my marriage still in the picture, there were only so many demands she could make. That's why she meddled in the first place. But since my marriage wasn't going anywhere, she had to shit or get off the pot.
I watched her walk away from me and then stomp back. There was something spectacular about her. That's why I kept her around for so long. Men call me curvaceous. I'm sexy, but in a plump way. My breasts are large, my waist thin, and my hips ready for the grabbing. But she was something else altogether. She was lean and long. So much feline that I often call her kitty.
As she paced, I could just imagine a tail swishing to the beat of her aggravation. She liked to wear track clothes around the house. The butch in her loved the tight lines of sportswear. The black sweats hung low on her hips and the jogging bra held her breasts tight.
It was a struggle to get those close from her body. I had to peel them off. They loved to tangle, only furthering my frenzy. She liked to fuck after she ran and the sweat only made her clothes more determined. In moments I could be out of my clothes and I'd find myself bathed in her sweat as I tried to reveal her beautiful body.
Thinking about fucking made me wet. And odd combination, my frustration and lust. There was something primeval, even violent with my relationship with her. I suppose she satisfied the other side of me. My husband was there for comfort and security. She was there to satisfy my perverse lust.
Not that I didn't love fucking my husband. I stumbled on my thoughts. Not fucking, really. I never thought about it before but when I think of sex with my husband I call it making love. Women raised him and I often think he understands women better than they understand themselves. Fucking her is frenzied. When he makes love to me, it's long and slow and multiply orgasmic.
"I won't do it." She says.
I look up, still lost in my own thoughts, and smile absentmindedly.
"Don't be smug." She tells me and stomps from the room.
I sigh. I was thinking about sex, not about her. She's slamming drawers in the kitchen. I roll my eyes and get up. Time to face the music.
"I have to find someone else." I tell her, standing calmly in the kitchen doorway.
"No." She says, slamming a pan on the stovetop. "You're not doing it."
"You can't-"
"Is he really worth it?" She interrupts, reeling around to face me. "Is he worth loosing me?"
I can't help feeling a little disappointed. I was hoping it didn't have to go this way. I wait for a second. My head races, trying to find other words than the ones on my tongue. I sigh and know that there are no other words.
"I'm sorry it has to end like this."
She stops her angry dance. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes are full of confusion. Then she steps back and shakes her head.
"No." She folds her arms. "You're not leaving me for your husband."
It has to be said. The ugly words that will end it all. But it does stop me from hating myself as I say them.
"I was never yours."
"Oh." The syllable is angry and full of the rage on her tight face. "Fuck you."
"He's my husband. And this was an affair."
"Get out!" She screams. "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE AND DON'T YOU EVER..."
I don't hear the rest of it. I've already made my way to my car and I'm closing the door. Yesterday I talked to my friend at work. She likes to flirt with me. I asked her if she'd ever considered being in a three way. She smiled and asked if my cute husband was the third. It was only flirt talking but I knew the look in her eyes.
It'll only take a little push and she'll be in. And my husband will get what's coming to him. As I drive away, I feel a moment of regret. I wonder what kind of asshole I am. I shift into fourth gear and the regret is gone.
I have a three way to orchestrate and no time for remorse.
The End.
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