Lies of Love

by Hannovah

  The audacity of this man. We were not on a date. I went to my door and opened it. With my back to him, I asked, “What can I do for you Dr. Joseph?”

  “Close the door,” he replied.

  I just stood there without obeying.

  “Please,” he added, like if he had just remembered his manners.

  I did not budge.

  He came up behind me, leaned his towering frame over me, and pushed the door shut. For some unknown reason my legs lost their strength, so I braced the door quickly with both hands to steady myself. I felt like a suspect about to be frisked by the police, but somehow I could not move from that position.

  “I was wrong to trick you into having lunch with me,” he confessed, “but how else would you have come?”

  “I-I-I’m married . . . a-a-and so are you,” I fumbled, feeling helpless.

  “Do you have sex with your husband?”

  My eyes did a jack-in-the-box at that question, and thank God that my back was still turned to him, so he could not see my shock. Somehow I found a little strength and reached for my door knob again.

  “Pleeease,” he begged from right behind me. “Please leave it closed.”

  His pleading did something, because my hand loosened its grip, though I kept it there on the knob while my other palm was still flat against the door. Unexplainably, I began to feel like I was in another world . . . another dimension . . . like I was dreaming.

  He said, “I’ve been married twelve years and had sex less than twelve times . . . with Barbara.”

  “W-w-why are you telling me this?” I heard myself say.

  “I thought you needed to know.”

  I tightened my hold on the door knob, and began to twist it, but his large hand covered mine, caressing it. He wrapped his other arm around me and pulled me in to his overshadowing body, and I trembled.

  “Don’t be scared,” his warm breath said into my ear.

  He licked my earlobe and just like that, I disappeared from this life with all its troubles and cares, and slipped into paradise. He was saying things, sweet things, I thought, but I could not say what they were. Then his hand left my waist and rested on my breasts. I sort of came to my senses, but I didn’t have the will to stop him. Unbuttoning my top, he slipped his hands through my bra, and my breasts blossomed into full bloom as he finessed them. His smooth manly chin slid down my head and jawline. I’m dying. Then he put both of his hands on the front of my thighs, slowly moving his magic fingers upwards, like a lit fuse traveling to meet its dynamite. Oh God. I felt his hardness pressing against my back and when his thumbs brushed up against their final destination, I bucked like a car that was about to break down. I moaned, I thought. This felt like the first time that Brandon and I had made love.

  Brandon? Oh my God! Oh . . . my . . . God. I had to do something. I had to fight with all my might. As I struggled to break from his spell, I felt I was in one of those dreams where I was in danger and was trying hard to alert someone, anyone, but to no avail.

  “Naaahhh!” I groaned, and finally broke free. I turned around and pushed my hands forward to make room between us.

  His face was flush red with desire, but I avoided his eyes like the plague, because if I didn’t, I would have surrendered my all to him.

  “This is inappropriate!” my mouth said, though the rest of me wanted to float right back into heaven.

  He bit his bottom lip and slowly released it through his teeth, in as sexy a manner as I had ever seen. “You want me,” he whispered, “and I definitely want you. We’re two consenting adults wanting to pleasure each other. C’mon.” He stroked my cheek.

  I flinched, “I never consented to this.”

  “Oh yes you did.”

  My eyes grew wide, wondering what he was talking about.

  He stepped backwards with a raw, sensuous smile, to enlighten me. “That day of the interview . . . in your sexy red suit. I leaned into your car and you had your juicy thighs exposed and wide apart, begging me to fuck you.”

  Then, without any shame, he began to massage the mass that was threatening to burst through his pants zipper. “I asked you how badly you wanted the job . . . remember?”

  I swallowed a pocket of air in my throat. “That was a mistake,” I countered. “This whole thing is a mistake.”

  In a flash, he grabbed me, and held me close, grinding his hard tube against my belly.

  Cynthia was probably praying for me, because in my weakened state, I managed to find the will and the strength, and I pushed him off.

  “You’re a teaser!” he snapped. “You’re nothing but a fucking teaser.”

