Something New (9781101612262)

by Thomas, Janis

Twelfth Post: March 27, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  ADULTERY FOR BEGINNERS

  What do you do when sweet temptation thrusts its clamoring fingers at you and draws you into its lair? What do you do when you find that the touch of someone who is not your spouse turns your insides to hot jelly and makes you feel the way you haven’t felt for twenty years? What do you do when you find something that may or may not prove that your spouse has already been unfaithful to you? Do you move forward with your own plans for duplicity? Do you grind your extramarital activities to a screeching halt in order to play the martyr while you tell yourself, “Well, at least I didn’t cheat.” And, in the end, what good does that do anyway? Does it change what has already transpired, erasing it into nonexistence?

  From the dawn of man, people have been cheating. Sure, there are some who are like swans and mate for life, holding fast to their monogamy and chortling about how superior they are to the rest of the population because they have been able to deny their primal inclination to hump anything and everything that moves. In today’s society in puritanical America, however, adultery is regarded as a sin. (Not in France, of course. In France, men parade their mistresses around as though for a panel of judges: I gif Monsieur Bertrand’s mistress a neuf point quatre.) But here in the States, it’s not so simple.

  So what does it take to successfully cheat? A preternatural talent for scheduling comes to mind. Especially if you and your adulterous intended both have families. Hard to juggle, but doable if you’ve got Outlook on your computer. (Just don’t forget to use a secret code with those reminders unless you want your spouse to see the pop up alarm with the words: Meet lover for good schtupping. He/she might suspect something’s up.)

  It also takes the ability to lie to others with ease. Example #1: Spouse: What are you doing tonight? You: I’m exhausted from spring cleaning. I’m going to crash early. Spouse: Then I shouldn’t call later? You: No, I’ll be asleep by eight. (Phone tucked in the crook of your neck while you rampage through your closet looking for just the right ensemble for your late-night rendezvous.) Example #2: Nameless Relative: You really need to put an end to things before they explode in your face. You: You’re right. It was a mistake. I won’t let it happen again. It was wrong wrong wrong. (Crossing your fingers behind your back while checking to make sure your cell phone battery hasn’t died.)

  You also must be able to lie to yourself convincingly, which is harder than it sounds, but once you’re successful at the small stuff, it starts to get easier. Example #3: You: It’s nothing. Just flirting. It doesn’t mean anything. You: It was just one kiss. That’s not cheating. You: I’m going to stop right now. You: I will not meet up with him/her ever again. You: It’s just one drink. I can control myself. You: I have no intention of letting things go too far. You: This will be the very last time, I swear.

  (By the way, lies of omission count, like not telling your spouse about a situation that inspires a cryptic thank-you note using only initials.)

  To be successful at adultery, you must also carry in your arsenal one or more of the following character traits: selfishness; recklessness; the ability to douse the angel on your shoulder with kerosene and light it up like a tiki torch; an overwhelming sense of entitlement that encourages the phrases I deserve some happiness, I deserve to feel good, I deserve to be desired; and a hefty dose of denial, i.e., What’s the harm? No one will ever find out.

  So, if you possess the proper traits, can lie to yourself and others, and have no problem bending your own moral code (which is perhaps simpler if you’re Catholic because a few Hail Marys release you from a world of hurt), then my advice to you is to go forth and fornicate. (But make certain you have an orgasm, so that if it does blow up in your face and your world comes crumbling down around you, at least you have that thirty seconds of pleasure to look back on.)

  Sorry. Gotta go now. I have a date.

  • Twenty-two •

  The T Bar is more crowded than I would have expected on a weekday, but apparently Two-fer Tuesday is a draw. Most of the wooden tables are taken and the T-shaped bar (surprise) has few open seats. Votive candles decorate the tables and bar top, and a muted TV playing an NBA game is mounted just behind the bar, offering minimal illumination to the room. The stage in the far corner, which is simply a six-by-four-foot platform, has a single spotlight shining down on an abandoned microphone. An old Harry Connick Jr. song drifts softly from the speakers.

