Always Being The Other Woman

Disclaimer:

This story is not a "Stroke Story". This story is about adultery and emotions. So, if you want a stroke story, please save yourself the disappointment and back-page before reading any further.

This story in no way reflects my personal life. All the characters, and their behavior are purely fictional.

As always, this story is my property, and may not be used, quoted or published, fully or in part, anywhere, without my written permission.

I'd also like to thank andrewpeters for his help and editing.

* * * * *

I don't know why I ever moved to The City.

Short words, The City. Short, but big words for a big place, words with even bigger images of hopes and dreams with fame, fortune, and glamour waiting, only steps away for any beautiful and intelligent small town girl like me.

Oh, and let's not forget the romances, with dashing and debonair men, so tall and so handsome. Men with sophisticated elegance and charm, strong men with slim tight waists and hips, broad in shoulders, clever talented men with minds sharp and defined. Successful and powerful men, yet gentle, caring and understanding. Men, who know how to hold you just right, say and mean the right words, sweeping you off your feet. Men, who give you that warm tummy, butterfly feeling just by being near you. All of them waiting, anticipating someone like me to enter their lives. Yes, the city has them all.

Success? Why of course. The City has contracts galore, contracts from advertising agencies, modeling agencies and even travel agencies all just waiting. Success is just there, for a photographer with a uniquely feminine perspective and innovative artistic point of view. One, whose photos of even the most mundane, turns people and objects into works of art, a photographer just like me.

Working in the city and traveling abroad to exotic places in Europe, the Caribbean or even South America, on photo shoots or romantic getaways with some handsome lover, what life could be better?

No, this place just is not me.

I don't understand the city. In the summer, the over heated steel, glass and concrete structures bake you. It stinks of burnt cooking oil, sweat, and urine. In winter the concrete and steel is freezing cold, colder than anywhere else, a cold that bites deep. If the wind blows then the dirt, grime and garbage is picked up until, you can smell nothing else. If there is no wind then the smog presses the stench down into the city, and the air becomes so thick you can almost not breathe. The taste of the heavy humid putrid air even sticks to the roof of your mouth. The city is always and completely devoid of nature, even the infesting cockroaches and rats seem alien and foreign. Here, the smallest and lonely hovel of an apartment costs more than many pay, back in my small hometown, for the mortgage on their houses.

I don't understand the people living in the city. A city full of people, always hurrying, never having enough time to say a helpful friendly word, always pushing always shoving. No one knows you. No one cares about you, an empty city, though too full of people.

This city is a city ruled by men, but inhabited by women. This city is full of, businessmen contracting their love lives much similar to their business dealings, and women willing to be dealt with like commodities. How much intimacy must I give in return for a blowjob, a fuck, or anal sex? Do you add to my prestige if I take you to this party, to this restaurant? What price tag can I put on our relationship?

Every first meeting, every first date is always the same. First, come the negotiating and the assessment of value. Then comes the framing, and wording of the contract. Lastly, the relationship ends when either the contract is not fulfilled in full, or some other woman of greater value is found on the meat market. All in full legalese. All up front and business like.

Too often, we give ourselves away, hoping sex can and will replace intimacy and love. We kiss a frog, eager for a prince, only to find it hopping away a toad.

Most of all, I'm not the sensuous creature I once thought myself to be. I consider myself pretty. I have long slender legs. My breasts might not be large, but full and match my hips proportionally very well. My waist is slim. Therefore, I am neither fat nor skinny, but just right. My skin is soft, alabaster and without scar or blemish. I am not a brunette; my hair is black, but soft, smooth and straight even when long. I am Ashkenazim of Nordic and German decent. This shows in my face, my best feature, with high cheekbones, a delicate nose, and large brown eyes. My only disadvantage is my height. I am small and almost petite to an extreme, only 5' 3, everyone looks down to me, as if I were a child.

Yet, the city I live in judges beauty not only by grace, and figure, but also in names like Gucci, Fendi, Prada and Armani. Physical beauty and intellect are only parts of the equation.