  I looked up at him, and his eyes were no longer an alluring avocado, but a sour shade of lime.

  Halfheartedly, I uttered, “I’ll be transferring back to South Campus as soon as I can.”

  “Oh no you won’t. I’m not signing any fucking paper to release you. You knew exactly what you were getting into when I gave you this fucking position.” He leaned into my space, and his eyes burned into my soul, scaring me to my core. “We had an agreement,” he seethed. “I did my part; I gave you this job.” He jabbed a finger onto my forehead, “You . . . bitch . . . need to do yours.”

  He touched the door, preparing to make an exit, so I blurted out, “I’ll report you to the University Board.”

  He turned around and chortled at me like if I was insignificant. “Good luck with that.” Then he rolled his sleeves back down and adjusted his tie. “Remember . . . you were seen on a date with me at a restaurant. I have photos. Think about that.” After taking a couple deep breaths, he opened the door and without looking at me, he grunted, “Have a wonderful day, Dr. Rayburn.”

  My eyes were waterlogged now. I quickly got up, closed the door, and leaned my back against it, ignoring the trickle that ran down my cheeks. At my age, I thought that I had experienced all emotions possible to a woman, but feeling anger, repulsion, and sexual desire towards the same person, at the same time, was new to me. I was ashamed of myself. And I was angry at him for touching me, but the more I remembered his touch, the more my body boiled with yearning. I put my face in my hands. Stop, Edna Bergail. Stop. Then before I knew it, my hands drifted southwards; one found my breasts, and the other unzipped my pants and reached for my wet, pulsating cat.

  I came quickly.

  With that out of the way, I thought I would have been able to think this situation through. But instead, I sat at my desk and lay my head down, and sobbed. Through my weeping, I heard Brandon’s voice chiding me, Weak as water, girl. Weak. As. Water.

  After a good cry, I straightened up in my chair to try and think this thing out rationally and I began to debate:

  What did I want? I wanted my marriage and my job.

  What did he want? He wanted sex.

  I considered my options:

  If he wanted sex just once only, then maybe I could comply. And let me not lie to myself, I desired him too. But what if that sexually driven quarterback wanted more than just a quick daytime fling? I became nauseated at the thought of deceiving my loving husband. I can’t do that.

  The other option: resign. But what reason will I give to Brandon?

  Then I almost jumped out of my pants as someone knocked on my door.

  “Professor Rayburn?” I recognized the voice and the Jamaican accent.

  I answered without opening up. “Yes Trevor.”

  “You alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yuh sure?”

  “Yes. I’m just finishing up. I’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Okay.”

  Immediately, I whipped out my lavender deodorizer and sprayed up the place. I can’t take any chances with Trevor. The only times I ever used this aerosol can was after a foul smelling student came by for help, or if I farted. Never in my wildest did I ever envision using it to cover up the scent of sex in my office. Wow!

  Putting the can away, I sat and took a few minutes to normalize my facial appearance. Pinching my chee
ks and grinning as much as possible, I eventually got it together. Then I grabbed my purse and keys, and headed out.

  Curious Trevor and his custodian cart were right outside my door, and he came right up in my face, asking urgently, “Did Greeneyes hurt you?”

  I was no actress, but I put on my best shocked face, frog eyes included, and replied, “What?” Then taking it down a notch, I said, “No-no. Nothing like that.”

  Trevor seemed concerned, and I was not sure if it was for me or for the potential gossip. He quipped, “JJ looked mad when him left here.”

  I speculated, “He got a call when he was in my office. It must’ve been that.”

  Trevor pulled on his dreadlocks and squinted his dark brown eyes, as if questioning my truthfulness. “Ooo-kaaaay,” he said slowly, seemingly disappointed that I did not divulge something juicy.

