Ask Amy

She rose, kissed me, smiled, and said, "More to come. Promise." We tumbled into bed.

For several minutes we lay together, kissing, holding each other, exploring each other's body with our hands. I traced Amy's lovely brown nipples with a finger, and they hardened and poked 'way out. Her vagina now was lubricating a bit, her clitoris poking out a little from its hood. Meanwhile her hands explored my back, my buttocks, my chest. She knew enough not to over-stimulate my very erect cock.

Amy's sexual excitement was increasing. At the same time, I was happy to see, she seemed to be relaxing psychologically. The little hesitations were gone; her motions were more relaxed and fluid; the muscle tension in her upper body had eased. Her kisses became more playful. I got the impression she had fully committed to having sex with me, here and now, and any reservations had been banished or at least locked in the garage. So I relaxed more too.

I rolled Amy onto her back, put my head between her legs, admired the view and the lovely soft scent, and then started licking. With my left hand I fondled her pubic mound; the right hand played with a breast. This combination proved perfect. Amy's lubrication increased, her breathing quickened, and her lovely brown nipples somehow managed to poke out even farther. She put her hands to the back of my head and pressed my face to her pussy.

Her orgasm came about a minute later. It wasn't loud enough to rattle the windows, but it was enough to make her lover feel he had done something worthwhile today. Twenty or thirty seconds later, she beckoned me to come up and join her. I gave my face a quick wipe with a Kleenex and obeyed. Then Amy kissed me long and tenderly. She looked into my eyes and said, "Alan, that was so... lovely."

Later she told me she had always loved cunnilingus. Carl had started making her beg him for it. She soon decided she would rather do without than beg.

By the time she came, my erection had subsided. And by then I was so happy with the physical intimacy we had shared, so pleased with the pleasure Amy had enjoyed, that I honestly could have gotten dressed, driven her home, and considered it a wonderful day. But Amy was having none of that. Before I knew it, I was on my back, and she was between my legs, holding my cock and licking my balls. Up and down she ran her tongue over my scrotum, bathing me in pleasure. Then she switched to licking my cock--now erect again--the same way. Up and down, both sides. Then she began rapidly flicking the underside of my glans with her tongue. Suddenly I was deep in her mouth--almost all of my cock. Again she sucked with great skill. I didn't want her to stop, but I wanted more than a blowjob now, so I had to focus on not coming.

She climbed on top of my legs, looked me in the eye, and said, "We need to fuck. Yes?"

"Yes," I replied.

At that point I expected her to mount me and ride me cowgirl-style--which would have been perfectly fine with me--but I guess Amy wanted something more traditional. She rolled onto her back, bent her knees, opened her legs wide, held out her arms, and said, "Fuck me, Alan." I obliged.

Amy was still well lubricated and already surprisingly aroused. We kissed, and I entered her easily. She was wet and warm and fairly snug, and I was feeling nothing but delight. Finally my reasoning power made a brief, belated appearance.

"Contraception?" I inquired.

"All taken care of."

Back to work. I was supporting my weight with my left arm. Fingers of my right hand caressed her clitoris as I moved my cock slowly in and out of her vagina. Amy moaned, clutched me tightly, played with my lower back and bottom. We kissed some more. I knew I couldn't last much longer and hoped Amy could get off before I came.

We just made it. Her second orgasm didn't seem as big as the first, but apparently it did the trick. The rhythmic clenching of her vagina was more than my overstimulated cock could bear, and I came right afterwards, flooding Amy with, I think, quite a dose of semen.

We held each other tightly, then I looked at her face. Her eyes were moist, but she was smiling. I hoped to hell those were happy tears. I could have shed a few myself, but big boys don't cry, so I didn't. It was close, though.

* * * * * 7

Amy and I were silent for about five minutes. We lay side-by-side in my bed, just looking at each other's face and body, holding each other. She didn't look unhappy--pensive, maybe. Amy kissed me, inhaled long and slowly, and ran fingertips across my cheek. Then she looked me in the eye.

"I just cheated on my husband," she stated.

"Yes.... Is this the first time?"

"Yes," she said.

I squeezed her briefly, kissed her forehead, tried to indicate that I understood what she was feeling. "That's a big step," I said. "But is 'cheated' quite the right word?"

"No, but you understand what I am saying."

"Yes, I do," I said.

"That's the word everybody uses, including 'Ask Amy': 'cheated,' 'cheating,' 'cheater.'"