I am only one of millions of pretty girls, living in this lonely city. I am only one of thousands of freelance photographers working every day for newspapers and magazines while filling in and living off of family photo events, biding time, waiting for that moment to be discovered.

*

Sitting in my favorite coffee shop, with a cup of my favorite coffee and one of my favorite cream bagels, I am not even aware of the blur of people around me, blending into the background, in the busy, noisy city.

I'm more worried about my next photo session, and the non-existent photo session after that. With too many family weddings, baptisms, bar mitzvahs or anniversaries, and no fame and fortune in sight for the last 6 years, I've been going nowhere and fast.

I was also wondering where my relationship with Bryan was going. Was this the real deal? Did he love me as much as I did him? As much as he said, he did? At least that part of my life was going great.

Sweet Bryan, even though we haven't been able to see each other much as I would like. He's always in a hurry, never staying over night, always showing up late for dates, a true big city executive, a meeting here, a meeting there, and a late night dinner party that just couldn't be avoided. I wish I could be part of it, but still, this did feel like the real deal with all the romance, intimacy, and tenderness a girl could want. The toe curling sex made it even so much better.

It was getting very, very easy to imagine a life with him, a life centered on him. In that life, I could give up so much for him, surrendering completely and entirely to him.

Even though he was 17 years older than I, we still had time. Time maybe for a baby, or maybe even two, time for a house and a family away from the city. Yes, I could willingly give up so much for him and consider myself happy in doing so.

We've been together for almost a year. Maybe we should move in together, even if we don't get married at first. We'd have so much more quality time; he wouldn't always be in such a hurry, always so over worked. We have so much going for us. I could make him a home and be there for him. I knew I could. Our life, our home, our love together would be so beautiful. I could taste it! I wanted our life together, more than anything I've ever wanted in my life.

Sipping my coffee, I chuckled in thought, "I kissed a frog, and he truly did turn into a prince." Who ever she was, the woman who divorced him was a stupid fool. He was everything any woman, especially me, could ever want in a man.

"Excuse me, are you Sara Blum?"

I looked up to see a mousy brownish haired blonde in her mid-forties standing in front of me. Her stylish hair and clothing spoke of money and class, skirt and jacket by Chloe, shoes and purse by Versace. However, her mannerisms and body language told me she was uncomfortable in her surroundings, reclusive and very much a shy housewife type. An English rose supplanted in an American metropolis made of concrete and steel. She looked and acted very nervous, almost afraid.

So, this was the woman who had called at the agency and requested an appointment outside of the office. Maybe I was in luck and could fill my appointment book after all. But, why the meeting outside of the office, why had she not left her name with the agent's secretary?

I didn't recognize her. Her face didn't ring any bells. Had I photographed anything for her before, or had someone recommended me to her?

Ugh, her nervousness, of course. Was she again one of those looking for a female photographer to take nude erotic pictures of her for a present to her husband, boyfriend, or lover?

There was a wedding ring on her finger; so hopefully, the pictures would be for her husband, and not a lover that her husband did not know about. I have had enough of angry husbands. One husband screaming and yelling at me because I had taken nude photos of his wife without his permission was enough for me. No, crazy overly possessive husbands, I want nothing to do with. He's your husband, not mine. So, you deal with him, not me, sister.

Also, hopefully, not any pornographic photo shoots. I don't do those. I take erotic art photos, but that's all. I am a professional photographer and do not want involvement in anyone's funny games. Please, I'd rather not.

Not that she didn't look bad. She looked very nice in fact. Not that I'm that way. I do find women at times interesting and have wondered. Only men have so much more to offer. I just cannot see how any woman could compare to the strength, the magnetism and power of a male. I'm a woman who likes dick. I love cock. I worship cock. Men and that hard piece of man-meat they have, makes my world go round. Give me a big strong man that makes me feel feminine and soft, a man where I can allow myself to surrender and be submissive and weak, to a woman, any day, and thank you.

Just, I am a photographer, and do have a good eye discerning women who can make nude photography and those that should rather leave their clothes on.

