Getting Over Rita

"Until next week," the professor said. We bolted from our seats, rushed through the double-doored exit and walked individually down the otherwise empty hallway to the State Street exit of Powers Hall, the campus' main classroom building.

Our graduate seminar met Tuesday evenings for two hours.

Once outside in the cool September evening, something kept us from heading our separate ways.

Maybe it was the initial discussion between the first two students out of the building. A third student joined them, then a fourth. I was the sixth, and last.

"What a bunch of bullshit," Eric said as I stepped into the circle. "The guy's a damn walking cliché."

"I've never felt more insulted in my life," said Tony. "Reading whole paragraphs from the textbook? Come on!"

"We have no one to blame but ourselves," said Darlene. "I mean with a title like 'Communication, Technology and Democracy' you have to expect this class is going to be crap."

And so on.

Someone suggested we grab a beer at the brewpub a half block away.

"To get the taste out of our mouths," said Bill.

Everyone guffawed.

I remained noncommittal, waiting to see who in our group of two women and four men was going.

One of the women, Rita, I'd been keeping an eye on since the first night of class three weeks ago. Her light mocha-colored skin and large dark eyes had captured my attention. She looked to be in her early thirties.

I assumed she came to class from work because she always dressed in business professional attire--dark skirts, white blouses, dark blazers or sweaters. We'd exchanged smiles a couple of times, but hadn't spoken. When Rita said she'd go, I nodded my assent as well.

There was a moment of disorganized shuffling as our group paired off for the brief walk. I made sure Rita was my partner.

"Yes, I know who you are, Larry," she said when I introduced myself.

All my cute quips and humorous stories suddenly abandoned me and I was left with the pedestrian topics related to work (she was a bank administrator), major (international affairs) and interests (movies, hiking, reading).

The brewpub had one available booth, a small one that comfortably seated four. We squeezed ourselves in, three to a side. Bill was first in the booth, followed by Rita.

Darlene and another guy sat on the other side, leaving the outside seats to Tony and me. Rita extended her hand.

"Thanks," I said.

"Do you have enough room?" she said.

It seemed my stock was rising. I'm a big guy, six-feet two and weigh 235 pounds.

My outside asscheek was barely on the bench. "I'm good."

She pulled on my jacket. "You can scoot closer. I promise I won't bite."

We nursed our beers while we complained about the class and the professor. My attention, however, was on Rita's body--the hand brushing against my arm, shoulder leaning into me while she laughed or reached for more popcorn, her thigh touching mine and not moving away, a couple of jabs to the shoulder and chest in response to something humorous I said.

Every touch, no matter how light or incidental, grew my cock and by the time Bill announced he was calling it a night, I had an erection the size of Florida.

Rita and I stood to let Bill out. Fortunately I'd taken off my jacket earlier and now I held it, nonchalantly, I hoped, at my crotch. We remained standing by the booth while the other four classmates left.

"You want to stay a bit longer?" Rita said.

We retook our seats. And even though it was just the two of us, Rita snuggled next to me.

"You want another beer?" Rita said.

I shook my head. "One's enough for me. I love the TASTE of beer, but the buzz not so much. I get a stuffy nose."

"Interesting. I don't drink much myself either."

It was information to begin building a bridge of commonality.

"So tell me more about yourself," she said.

"Well, I work in development and public relations for a nonprofit."

She gave me an approving nod.

"We collect food from restaurants and grocery stores and distribute it to food banks, soup kitchens and the like."

"That sounds interesting."

"It is," I said. "Feels like I'm doing a little bit to help with a big problem. So many people in our county are anxious about getting enough to eat, especially children."

"Yes. So you're working on an MBA I take it?"

"Public policy. That's the preferred degree for someone in my field."

"I see."

She moved her hand next to my arm. "I notice you're not wearing a ring. Does that mean you're not married?"

The unintentional big sigh I let out surprised me.

"The short answer is I'm married and about to file for divorce. My wife is basically living with a guy in our neighborhood."

She moved her hand to my arm. "That must be rough."

It had been far too long since a woman had touched me like that. As a result, my body turned this innocent gesture into something sexual.

"We've been married seven years."

"Kids?"

I shook my head. "That's about the only thing we've done right. She's got a good paying job so once we're divorced there won't be any alimony to worry about."

She nodded. "It must be hard though, her being with someone in the neighborhood."

I laughed to cover up my embarrassment. "Yeah. We're the talk of the 'hood. One neighbor actually said 'what are you going to do about it?' I didn't know how to respond. What can I do? Shoot the bastard who's fucking my wife?"

She smiled.

"Enough about me," I said. "Your turn."

She squeezed my arm. "I've been married seven years as well."