"You're not a 'cheater,' Amy. You're a wonderful, very intelligent, sensitive human being.... Someone who needs and deserves much more affection, understanding, and satisfying sex than she has been receiving for a few years."

"In one sense I know that, Alan. But thank you for saying that. You've been wonderful. Making love with you was... I made the right decision. I've given my body many times to a man who, these days, just wants to express power and dominance. This is the first time in at least... three years, maybe?... that a man and I have made love to each other. I'm still processing all the feelings, the thoughts.... I suppose you're an old hand at adultery but, as I said, I'm new at this." She gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

"Not exactly," I replied. "I'm not innocent of the act. Near the end of our marriage, Marcia and I both found some affection elsewhere. But I'm not an "old hand" at this, either. Today was a step for me too. This is the first time I've had sex with--pardon the expression--another man's wife."

A small smile appeared on Amy's face. "And how does it feel?" she asked.

I couldn't help smiling a little, myself. "I can't get over how little guilt I feel. I can't get over how appropriate what we just did feels. It was wonderful."

Amy's smile widened a little. "Yes," she said. "That's sort of how I feel too. Maybe I'm feeling a little more guilt than you are--but less than I expected. Appropriate, yes." She moved my hand to her breast, and we kissed a little.

Her next question surprised me. "Have you forgiven Marcia for her infidelity?"

"Of course."

"That's good. My readers rarely forgive infidelity. And I haven't done much to change their attitude."

"Your readers have a lot to learn about love and marriage. And the rest of life. But please don't hold yourself responsible for making them learn it all. Especially if you've got only 75 or 100 words to do it. Besides, most of the important stuff only gets learned from experience, usually from trial and error. And then afterwards you have to think about your experience, decide what was your error. Who wants to do that? It's easier to blame your partner for everything."

"I like you, Alan. A lot." We snuggled.

A minute later I realized I had to spoil the mood. "Speaking of married women, we need to get you home again. What time is Carl due back?"

"There's no great rush tonight," Amy replied. "But I do want to return soon. Carl alleges he has an important meeting tonight, over dinner, with some of the other company hotshots. In reality, he's going out with a lovely young thing, a recent hire in the company's indemnity department. Did I tell you he works in insurance? Lowell-Revere Mutual. Anyway, she seems to be a pretty blonde, early 20s, eager to get her career off to a good start. I'm not sure screwing Carl is the best way to do that, but we'll see. She might make an excellent trophy wife. Better than I did."

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

"I come from Boston. I have friends there. Even a friend or two at Lowell-Revere."

"I'm sorry, Amy."

"Every dose of his sperm someone else gets is one I don't have to receive. Just hold me for a minute, Alan; then let's get dressed, and you can take me home. Then I just want to be by myself for a few hours, have a glass of wine, and get in touch with my feelings... and also think a bit. No worries about how I'll process this afternoon. It was good, and I'm glad. Now give me a kiss and a snuggle, and then we can hit the road."

* * * * * 8

One Saturday in mid-June--about three months into our friendship--we spent our first night together. Carl was off to a meeting, allegedly in San Francisco. Maybe actually in San Francisco, who knows? All Amy knew for sure is that the first leg of his flight was Hartford to Minneapolis. She had driven him to the airport, blown him in the short-term parking lot--at his insistence, of course--and then kept him company until his departure.

Vernon is a half hour southeast of Bradley--the Hartford-Springfield airport. It's an easy jaunt except at rush hour. Amy joined me in mid-afternoon. She used my blue Listerine. Then we made love, made and ate dinner together, strolled around the neighborhood, showered together, and plopped back into bed.

She looked tired, even a little haggard. Not from the late-afternoon sex--I'm not that wild a stud. Probably from the stresses and conflicts of her job plus the stresses and conflicts of her personal life. Maybe also, I imagined, from struggling to reconcile the image of "Amy" she had to create in her column and the Amy Vandenberg who now happened to be in my bed. The two Amys had drifted a good distance apart.

Lying on her side, she bent an elbow to prop up her head. She pulled our naked bodies together, kissed me, then tugged up the sheet. "Thank you for never mentioning it," she said.

"'It' being..."

"The gulf between the advice I give other people and what I'm doing."

"Cognitive dissonance is no fun," I said. "Are you feeling it's time to start taking your own advice?"

"No."

