The Adulterer's Handbook

by Sam Anthony

  I don’t think I’d be too upset if Tamsin fell in love with another man, but didn’t have sex with him. That would demonstrate that she loved me and was committed to our marriage. I’d be devastated, however, if Tamsin secretly had sex with another man, whether she loved him or not. Interestingly, there’s something rather titillating about the notion of Tamsin having sex with another man – one she didn’t love – and letting me watch. I believe it’s a common male fantasy to imagine your wife having sex with another man, and I can see the appeal. There’s no way I’d let Tamsin do it in real life, of course, but it’s a pleasant thought experiment, nevertheless.

  The article I read said, 45 percent of men and 35 percent of women admit to having an emotional affair. I guess Sophia considers herself to be part of that 35 percent. In my mind, I didn’t commit adultery until the actual moment I put my penis inside Sophia, and I never fell in love with her. But, somehow, I don’t think Tamsin would be reassured by that.

  ◆◆◆

  The next few days are better than I was expecting. Although she doesn’t look happy, Sophia is keeping herself busy and maintaining an appropriately professional relationship with me whenever we bump into each other around the office and in meetings. If our eyes meet, she smiles tenderly and sympathetically at me. It actually feels as if she’s the one who’s trying to cheer me up. She’s made no attempt to resume our break-up conversation, much to my relief.

  The first post-affair Friday lunchtime is particularly tough. I see Sophia leave her office, on her own, at the usual time, glancing in my direction on her way out of the building. I suspect she’s going home in the hope that I’ll follow five minutes later and join her, but I ignore the Pavlovian response going on inside my boxer shorts, and continue to work at my desk. I’m hoping that keeping my mind active will distract me from the sexy woman who’s currently anticipating that I’ll turn up at her house and make love to her.

  ◆◆◆

  Sophia looks so sad as she leaves work this evening. I realise I’m the one responsible and I feel terrible, but hopefully, it’s only a matter of time until she gets over me and perks up.

  I’m walking across the car park towards my car when I notice that someone has tucked an envelope under my front windscreen wiper.

  I pick it up.

  It doesn’t look like an advert or a flyer. It’s just a regular white envelope.

  I open it.

  Inside there’s just a single piece of paper, with two words and some excessive punctuation typed upon it:

  “I know!!!”

  What does that mean?

  ‘I know’ what?

  I know you’re having an affair?

  I know you cheat on your expense claim form?

  I know you reversed into my car?

  And what’s the significance of all the exclamation marks?

  Maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity and it’s not even meant for me.

  But maybe it is.

  My guilty conscience is telling me that I’m the intended recipient, and that someone knows about my affair, but if I’m right, what’s their motive for leaving me the letter? To shame me into doing the right thing? To get some sort of sadistic pleasure from my discomfort? Blackmail?

  ◆◆◆

  Things aren’t great at home. It’s the second weekend in a row with no sex.

  On Saturday, Tamsin gets up early to go shopping in some remote mall, not returning until late, laden with several carrier bags from high-end clothes shops. Sometimes, after one of these shopping trips, I’m able to persuade Tamsin to perform a highly entertaining and stimulating fashion show, just for me, in which she models her new purchases and parades around the bedroom; but not this time. She claims to be too tired after spending all day on her feet.

  On Sunday, I wake up in a grumpy mood, weary of feeling ignored and neglected by my wife. Tamsin manages to push enough of my buttons to provoke a row about nothing, and now we’re barely speaking to each other. I can’t help thinking that she’s done this deliberately in order to avoid lovemaking for a few more days. Or possibly I’m just horny, tired and paranoid.

  ◆◆◆

  Sophia’s cousin, Claire, was diagnosed with breast cancer yesterday. She’s an emotional wreck at work today and I feel I ought to say something to her. Perhaps I can offer some words of comfort. Isn’t that what friends are for?

  The minute I enter Sophia’s office, she gets up from behind her desk and enfolds me in a spontaneous hug. There’s nothing sexual about it. She simply wants me to hold her while she sobs. So I comply. This is clearly a violation of rule nine, but I guess the rules no longer apply now that our affair is over. It just feels like the right thing to do. We’re spotted, however, by several people walking past Sophia’s office, and it must look curious for two colleagues to be hugging while one of them weeps. I grow increasingly uncomfortable as the embrace continues, and I visualise how we must appear to our colleagues. As soon as I’m able, I disentangle myself from Sophia’s arms and take a seat adjacent to her desk. While Sophia shares her worries and fears for her much loved cousin, I contribute a few appropriate platitudes until gradually she cheers up a bit. As soon as I think I can reasonably depart, I make my excuses and leave.

  When I return to my desk, I’m aware of conflicting reactions. On the one hand, I want to be a caring and sympathetic person, supportive of my family and friends; but on the other, that was definitely a backward step as far as physically distancing myself from Sophia is concerned. Fortunately, I don’t have a third hand, because, if I did, it would be slapping me around the face and saying, “Yes, it did feel wonderful to hold Sophia in your arms again, but you can’t have sex with her anymore, so just pull yourself together and stick to your principles.”