  I stop at the doorway just long enough to catch my breath and scan the bar stools. Ben sits at the far end of the bar, surrounded by shadows, light from the flame of the nearest candle dancing over his features. Just the sight of him causes a swarm of butterflies to flutter through my stomach. He looks up and his eyes find mine, and I watch him sit back and smile at me. He reaches out and lifts the beer bottle in front of him, tips it toward me in a toasting gesture.

  As if in a dream, I make my way toward him, all thoughts, inner voices, and not-so-subtle warnings temporarily silent. On the way here tonight, inside my husband’s Lexus, I had a full-blown debate with myself that would make any presidential hopeful proud. I actually pulled the car over at one point and spoke aloud to my reflection in the rearview mirror. The argument circled around my reason for coming to meet Ben tonight. I needed that reason to be perfectly clear to me.

  My discovery in Jonah’s office propelled me to retrieve my cell phone message, but I did not want my decision to be based on my suspicions of Jonah’s infidelity. I didn’t want this to be about vengeance. I wanted to meet Ben tonight simply because I wanted to. And here I am.

  I am an almost-forty-three-year-old woman who wants something just for me. And that something is sitting right there.

  As I approach, Ben stands and pulls out the empty stool next to him. I am touched by the chivalrous gesture, and as I stare at him, I am once again taken by how handsome he is; the strong line of his jaw, the chiseled cheekbones, the warmth of his brown eyes, the supple red lips that are turned up in that trademark grin.

  “Hi,” he says quietly.

  “Hi,” I return as I place a steadying hand on the back of the stool.

  “You came.”

  I nod, a bit puzzled. “I said I would.”

  “I know. But you sounded, I don’t know. A little unsure.”

  That’s because, at the time, I was in the grips of another panic attack over the decision/mistake I was about to make. I got dressed and undressed three times, applied makeup and then scrubbed it off so violently with my Clinique cleanser I must have taken off the top two layers of my skin, started the car only to turn it off, get out, and march back into the garage. (Indecision, thy name is Ellen.) And then, when I managed to actually pull out of the driveway and head for downtown, the internal debate about the why began. But at this moment, as I gaze at Ben, remembering yesterday in my kitchen, recalling the last three weeks and how I have felt every time I’ve been in his presence, I am utterly calm.

  “I’m here.”

  He smiles and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad.”

  Is it warm in here?

  When he releases my hand, I peel off my sweater and tuck it over the back of the stool and sit as Ben eases me toward the bar. He takes his own seat and raises a hand to the bartender, then looks at me.

  “What would you like?”

  Multiple orgasms would be nice.

  “Vodka soda, please,” I answer instead.

  He repeats my request and we sit in silence for the three minutes it takes the bartender to fill my order. Then we each raise our drink to each other.

  “To Tuesday nights,” Ben says.

  I laugh, then take a long swallow of the highball. For thirty seconds neither of us says anything, and I am suddenly overcome with awkwardness. What on earth are we supposed to talk about? Basketball stats? Obama’s health care plan? The global economic crisis? The cheater’s new online mecca, AshleyMadison.com? Thankfully, Ben comes to my rescue.

  “How�
��s the spring cleaning going?”

  “Great,” I say. “It’s very therapeutic, getting rid of stuff. It’s amazing the things we hold on to.”

  “Life is an accumulation of crap,” Ben says, and I look at him with surprise. He raises his eyebrows at me. “What?”

  “I said that very thing today. Word for word.”

  “Great minds think alike.” He laughs, then scoots his stool closer to mine to allow the bartender to pass behind him. Our thighs touch, and I can feel his heat through both layers of denim, his jeans and my skirt. I clear my throat and take another sip of my drink.

  “Are your kids back from San Diego?” I ask him and he nods.

  “Got back this morning. Bright and early. I swear, Linda’s parents must have left at the crack of dawn. I think they have a canasta tournament at the senior center today. Couldn’t miss that.”

  “God, no.” I laugh. “Did they have fun?”