  I couldn’t be bothered at that point, and diminishing my friendship with Yvette’s nosey brother was the least of my problems. “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  Turning on my heels with my head held proudly, I went directly to the ladies’ room and entered the handicap stall. Tidying up in a public bathroom was a first for me. I pulled several paper towels, dampened them and cleaned up my thing. Then I spritzed it with some perfume that I kept in my handbag. But I just could not view that slut that looked back at me in the mirror as each accidental glimpse of myself brought a new wave of tears. I felt like a dirty lowlife, and if I had a gun, I probably would have shot myself. Exhausted, I sat on the commode until I stopped crying.

  This is a dream, I thought. It must be a dream. But slapping my cheeks, I knew I was in reality. How would I face Brandon? My flood gates were about to open again, but I clenched my fists and said to myself, “Don’t cry anymore. It happened; deal with it.” I got up and ambled to my car.

  On the drive home, I thought about calling Cynthia to vent my frustrations and get her support, but I was too ashamed of my behavior to make the call.

  Then my thoughts drifted to another option to the situation:

  I could tell Dean Joseph’s wife, Barbara. I’m sure I would not be the first to complain about her husband’s cheating ways. But if what Trevor had divulged about their relationship was true, she probably wouldn’t care, and may even volunteer to pray for me.

  I could tell Brandon. He would be disappointed in me, and subsequently seek out the dean and get himself in trouble. But even worse, this information may put a big dent in our smooth marriage.

  I could also file a sexual harassment suit. That would be complicated, and it would certainly be humiliating if I were forced to drop the charges. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the dean was right: I had been seen having a cozy lunch with him the other day. That would look bad on my part, especially with photo evidence and especially without any work-related emails instructing me to do so. We were out on a date, and there was no evidence to the contrary. Bam!! A nuclear bomb just exploded in my head: I had been played. I had been well-played by this experienced quarterback. “Jesus, Lord,” I murmured.

  I would have to leave it alone, at least for now. Que sera, sera.

  When I pulled into our driveway, I parked and remained in the car for a few anxious moments before going in to Brandon. My intent was to enter our house with an extra pep in my step and a broad smile on my face, but that plan fell apart when I reached the front door. As I approached the office where I knew sweet Brandon would be, I felt like a convict walking the green mile. My head became light while my heart became heavy. All the wires in my body were crisscrossed.

  “What happened, Eddie?” he asked, as I entered feeling as spineless as an octopus. Brandon and I have been on the same wavelength for so long that he sensed my disposition and instantly knew something was wrong.

  “I’m not feeling very well.” It was not a complete lie. Emotionally, I was a wreck, and carpenters had begun hammering and sawing inside my head. Dropping my briefcase at the doorway, I kicked off my pumps and lay on the futon in the office. Tears threatened to overtake me, so I closed my eyes and placed one hand on my forehead.

  My devoted husband stopped his paperwork and kneeled next to me, kissing and touching my cheeks. “You don’t have a temperature. How do you feel?”

  “I have a very . . . bad . . . headache,” my voice cracked up, surprising even me.

  “Alright, stay put. I’ll be back.”

  I stifled my tears when Brandon exited the room, and I tried hard to prevail upon myself to get it together.

  Soon he returned with a tray, on which were a slice of chocolate cake, a cup of milk, and two pain killers.

  “Thank you,” I said as I sat up to indulge. Then overrun with guilt and shame, a solitary tear escaped.

  Caring Brandon placed one hand on my shoulder and the other on my thigh. “You’re really not feeling good. Was it a bad day at work? Did the students give you trouble? Did the dean give you trouble?”

  Ha! That last question rocked my conscience and a few tears joined the one from before. I whimpered, “No. This is just the worse headache I’ve had in a while.”

  “Okay. Rest up. Don’t worry about anything.”

  Although my appetite had taken a hike, I forced down the snack and then curled back into the sofa.

  Brandon covered me with a blanket, and then took his paperwork to the kitchen, leaving me in the office to rest. I could not. I laid there feeling like cow dung on a hot summer’s day, desperately trying to avoid the memory of my vile actions from just over an hour ago. But as much as I tried, my brain was set on replay and I kept seeing despicable me in my office, acting like a sex deprived freak. And the instigator’s scent was stuck somewhere on me – I believe it was in my hair. But it no longer smelled appealing; it was rather nauseating.