"I'm glad of that," I said, kissing her. In the world of the advice columns--both hers and Abby's--"cheating" is a crime and a sin not far below killing and eating your children.

Amy looked close to tears. "Try to understand, Alan," she said. "I'm not my own master. There's an amazing web of contractual obligations connecting me, my staff, the "professional corporation" Carl and I own that manages me, and the syndicate I have to keep pleasing. The features-distribution syndicate, I mean: I don't work for the Mob. I think.... I'm required to do regular public appearances, generate a certain number of clicks, "likes," and forwards in the social media. A certain number of newspapers need to keep carrying me, plus I need to maintain a certain size of total circulation. Lots of fun when newspapers are dying off left and right. I constantly have to maintain and build my goddamned 'brand'--I hate that term! Like cattle...."

I nodded sympathetically. Amy continued:

"So I need to please the syndicate. The syndicate needs to please the editors and publishers. The editors and publishers want to please their advertisers--also encourage consumer spending, discourage unions, celebrate conventional morality, and help keep all workers on the straight and narrow path and hard at work. Stray from the Party Line more than a smidgen, and the columnist is "disappeared." Incidentally, there's a morals clause in my own contract with the syndicate.

"For a reader with a troubled marriage, I really have only four options for advice. Communicate better with each other. Adjust your expectations. See a licensed counsellor. See a divorce lawyer. Plus, if your spouse drinks, go to Al-Anon. Oh, and always throw in an STD scare at the end. Be sure to get tested right away!

"Here's a reply I fantasize about giving some day. 'Dear At-Wits'-End: The best way to clarify what your marriage lacks, what it needs, and what are your chances of getting it is this. Find a good man and have an affair with him. If your husband is cheating on you too, so much the better. You'll feel better immediately. More importantly, in two or three months you will see clearly what it would take to fix your marriage--and whether or not doing all that would be worth the trouble.'

"Of course, that would be my last column ever. And most of the papers wouldn't even print it. And the Women's Club of Topeka would cancel my speaking engagement."

"It sounds a little like you've turned a corner in your own marriage, Amy."

"Possibly I have. If so, I'm still not quite ready to admit it to myself. I'll keep you posted."

"I'm here when you need me, Amy. Other times, too."

"I know," she replied. "Thank you. Want to do something helpful now? Just fuck me, if you can. Don't make love this time: just fuck me. And make me breakfast tomorrow morning. Not breakfast in bed. When I wake up I want your bedroom to smell like you and me and good sex, not bacon and eggs."

Her eyes were moist. "Just fuck me," she said one last time. "Please."

* * * * * 9

Amy told me more on Sunday, over breakfast. "Her name is Freya," she said. "Carl's protégé. Of course, she's not the first. There was a realtor in Putnam and a girl at Mass Mutual and who knows who else. I do think Freya is the youngest, so far."

"Cute name," I replied.

"A cute name and a lovely young woman, at least to look at."

"You too are a lovely young woman," I said.

"Thirty-seven."

"That's plenty young. And a 37-year-old woman is far lovelier than any callow twenty-something. And ten times better in bed, I'm sure. Amy, Freya is just a distraction. You know that. Even if Carl were as faithful as Sir Galahad--or was it Gawain?--your marriage would still be on the rocks."

"She's with him now in San Francisco. Or wherever the hell they are."

"Why do you think that?"

"I just know. Let's check," she said. "Can I use your computer?"

We went into my study. I watched the large screen as Amy clicked and typed. A color photograph appeared, a head-and-shoulders shot, front-on. The photography was uninspired, to say the least. It looked like an ID photo for a driver's license or an employee badge. Even so, I could see that the young blonde woman was beautiful. I didn't have to ask who she was, but I had to say something.

"Freya?" I said.

Amy nodded. She removed the photo and logged on to a Gmail account under a name I didn't recognize. Then she quickly drafted a good imitation of a short piece of junk mail. On the Subject line she typed, "Don't miss this opportunity." She addressed it to Freya.Bergmann.p37@Lowell-Revere.com.

The automatic reply arrived within a second. Freya will be out of the office until Wednesday morning, it said. For faster assistance I could contact Jeremy.Neill.p37@Lowell-Revere.com or dial 1-888-887-....

"Carl is coming home Tuesday afternoon," Amy said. "Both he and Freya will be back at work Wednesday morning."