  “Oh, yeah. Got lots of souvenirs. Shamu bobble heads and stuffed lions and a couple of T-shirts with elephants on them that say Keep On Trunking. Nanni and Poo-pop can’t resist those little guys.” He says this without rancor, and his fondness for his kids shines in his eyes. “They had a great time. Totally wiped out. They were asleep by seven thirty, which is miraculous in my house.”

  I let the warmth of his words drift through me, yet I can’t help but circle back to one word in particular. I squint at him. “Poo-pop?”

  “I know. How Grandpa became Poo-pop I have no idea. But it stuck. He’s a good sport about it. Doesn’t seem to mind. I even call him that. Not to his face, of course.”

  I chuckle, but my thoughts turn serious. We are talking about his in-laws. The parents of his wife. The grandparents of his kids.

  What the hell am I doing on this bar stool?

  “Can I ask you a question, Ben?”

  His eyes are hooded as he turns to face me. His voice is low and sultry. “I like it when you say my name. Say it again.”

  My breath catches in my throat, but I manage to whisper his name. “Ben.”

  He reaches down and places his palm on my leg, and I instinctively want to slam my thighs together. Not as a defensive move to imply I will remain chaste, but because this simple gesture on his part, this infinitesimal contact makes a surge of moisture shoot to my crotch. (God, I am so easy.) I try not to stare at the thick gold band decorating his ring finger.

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Where does Linda think you are right now?”

  He looks down at his hand on my thigh but doesn’t remove it.

  “She thinks I’m doing surveillance…you know, a stakeout,” he admits, raising his eyes to mine. “It happens sometimes in the middle of the night. And I do have one, tomorrow. I just fudged the time a little.”

  “Oh.”

  He lifts his hand from my thigh and rests it on the bar, his gaze falling on his half-empty beer bottle. “Ellen…I have never done anything like this before. But I…I just want…I just, I think about you…I want to be with you…” his voice trails off as he thoughtfully fingers the label of his beer.

  Oddly enough, his words, spoken haltingly and in a sincere boyish manner, do not fill me with warm fuzzies. Instead, I am immediately suspicious. I am suddenly ten years old, standing on the playground of Kellerman Elementary School, and Noel Zimmer, the most popular boy in the fifth grade, is asking me to go to the Emerald Dance with him. I can’t believe my good fortune, and because I am a cynic, even at such an early age, I immediately accuse him of ulterior motives, like being put up to the whole thing by his bully friends. But why? I’d asked Noel. Why me?

  “Why me?” My voice is not that of a grown woman but of a little girl, the one who found out that Noel Zimmer’s invitation was, in fact, a prank. I feel foolish, wish I could take the question back. Of course you want me! I am woman, hear me roar. I am smart and funny and beautiful and… why me?

  “Ellen.” I turn to see his chocolate fondue eyes on me. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

  “Sorry. This is my first time, too.”

  What is the proper etiquette for officially embarking upon an affair? Is there some ribbon-cutting ceremony? Undie cutting? Does someone fire a gun, and off we go? (Ben’s armed, we can use his.) Is there a whistle or a horn or a guy waving a flag? Inexplicably, I cannot go further with this whole thing until I know Ben’s reasons. I know my own, regardless of the fact that they are all, every single one of them, rationalizations of the highest degree. But now, I need to know his why.

  He leans in to me, reaching for my hand and pulling it to his chest. “I don’t know why.”

  Oh crap. Time to go, I think.

  “We’ve known each other, what,” he continues, “three weeks? A month? We don’t really know each other at all.”

  Uh-oh. Check please.

  “But I feel like, God, this is going to sound cheesy as hell…”

  That’s okay. I like cheesy. Go on.

  “I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer.” He shrugs and blows out a breath. “I feel comfortable with you. I’m drawn to you.” He shrugs again and shakes his head. “I like being with you. You’re quick and funny. And you make me feel interesting again. Like I matter. Like I’m…” He laughs. “Like I’m cool. I haven’t felt that way in a long time.”

  “But you could have your pick of women,” I hear myself say, and want to cringe at how wretched it sounds aloud.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Yeah. I do. Sure, hell, I get fake boobs and plastic faces and friggin’ designer booty thrown at me all the time. I’m a cop. Women think I’m goddamned Bruce Willis. But those women don’t really know me. And they don’t really like me, either.”