  ◆◆◆

  On Friday morning, I receive a text message from Sophia. It’s the first one we’ve exchanged since I ended our affair.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Soph. You ok?”

  “Not really. I’m so upset about Claire.”

  “I understand. It’s terrible news. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Anytime. I’m always here for you.”

  “Thanks, Lee. That’s extremely kind. Actually, there is something you can do. I really want someone I can talk to. There’s so much going on in my head. I just want to say it out loud. Do you know any good listeners?”

  “Me! I’m a good listener.” What am I doing? Trying to be a good friend? “Your office? At lunchtime?”

  “That would be great, but I’m worried I might blub, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself at work. Any chance we could meet at my house at lunchtime instead? Just for a bit of privacy.”

  Ah!

  I thought I’d already made my final visit to Sophia’s house. It was that memorable time when I hid beneath the breakfast bar while Sophia and her husband had passionate sex on top of it. Just thinking about it brings me out in a cold sweat. But this would be different, wouldn’t it? Our affair is over now.

  Before I can reply, Sophia sends another message.

  “Just to talk, I promise.”

  What can I say? She’s clearly upset and in need of a confidant. I’ve claimed that I want us to remain friends, and her reasoning is sound: it would be better to talk away from the office. I can’t say no.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thanks, Lee. You’re so kind. See you soon. X”

  What could possibly go wrong?

  ◆◆◆

  Before leaving the office to drive to Sophia’s house, I pop into the staff bathroom to freshen up and apply deodorant and aftershave, for no reason.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Mistake

  I approach Sophia’s house through the back garden as usual. The only slight change to my routine is that I knock before entering the kitchen. Sophia opens the door and invites me inside.

  “Hi, Lee. Thanks so much for coming. I really appreciate it.”

  “That’s what frie
nds are for,” I say as I make myself comfortable on a kitchen stool.

  “Coffee?” Sophia hands me a steaming mug.

  “Thanks.”

  All is good so far. We’re being polite and well behaved. Normally, I wouldn’t have time to drink anything at Sophia’s house; we’d just sprint upstairs to the spare bedroom and start shagging. It feels as if we’ve turned a corner.

  As we sip our coffee, Sophia tells me the latest news about her cousin. Apparently, Claire’s prognosis is better than her family were expecting, but she’s going to have to undergo several sessions of chemotherapy over the coming months. When she tells me about Claire’s young children, Sophia’s voice breaks. Her bottom lip starts to quiver, and suddenly the dam breaks and she bursts into tears.

  Sophia strides towards me and l stand and meet her halfway. She puts her arms around me, presses her torso against mine and holds me tight. I have no option other than to reciprocate as her whole body quivers with unleashed emotion.

  What else can I do?

  For a while, she sobs into my neck and I murmur a few kindly platitudes such as, “Everything will be all right”, “That’s it, just let it all out”, and “She’ll be fine, survival rates are really good these days.” But mostly, I just hold her securely and caress her back.

  Unfortunately, the proximity of a vibrant, attractive woman, in combination with my recent dearth of physical intimacy at home, is causing an unmistakable stirring in my loins. A significant stirring. One of which Sophia cannot be unaware. If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect that she’s actually pressing herself into my erection and making it worse. I’m acutely aware of Sophia’s soft warm breasts pressing into my midriff, which is only exacerbating the problem. However, neither of us comments on my awkward and untimely arousal.

  The sobbing gradually subsides, but the hug continues. The crying is replaced by occasional sniffs. I can’t be sure if Sophia’s nose is running, or she’s simply enjoying the smell of my aftershave, but the reason soon becomes clear when she releases me from our embrace and excuses herself to fetch some tissues from upstairs.

  ◆◆◆

  I spend the few minutes when Sophia is absent trying to come up with particularly unpleasant or distracting thoughts in order to diminish my arousal:

  The Holocaust.

  37.2 multiplied by 54.

  The current Arsenal squad in order of shirt number.

  The most agonising pain I’ve ever experienced: childbirth.

  My mortgage.

  The time my mum caught me masturbating in the bath.

  Being force-fed shell fish.

  Those big hairy spiders that live in the loft and venture into my bedroom when I’m asleep to lay their eggs in my ear-hole.

  The knowledge that I’m just an insignificant animal, on an average-sized planet, in a nondescript solar system, going around a typical galaxy, in an unexceptional universe, in a multiverse that will exist for all eternity.

  Cancer.

  ◆◆◆

  When Sophia steps back into the room, I’m relieved to see that she’s stopped crying and has fixed her hair and make-up. She looks much chirpier.

  She’s also completely naked.

  ◆◆◆

  Well, this is awkward. I’m fully dressed, and all alone, in a kitchen containing a very sexy, naked lady. My resurgent erection is reminding me that I haven’t had sex for going on three weeks, and this situation looks promising in terms of ending the drought.

  Sophia just stands there and looks at me. Her weight is all on one leg while the other leg is bent slightly inwards at the knee. Her hands are resting on her hips, her shoulders pulled back and her chest thrust provocatively forward. Her chin is slightly elevated and her facial expression is neutral. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to say anything. Actions speak louder than words, and Sophia’s actions are bellowing, “I really want to make love with you, Lee. Do you have the willpower to turn me down?”

