Cock Sure

It's just one of those things. This whole affair. This frame of mind, temporary release from the banal, no day to day here. Hedonism. That's the attraction of infidelity. Suspension of disbelief. From the banal realities of life.

But they do creep in. Those banalities. The little losses of respect, or is it loss of illusion? The first time you hear him sing song that 'Love you' down the phone at you instead of to his wife. Knowing when he does it to her, he'll be jumping back into bed to roll all over you before he's even snapped the mobile shut. Who wants to be loved like that for a lifetime of picking up his underpants? Not me.

It's just one of those things. How it starts. How it ends. Splices of time.

One of those things is, surprisingly, how I felt just after it happened.

I had had too much sun, and there were too many 'behind the sunglasses' glances going on. The banalities were creeping in and I was choking on them. With disgust. I was hot and bothered. Not like me. So I left the beach for the cool of the room. That he didn't offer to join me didn't strike me so hard as my relief at the very same thought.

The hotel was beautiful, ancient Italian architecture designed for natural air conditioning. As I showered off the sand and suncream, I thought, at least he's not cheap, there's that.

After the shower I wear his white tee shirt and stand by the window, legs apart, bent from the hips, enjoying the stretch my flattened back is having as I lean on the window sill, enjoying the breeze tickling the hairs between my legs.
My body is half in the room, my lower half, and half out, through the window, behind the sheer curtains. I hear the door open behind me, but I'm resentful of him and enjoying the silent golden late afternoon of this ancient coastal town, so don't turn around.
The hands on my hips are firm as they caress the naked cheeks of my arse, and I don't resist as the fingers join the breeze flickering, then pry me apart as he slides inside me. I brace my arms straight on the window sill, a broad satisfied smile on my face, at the thought that the two ancient Italian widows below, carrying home their bread and wine, have no idea what's going on behind these curtains. The loss of the banal. Thank God.

I decide to stay stock still. Keep up the facade, let him do all the work, and he does. Long and slow, in and almost out then in again and almost out, over and over. There's not a feeling like it in the world. I could stay like this all day, but he tilts my hips, changes the angle and speed of his thrust and just as I'm sure I'm about to pee to end all pees, the world explodes around me. I actually see stars.
He finishes, withdraws and kisses a million tiny quick kisses all around my arse and upper thighs. I am buzzing, pulsing in the aftershocks. Dazed.

I'm just deciding not to finish with him, still standing braced, as I laconically smirk over my right shoulder to see, not him, but a hotel uniform slipping silently out the door.
Not looking back.

I am so aroused, I can't do anything but laugh and wonder who he is. Hotel man with the fabulous cock. I'm enjoying that I don't know. I laugh again. Fucked stupefied by a faceless stranger. I fall on the bed, laughing. 'Oh well', I think, 'it's just one of those things'.
I am smiling wide as I fondle my breasts, stroking myself, gently rocking from side to side basking in the pleasure of it, then fall into a doze on the bed.

When I wake, my married lover, is in the room. He's red and sweaty and looking at me like a dog looks at a bone, but he can't have me. Not hot from desiring other bodies on the beach. I get up and go to shower. Locking the door behind me.

Obviously, I have no intention of telling him, and the deliciousness, of the sensations still coursing me and the secret from this arrogant coward, make me luminous. I am radiant.
Tonight, I am unforgettable.
Tonight is the night to leave him.

I shower, not washing, but embracing the sensation of the hot water trickling over my body. Multiple drippings massaging my skin. Even water wants to linger over me tonight.
The towel is reassuringly rough and my skin feels divine. I don't wear perfume, I like my turned on scent. I am in the zone. Nothing can touch me as I drape lace and silk over my body. As I dress, I am not wearing the clothes so much as letting them sit on the surface of my skin. No break in the surface tension. They will not crease and drape to the heat of me tonight. Tonight, nothing can touch me. Not even my own underwear.
Yet everything does and I touch it. Without moving a muscle.
I float out of the bathroom, to find him on his back, buck naked on the bed. Cock fully erect, as red as his face.
Grinning like a baboon he says, "I started without you, come here.
I glide over to the end of the bed, grab his ankles, sway the weight of my body backwards to pull him toward me, dropping his legs to the floor. Then bowing, in one luxurious sweep of my dewy mouth, I take in his cock for one long slow glorious licking suck, stop, stand up straight and tell him to meet me downstairs in the bar. As I leave the room. Not looking back.