  “What about Linda? Does she like you?”

  His smile fades. “Does that make a difference?”

  I think about his question for a moment, my eyes never leaving his. “Not really,” I answer finally. “I was just wondering.”

  “With Linda, it depends on the day.”

  “I understand.” I try to remember the last day I actually liked Jonah. Monday? Tuesday? It’s been a while. But that’s not why you’re here, Ellen, I remind myself.

  No. I am here because of the way Ben is looking at me right now, like he wants to run his hands over my entire body.

  “What about you, Ellen?” he asks throatily. “Do you like me?”

  Thank God the bar is as dark as a catacomb, because I can practically feel my cheeks flame scarlet. “More than I should,” I whisper.

  “I like you, too. You’re beautiful.” He presses his index finger against my lips, then traces a line down to my throat. I shiver involuntarily. “You felt so good yesterday.” He moves nearer to me and I can feel his breath on my cheek.

  “For the record,” I say, trying not to gasp as he tenderly kisses my temple, “I’ve never had a thing for Bruce Willis.”

  He pulls back and grins, his hand still holding mine hostage. Gently, I pull away and carefully raise myself off the stool. He frowns and gives me a confused look, like he thinks I’m about to leave.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” I say. And before my mind processes the action, I reach up and run my hand through his hair, smoothing it behind his ear. It is such an intimate gesture that it surprises both of us.

  “Mmm,” he purrs. “That’s nice.”

  My hand lingers for another few seconds, then I turn and head for the corridor on the other side of the room. My steps are slow and measured, and I feel almost drunk, although I know it has nothing to do with the vodka. I am tipsy on lust.

  There are two bathrooms, both unisex, as is the new trend. I test the doorknob of the first, find it unlocked, and push the door open. There are no stalls, merely a single toilet, a sink set in a vanity, and a worn upholstered chair in the far corner. The walls are a tired shade of yellow and the air smells of faux pine.

  I lean back against the door as it clicks shut and stare sightlessly at the wall. My head is swimming. I don�
��t really need to pee. What I need is to get away from Ben Campbell for a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Because until two minutes ago, a part of me didn’t actually believe that anything was going to happen or that I was going to be able to go through with it. A part of me thought I was going to meet Ben for a drink and we were going to talk about yesterday and what a mistake it had been and that we should remain soccer acquaintances. I knew that putting the brakes on things would be difficult, yet it would be infinitely easier than starting an illicit affair. But he wants to. And I want to. There is no question about that.

  You can still leave, Ellen. Sneak out the back or march right up to him and tell him that this isn’t a good idea, that you’ve thought better of it, that you’ve come to your senses, that you don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all your children, or his children, that it’s been great getting to know him and blah blah blah, but you’re just not cut out for this type of intrigue.

  Yes. That is exactly what I should do. That is exactly what I am going to do. But as long as I’m here, I might as well pee.

  Just as I reach down to engage the lock, the knob turns in my hand and the door sweeps open on its hinges. I look up to see Ben standing in the doorway, gazing at me hungrily.

  He charges into the bathroom, simultaneously grabbing for me and kicking the door closed with his foot. He swings me around and pins me against the door, fumbles at the lock, then slams his mouth against mine, crushing my lips with his. I reach up and encircle his neck, all thoughts of escaping to the safety of my boring life gone. Because his kiss is all-consuming, ravenous, oh-so-fucking-amazing I can’t think at all, can only feel. Feel his tongue dart into my mouth and entwine with mine, as they do their slick and sumptuous dance that sends fire down to my loins. Feel his hands move down to my waist as he tugs at my sweater, yanking it free of my skirt; feel them slide back up again, over the tingling skin of my stomach, my sides, my back, oh, God, his hands are everywhere, and our mouths are still locked as he sneaks his fingers up under my bra and rakes them over my breasts, rubs his thumbs over my nipples and I shudder with desire, my back arching and my toes curling inside my leather boots.