  By sunset, Brandon checked on me and asked about dinner.

  Without looking up, I answered, “Whatever you want is alright by me.”

  “Are you feeling a little better?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No-no. I’m fine.”

  “Okay, I’m leaving to go get dinner.” He kissed me on the forehead.

  As soon as he left, I got up and, still avoiding mirrors, entered the bathroom to take a shower. It would be a long one. I needed counseling. I needed something to get me past this or I was going to explode. As I shampooed my hair, a horrible thought whacked me: Brandon must have behaved inappropriately with a woman or two sometime during our marriage. With his flexible schedule he had lots of chances. And I’ve seen him ogling women sometimes. Lorrrd! I frowned at the idea.

  Under the cleansing drizzle, I thought long and hard, searching for anytime that my husband had come home pretending to be sick or any occasion that I found him acting suspicious. I sighed heavily because, try as I may, I couldn’t find a single instance. He must’ve had another woman at some time, I persevered. I just couldn’t be the only one. That man is very, very smart. He may even have been with Ashley.

  One voice told me to throw out that ridiculous accusation about my trustworthy husband. Another one told me to run with it, because ‘a man is a man’; you and bad-behaved Brandon are even now.

  I went with the latter and marinated on it while toweling up and changing into my PJs. Although harboring self-concocted evil thoughts about my husband was as psycho as I could get, it worked to resurrect me from the grave that I had dug for myself, and it allowed me to look into the mirror once more. And by the time Brandon returned with the fried rice and chicken wings, I was able to face him too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My husband had been very patient with me.

  I had become unpredictable as I rode my emotional see-saw in the days following my office event. Sometimes, I was my chatty self, but mostly I was quiet, and I avoided Brandon’s touch under the covers while feeding myself that crap about him and other women. I told him that my mood swings were due to menopause, and he believed me, I thought.

  But t
ime has a way of healing both body and mind, so it wasn’t long, just a few weeks, before I resumed loving Brandon again for who he was. And I forgave myself for my pitiful actions at the university that one day when Jamus Jackass Joseph had attempted to seduce me, and I also forgave myself for my fictitious accusations about Brandon, and I moved on with life. Everyone makes mistakes. So I finally got it together, returning to normalcy, bedroom Olympics included.

  The green-eyed devil had not come by my office since that dreadful day, and neither did I glimpse nor smell him anywhere on the campus. But I knew he was around, somewhere, just lying low until the right moment, I guess.

  Then one day I got an email from Vickie telling me that the moss-eyed giant was coming to observe my teaching. He scheduled for the Wednesday after Spring Break during my eleven o’clock class. Rather than stress out and give myself an ulcer, I just muttered, “There’s a downside to every job, and this too will pass.”

  I did not dress up for that observation Wednesday. Instead I wore my usual unflattering pants suit and boring ponytail, and I did not even fancy up my presentation as I would have for Dr. Byam. This observer was going to get whatever mediocre stuff I had already prepared, because the level of my enthusiasm had sunken to the same level as his morals and values. I was no longer interested in impressing this smelly fool. And lately, the thought of him created a taste in my mouth like the Epsom salts that my mother used to purge me with as a child.

  When I approached the classroom that morning, the skunk was standing in the hallway in his typical starched shirt and tie, and a black leather briefcase in one hand. My stomach griped at the sight of him, and we shared an uncomfortable glance of disgust for each other. With a large folder clutched against my belly, I stopped at the door to the room and waited for him to enter.

  “You first,” he said condescendingly.

  Asshole, I thought, as I went in.

  I went to my desk and got my paperwork organized while he took a seat back and center of the almost full classroom.

  After answering home-work questions, I distributed handouts and began my power-point on Radioactive Substances. Five minutes into my lecture, I looked to the back of the room and Joseph was reading a Sports Illustrated Magazine, totally ignoring me and my teaching. And every time thereafter that I checked, he seemed fully engrossed in an article or was turning a page to find another. Twenty minutes later, he put his periodical away and walked out of the room, without even a nod.