"I hope United doesn't lose their baggage," I said. "They won't even be on the same flight, right? He's flying in to Bradley; she's going to Logan. If she's going anywhere. Maybe she's in Medford now, caring for her sick mother. Freya isn't the real problem, is she? She's just a symptom. Maybe me too. We could talk instead about ways to deal with the real problems...."

"Like maybe me moving out and filing for divorce?"

"For example."

"That will happen, Alan. Sooner than it would have happened if I hadn't met you. Later I'll be grateful to you for that too, but right now I'm feeling overwhelmed. Carl's and my business-financial relationship is enormously complex. Our private financial relationship is complex enough--our corporation, the house we own jointly, some shared bank accounts, ... his inheritance, our investments, 401ks, what's left of the mortgage.... And our private finances and business finances themselves are dismayingly intertwined. The two rooms of the house I use for business, for instance....

"The amount of billable hours his lawyers and accountants and my lawyers and accountants will charge just to disentangle us financially is staggering. And that doesn't even consider any dirty tricks and fast moves he and his lawyers may decide to pull on me.

"Then there's my house. Carl works long hours in Boston and travels a bit. It's jointly owned, but emotionally I think of it as my house. When Carl is not there, which is much of the time, the house is my source of pleasure, my refuge... my healing place. A beautiful place, a place I feel that, emotionally, I need. Not to mention, since the pandemic hit, my primary place of business."

Amy, still seated at my desk, was crying now. I stood behind her, hugging her as best I could. "Try to understand," she said between sniffs; "I can't just walk out of there.

"And look at me now!" she went on, crying and talking at the same time. "Carl has seen me like this, and now you have. No one else has. I'm the strong, sensible, sane one, remember? The woman who tells other people how to fix their lives. Look at me. This part of me you see now is real. I'm hurt, and I'm afraid, and I'm crying--and nothing really bad has even happened yet. You know the emotional toll divorce takes on people. How would you describe my emotional strength and resilience at the moment?"

I helped her stand and then hugged her, chest to chest. "You're fragile, Amy. And injured. I want to protect you, want to help you heal. I wish I knew how."

She cried in my arms. "I wish I could tell you how," she said. "Maybe I should write to Dear Abby. She'll probably tell me I have a geranium in my cranium. I know: that wasn't her, that was her aunt, 'Ann Landers.' Maybe I should 'wake up and smell the coffee.' Ask myself if I'm better off with him or without him. Communicate better. Get counselling. Get tested for STDs. See a divorce lawyer. Take a lover."

"How about all of the above?" I suggested. "I'll play the lover."

"The part is yours." Then, channeling Bette Davis, she warned, "Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy night." I held her until the tears stopped and then for another minute or two.

* * * * * 10

Amy took the next step sooner than I expected--right after the Fourth of July. She consulted a lawyer in Putnam.

I guess Madelyn Sternglass was pretty good at family law. She immediately helped Amy set up some mechanisms to protect some of her wealth and income from a ticked-off spouse or business partner--in case one appeared. The sums safeguarded had to be modest, though; otherwise, Amy could expect a challenge from the other party and more litigation.

Divorce in Connecticut is not terribly onerous, Madelyn told Amy, but think of the process as hacking your way through a jungle. One could hack many different legal paths through that jungle before emerging on the far side of it. One's path could be direct and fairly simple or it could be amazingly complicated. There are alternative steps to practically every step, and many steps can even be skipped--if your spouse agrees. The divorce could be either at-fault or no-fault, and it's hard to say in advance which would be easier. At-fault is usually quicker.

The good news is, the court will grant the divorce you seek. It's practically impossible to stop a divorce if either spouse wants one. You will prevail. The bad news is that a combative spouse can dispute practically every condition you want in your decree. He has the power to drag out the process for months, snarl all your financial affairs, drive both your blood pressure and your legal bills through the roof. I'm going to need a surprisingly large retainer before I even begin this action, Madelyn told her.

The absence of children helps a lot, she continued. If you choose to waive alimony, that too will speed things up a lot. The expensive real estate complicates things, but we can deal with that. Your business entanglements with your spouse will be a big aggravation, and to protect you I'll want to bring in an associate who really knows business law. Your husband's abusive behavior and his adulteries both help your case. Adultery in itself is grounds for divorce. Your own adultery actually will help our claim that your marriage is irremediably broken--but offending a judge's moral sensibilities is never a good idea, so put a damper on your affair for now.