I am enjoying my cocktail immensely, when he arrives. I can see his annoyance is a pretence. They love it. The tease. Tantalise me. Yank my leash. Don't give in and don't let me. They love it. But for now, he's all annoyance. And very turned on. All the better for me.

I interrupt him, sliding off my bar stool like a python slides into a river, to make a kill. We leave for the restaurant. He's hooked.
It's a short walk in the sweet evening air. The ancient street lights are nothing compared to me tonight, and the trees pulse their scent as I pass by. I pulse back. That's what it's like. In the zone.
Nothing can touch me, yet everything does and I touch it. I can hear the lions in Africa, smell the Sahara, speak every tongue, touch the moon. Zoom zoom.
He is so far beneath me now I wonder what ever possessed me.

The place is small, romantic. Classic, simple in silver and white. Even the flowers. The maitre d' falls over himself to seat me. Tonight I am not the sort of woman to be seated in a corner. To sit behind a book. No kitchen exit table for me. Tonight, I am the customer his classy silver-white restaurant has been waiting for, tonight is it's raison d'etre, to reflect my glow. Even the women stare. The men sit up straight, the suave ones smile, the less jaded stretch their arms above their chests, the gormless groom their socks.
I catch him, my arrogant coward, from the corner of my eye and smile, he thinks it's his doing, my glow. He thinks he can have me. Cock sure of it in fact.
The vanity of men. It's what saves us from them.

I sit in the power position, facing the room. It's a small table, golden candlelight dancing with the silverware, the sheen of my silk, and my skin. I feel like I could fuck the whole world.
Except him. Opposite me. Because he forgot to wonder.

It's not familiarity that breeds contempt. It's the forgetting to wonder. The taking for granted. That day when you realise, he thinks he no longer has to try. The defining moment when the banality of an arrogant coward flops through.

It's never the reason you think. The moment when love or lust fly off. Never the big betrayals, they bring the void too fresh, too close to actually leave. It's the small things. A hesitation. The checking of a watch at an inopportune moment. The glance at a pair of legs when you're talking to him, even if he doesn't stand a chance of ever entwining them with his. The lack of attention. To the smallest things. That interrupt the suspension of disbelief.
This morning, three days in to our week away, he rifled through his case like a cat in a litter tray, then sniffed a pair of underpants to find a clean enough pair.
That he does this is hardly a surprise, he's male. That he does this in front of me.
Is his moment. The end of lust.

A bull fighter shows contempt for the crowd by killing the bull right away. No dance. No flourish. No request for adulation. No chance to cheer. Stab the blade, when the head is bowed for charge, fully along the length of the spine. Instantly it's on it's knees and won't get up. Ever again.
They could see meat like that in any butcher shop.
That he sides with the bull and not with them, is unforgivable.

A mistress shows contempt for the wife by sending him back. On his knees. Not stealing him afterall, but tossing him back at her, at the peak. While his head is full of the other. Let her suffer every day with him. Age before her time with him. Not me.

I look at this face in front of me. The face that thinks it has all the choices. The face that daily thinks, should I stay should I go, and wonders, since it has cut loose anyway, is there something better than either of these done deals? The face that has no clue that every action and expression shrieks that it doesn't have the balls to do any such thing. This face. This is the face of the status quo. This is the face advertising executives dream of. The face kitchen salesmen want to speak to when they look around and ask "Is your husband at home? This is the face that has suddenly grown pale in the shock that it is being left. Isn't it the face whose job it is to be doing all the leaving?

"It's just one of those things I say as I tilt my head to the left, shaking it and smile, a devastating smile, a small shrug, rubbing my hand up the shaft of my water glass, "Just one of those things.