Even though she was in her forties, her body wouldn't stop me from making good erotic art photos with her. Only working with amateur housewives was always a royal pain in the butt. They want, but they can't. They're too embarrassed to express themselves physically, sensuously. Add in the mixture of a pushy husband in the background and I would rather just throw my camera out the window.

With my mouth, still full of coffee and my thoughts still with Bryan, "Hmmm" I pointed to the empty chair on the other side of the little table.

I swallowed, "Sorry, coffee."

She sat down across from me, purse on table, both her hands pressed whitely to the top of her purse. Why is she so nervous? This is only to set up a photography session. If it's supposed to be an erotic nude photo session, and she is this nervous already, how is this going to work?

I took another sip of coffee to give her time to relax.

She looked down at her hands and spoke, "I'm sorry I didn't leave my name at your agency. I was afraid, you wouldn't meet with me. My name is Angelica, Angelica Simons. I'm Bryan Simons wife."

This time I spilt coffee. "Excuse me? You're Bryan Simons ex-wife?"

Now with a sterner look on her face, she stared back at me, "Is that what he told you? No, I am Bryan's wife. We are married."

Why is she doing this? Is this some kind of crazy joke? Is she some kind of lunatic stalker? Oh my god Bryan, why didn't you warn me?

"No, that is not true. You're divorced. You've been divorced for years. What are you trying to do?" I glared angrily back at her. No, she's not pulling this one off on me.

Blushing, her eyes dropped to her purse, she opened the clasp, and reached in, pulling out folded papers and a package of photos. She stretched her hand with the papers and photos out towards me, "He told the other one the same thing, so I've come prepared. There's our wedding certificate and some photos made two weeks ago of us at our 15th wedding anniversary. There's also photos of us together with our two children, Andre and Melissa. Believe me, we are married. I'm sorry, but this isn't the first time he's done this. I'm so sorry."

Two weeks ago? Their 15th wedding anniversary? But, he said he was on a business trip.

There they are, all the party photos of their big wedding anniversary. There's their son and daughter. There's them with his parents, his in-laws. There they are cutting the anniversary cake. I can even read the, 'Happy 15th Anniversary' written on it. All taken at their house and all with time stamp on them.

Where was I that weekend? Sitting at home in my little studio apartment feeling lonely, wearing one of his t-shirts he'd forgotten, because I felt closer to him, his smell surrounding me. I was at home, waiting and worrying, not able to call him on his cell because he was in Europe... on a business trip, missing me, wishing I were there with him.

She was still talking. Her lips were moving. Her eyes were pleading, begging for understanding. I couldn't hear her over the rushing sound in my ears. I was dizzy, so dizzy. What did she say?

"Please, I don't want him to know that I know. The last time, we almost divorced. If he knows I know, then I'll have to act. I won't be able to just ignore, and hope that things will change, will get better..."

"You're married? You have two children?" I could only think, remembering my thoughts of moments before, my dreams of our marriage and our children. They were now her marriage, their marriage, and their children. Our children, our love, our building our home together and our life, the watching our children growing up, our vacations, our times together, growing old together and our wedding anniversaries, there in those pictures, all gone, never to be. A foolish dream dreamt by an even more foolish woman.

Her hand reached out towards mine, "I'm so sorry. I know you're hurting!"

I couldn't take any more. With shaking hands, I reached into my purse looking for my wallet. I couldn't see it, couldn't find it. Damn it, I'm not going to cry, not here, not now, not in front of her and not in front of them, no I'm not.

Finally, I found my wallet and pulled some money out. That should be enough. I rushed out of the café, not saying a word good bye.

Out in the busy street, the sun blinding my watery eyes, I stumbled first into one man who pushed back, "Hey lady, watch where you're going!" Bouncing off him, I ran fully into the next one. This man grabbed me by the arms and shoulders so I wouldn't fall; "Slow down." He smiled, and then set me aside before he continued on.

Automatically, I wandered drunkenly in the direction of the bus stop. I couldn't keep the images of those pictures out of my mind and the more I thought of them the dizzier I became.

How could he do this to me? I loved him. I cared for him. I thought he loved me, no he said he loved me. Why?

