"I Never" Without the Drinking Part

Lover says I don’t cheat on my wife and defines cheating as putting his fingers inside me, instead of just on me, around me, over the place between my legs. He won’t kiss me on the mouth, or with his mouth open, but he presses his pelvis against me in the bed we shared with Beautiful Girl, the next morning meets my eyes and then jumps back and away when she emerges from the shower. Adultery’s in the heart, I think. Eventually there is divorce, the laws of Big City tangled and slow, the division of property tedious and time-consuming, the end result satisfactory to all parties, except, perhaps, the wife. He dates. It is not cheating. I wish it felt like it was not cheating.

Lover says I wouldn’t come in a girl’s ass, wouldn’t that be awful for her? I guess I understand why someone wouldn’t like it, but once you’re nailed into the barrel it seems a waste not to head over the falls. I urge him to, he doesn’t demur. Later, in another hotel, I crouch before him having figured out (finally) that stacking up the pillows means not wearing out my left arm holding my weight while I press the bullet to my clit, and after the tick-tick-tick up the track and the first, expected longish plunge, the coaster whips into a tunnel, around three sharpish bends, I’m screaming in earnest and it doesn’t stop. Two more bends, a short wind-up (barely a breath) to another long shrieking plunge, corkscrew at 4G’s, another quick hill and finally the whoosh of the brakes coming out of another tunnel as the cars slow. Lover says, what was that? Why, that was a multiple orgasm. Always ride in the front.

(I love being past thirty and having figured out my body, I love being not afraid to try something that might not work, that we might laugh and go, well, that sucked, let’s do something else. Power Girl, amazing Power Girl, you are so strong now, in just a few years you will be a force of nature, I am not condescending, but there is so much depth to come that cannot even be told and I hope I get to watch you dive into it…)

Lover says he’s never had phone sex. Afterwards, of course. I wouldn’t have known. Due to distance and infrequency, there is a lot of phone sex. There is me-in-a-hotel, writhing-on-the-bed, bedspread-crushed-up-under-my-body, jammies-too-damp-to-sleep-in sex. There is him-in-the-car-map-over-his-lap-while-the-cop-passes sex. There is him turning on the dome light so the truckers can see my skirt rucked up, vibrator in hand in pussy, mouth-breathing hard while he talks to me, both hands on the wheel.

Lover says he could never hit someone in the face. We go to a casino hotel, check in in a snowstorm, notice the room is indeed slightly “off” in the way designed to get you out of your quarters and onto the gaming floor. We fuck. He raises his hand and pauses. I laugh and roll out from under him, “Lost your chance.” The restaurant is oddly laid out, a room across the hall has the dinner tables, the kitchen and breakfast tables are out of sight, like a very small banquet room. It’s early-bird time and we are the only diners. The waiter exits for the dessert menu. I lean forward. Meet his eyes. Shrug my eyebrows, smart-ass, triple-dog-daring. His hand comes across my face with a sound that doesn’t echo in the dull room. The waiter enters again on the follow-through, he must have heard the sound, he certainly sees the mark spreading on my face, he is clearly completely freaked out that I laugh and kiss Lover and we turn our faces toward him to order something chocolate.

He could never hit someone with the buckle end. On the clit. With a chain.

Except he could.

Given a nudge, given permission, given a partner who triple-dog-dares you, buys the chain, gives it over in a sweet little box with a bow…wouldn’t you?

(the other picture that goes with this story is here)