  Do I?

  I know what I should do.

  I should say, “I’m really sorry, Soph, but our affair is over. It’s best if I just leave now.” Then walk straight out the door and never look back.

  I know what I could do.

  I could say, “God, I’ve missed you so much, Soph!” and take her upstairs for a damn good shagging.

  This is one of the moments that will gauge my current moral rectitude. It’s an opportunity for me to demonstrate that I’m a better man than I used to be and I’ve learnt from my mistakes. I can take the high road or the low road. Am I the kind of man who takes advantage of a fragile and emotional friend in order to gratify his physical desires? I know what I want to do, but I also know the right thing to do. Do I have the willpower to turn her down?

  No.

  That would be ridiculous. I’m horny and she’s sexy, willing and naked. End of story.

  I slowly walk towards her, enjoying the magnificent view the whole way. Sophia looks anxious, but keeps her eyes locked on mine. I stop two feet in front of her.

  “Are you sure about this?” I say.

  “Yes,” Sophia whispers in reply.

  I bend down and pick her up in a fireman’s lift, then carry her over my shoulder up the stairs as she giggles all the way.

  ◆◆◆

  We have sex like never before. It’s passionate, intense and borderline violent. Our hands are all over each other, but not gently and sensually like every time before. This time it’s rough and aggressive. We manhandle each other all around the bedroom, frequently changing position and asserting dominance over each other. I’ve never felt so uninhibited and out of control.

  When it’s over, and we’re lying entangled on the floor, breathing heavily and sweating profusely, Sophia says, “Bloody hell!”

  “Indeed,” I reply, still shell-shocked.

  “That was intense!”

  “It really was.”

  “You make me so happy, Lee.” She kisses me on the cheek. Her face is radiant, and she exudes joy and contentment.

  Is now a good time to mention that what we’ve just done was a terrible mistake? Should I take this opportunity to tell Sophia that it should never have happened and we can never do it again?

  No. It can wait.

  I decide to bask in the postcoital glow for a few minutes more before I break the bad news to Sophia.

  I change the subject. “I saw your diary.”

  “Huh?”

  “The last time I was here; after you left. I had a nose around in your bedroom and found your diary.”

  “What! You shouldn’t have done that! You had no right to go through my personal belongings.” Her words sound severe, but she’s trying to remain calm to extend the pleasant ambience of our lovemaking.

  “No. I realise that now, but I was so upset and angry after hearing you screw your husband, I did it without thinking.”

  “There’s nothing interesting in my diary. I barely write anything in it,” she says.

  “No, but you do record our sex life, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dots, the symbols, the letters. It’s a record of what we’ve done together each time we’ve met.”

  After a long pause, Sophia comes clean. “Yes, you’re right. But there’s no way Joe would know that.”

  “How could you do it, Soph? We agreed to delete everything. What if Joe had found it and scrutinised it?”

  “He wouldn’t have understood what it all meant. It’s just a load of code symbols.”

  “They weren’t exactly hard to decipher. It took me about five minutes to figure out what most of the symbols mean. What's X by the way?”

  “That sideways thing we do, when our bodies sort of make a cross shape.”

  “Oh, yeah. What about S?”

  “Sixty-nine.”

  “I thought so. Q?”

  “Quick.”

  “We don’t have quickies.”

  “No. Quick, not quickies. You finished too
quickly for me.”

  “You never said anything at the time,” I say, as my self-esteem shrivels, mirroring my spent penis.

  “I didn’t want to upset you,” she says.

  “Very thoughtful of you. F?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “P?”

  “Look, the important thing is, Joe never looks at my diary, and even if he did, he’d have no idea what the letters and dots mean.”

  “You’ve got to destroy it, Soph. It’s evidence of our affair.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t see why it matters. It’s just for my own personal use.”

  “I don’t care. Promise me you’ll destroy it.”

  Sophia looks bemused by my insistence.

  “Okay, Lee. If that’s what you want.”

  “It is. Thank you.” I lean forward and kiss her tenderly on the lips.

  “Fancy another go?” Sophia says with a mischievous glint in her eye.

  “You’re kidding! I’m completely drained. And we need to be getting back to work.”

  “Spoilsport!” Sophia smacks me on the bottom as I get to my feet.

  “I’m just going to jump in the shower.”

  “Want some company?” she calls after me.

  “You’re insatiable, woman!” I shout over my shoulder and lock the bathroom door behind me.

  This doesn’t feel like the right time to break the bad news to Sophia that, despite evidence to the contrary, we’re still irrevocably broken up. Perhaps I’ll do it by text message this afternoon. That might be safer and easier.

  ◆◆◆

  I spend most of the afternoon pretending to work at my desk, but in reality I’m trying to compose a suitable text message; one that will be precise, contrite, gentle, irrefutable, reasonable and final, all at the same time. It isn’t easy.

  The timing is crucial as well. I want to send it very close to the end of the workday, so I can then escape to the safety of my home, but I should also leave sufficient time to answer any queries Sophia may have.