I stopped, and someone behind me bumped into me, cursing me as they then went around me. I pulled out my cell, and called his, "Hello, this is Bryan Simmons, I'm not available at the moment so please leave a message." Then came the beep.

"Why Bryan, why did you lie to me. I know now you're married and even have two children." I hung up. Why should I be talking to a machine? A machine that wouldn't talk back, that can't understand my emotions? Damn it Bryan, why can't you answer your phone?

The bus, my bus, I saw pulling out from the bus stop. There was no way that I was going to catch it. I was still at least 50 crowded feet away. Why that now too? I wanted to just sit down on the cement sidewalk and damn the people. Damn them all, why can't they just leave me alone? Why must they always be pushing and shoving, always in a hurry? I can't right now. Please, I can't.

A taxi stopped at the curb and a man got out. The door stayed open, and almost unthinkingly, I slide in and told the driver my address. I turned off my mind, and just let the sounds of the city surround and draw me in, into a quiet solitude of nothingness. My only goal was to lock my door behind me, and the world outside.

*

With both locks turned on my door and the chain in place, I turned to the heavy curtains and blocked out the sunlight and as much of the sounds of the city as I could. Away, please everything just go away.

Finally, safe and secure I could let my emotions roll over me. I began to shake as the first tears came and crawled onto my bed, pulling one of my pillows into me. The silky coverlet felt cool. The pain inside of me hurt. It hurt worse than anything I've ever felt before.

My tears fell on my pillow I was hugging so tightly to me. So tightly, as if it were a person, a person I loved and loved me.

Feeling, knowing intuitively this, I got up, went to my closet, pulled out from underneath shoeboxes an older wood and cardboard suitcase. From it, I took out a white damask pillowcase with hand embroidery stitching all along the edge. Once it had belonged to my grandmother. It was a part of my dowry from her.

I slipped the one pillowcase off and put the damask one on. I curled back up on my bed, pulling again my pillow into me as much as I could. I could feel her nearer me now.

I felt a child again and just as when I'd been sick or hurt, she was there. I could smell her perfume faintly. I could feel the rougher, heavy wool texture of her black skirt against my cheeks, just as it had always been when I laid my head in her lap. I could almost hear her singing, singing the songs she always softly sang, from the old country. Words, I knew, but couldn't seem to bring into context, but words that comforted me. I could almost taste the smells coming from her kitchen, the sweet scent of eggy bread, the stronger of gefilte fish, and the heavy smell of cabbage cooking, all my favorite dishes.

I fell asleep hearing her words spoken softly, tenderly, almost in a whisper, "A bissel pain must we all feel, meydl. Dos geht nisht anderst."

I awoke later to my cellphone ringing from my purse. I didn't answer. I knew it was Bryan. Later my telephone rang and I let the answering machine take the call. Twice again it rang, and three times more my cell went off. I never answered any; only lay there hugging my damask covered pillow as if life depended on it, wanting the feeling of the nearness of my grandmother to return.

An hour or so after the last call, I could hear a key being pushed into the lock on my door. Even though he could open that one lock, the other one could only be opened from the inside, and still the chain was there. Yet, I did not feel safe. I did not want to talk with him, and I even feared now talking with him.

I got up and pulled an embroidered quilt out of the old suitcase and crawled into the furthest corner of my room, the blanket over me except for my head, the pillow hugged tightly in front of me.

First, he knocked on the door, and then I heard him, "Sara honey... I know you're there. Please open up. We've got to talk."

I did nothing but pushed myself further into the outer wall and corner, pulling the quilt and pillow even tighter.

"Sara, please let me explain." There was then a longer pause. "Sara, I know you love me, you don't want to do this. Let's talk. We can work this out."

Then there was nothing. Only the wail of a siren in the distance and the busy evening noise down in the street below me could be heard. Still, I was afraid to look. Was he still out there waiting? Would he come back some other time?

At the thought of him out there waiting panic took control of me.

No girl, relax, breathe deeply. You're not going to cry again. You're not going to show them that you hurt. You're not going to show him feelings. He's not worth it. Don't show him that he hurt you. He's yesterday's news. Don't give him any control over you.