I struggled to focus on her words and not on my cock's response to her hand still resting on my arm. "Kids?"

"No. And I'm glad we decided not to have any."

"Because?"

"Because our marriage is ending. It's been dead for several years. As far as I know, he's not cheating on me, but he's also not very present."

"Ah! A workaholic?"

She gave me a surprised look. "How'd you know?"

"It's one way not to feel anything about a dead relationship. Spend all your time nose to the grindstone."

She nodded. "That's exactly right. Anyway, I've found an apartment, not far from here actually. I move in this weekend."

We were both silent for a moment before I spoke again. "I guess seven's not our lucky number."

She played with one of the napkins that had been left on the table. "Isn't there something, a saying about a seven-year itch?"

"'The Seven Year Itch.' It's the name of a movie."

"It is?"

Thank goodness for smartphones. In less than a minute I had the answer. "Tom Ewell and Marilyn Monroe, released in 1955, eighty-four percent Rotten Tomatoes."

"I haven't seen it."

"I haven't either."

I thought about asking her if she'd like to see it with me, at my house. But I didn't want to risk seeming like I was being too aggressive with her.

"I'm getting warm," she said. And with that, she struggled out of her sweater, her arms above her head which forced her chest forward pressing her small but shapely breasts against her blouse.

I helped free her arms from the sweater.

"Thanks," she said, her face close enough for me to kiss. "I feel like a teenager on a date."

"How so?"

"I'm feeling a little awkward. I'm enjoying myself with you and don't want it to end, but I know we both have to go to work in the morning."

"Can I have your phone number?"

Her face brightened. "What's yours?"

She took out her phone, pressed the numbers as I gave them to her.

My phone rang.

"There," she said.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

Rita put her hand on my shoulder. "I need to go."

I stood up. "Can I walk you to your car?"

"That's okay. I'm not far away."

We paid our tab and went outside. It was dark and cold. Rita slipped on her sweater.

I put on my jacket. "Sure you don't want me to--"

"--I'm fine," she said. "Really."

I wanted to hug her, but she'd already taken a step away from me.

"See you next week," I said.

She waved as she turned and walked away.

The next morning she didn't pick up when I called. I just wanted to hear her voice, wish her a good day at work.

At lunch I tried again. This time I left a message: hope you're having a good day.

I tried unsuccessfully three more times to reach her that week.

She never returned my calls.

The following Tuesday, I showed up early for class, hoping to talk with her, get an explanation. She never showed. Before heading home, I called but all I got was her voicemail.

A week later during break, Darlene said that Rita had dropped the class.

I drove home that night feeling despondent. Why had she dropped out? I wracked my brain trying to identify something I'd said or done. I was angry she hadn't called.

My house is in a subdivision of homes on two-acre lots and to reduce nighttime light pollution our HOA has several rules regarding outdoor lighting. We have no street lights, so at night the drive to my home is in almost total darkness.

As I turned into my driveway I caught the outline of a car parked in front of my garage. I slammed on the brakes, almost fainting from the shock of a near miss. When I recovered sufficiently I realized the car belonged to my wife, Brenda.

***

The house was dark.

"Brenda?" I called from the kitchen. I got no reply.

I turned on a light. Everything was as I'd left it that morning. The same for the living room and my study.

In the master bedroom I turned on a dresser lamp. And there was Brenda in bed. She lifted her head from the pillow and looked toward me with her eyes closed. "What time is it?"

Even from the far side of our king bed I smelled the booze.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

She blinked her eyes open and yawned. "This is still my house too."

"Why aren't you at Phil's?"

Phil was the neighbor.

"We had a fight."

"And so you think it's okay to come over here unannounced and slip into bed?"

"I miss you, Larry."

"No, you don't. You're drunk."

She threw back the covers. She was naked. "I want you to fuck me."

"Now why would I want to do that?"

She crawled across the bed to where I stood, hopped to the floor and put her arms around me. "Because I'm your wife and I'm horny."

Her dark brown eyes never left mine as I studied her face. How long had it been since I'd last been this close to her? It had to have been six months.

She was an attractive woman. Hell, she was a sexy woman! That's why I'd married her.

Her face had a hard edge to it now, maybe because of the drinking. And she'd put on a little weight which, to my surprise, made her look even sexier. Most noticeably in her boobs which now were just shy of pendulous, and her thighs and ass, which made her look somewhat reubenesque.

And her pussy! She'd shaved her pubic hair into an inverted triangle, as if Phil needed directions.

She bore an uncanny resemblance to a woman I'd flirted with last month at a party. As it was breaking up, she had invited me to go home with her.

"You can do me any way you want," she had said. "I'm easy."

Her desperation made me nauseous.

As I looked at my wife now, I thought of this other woman and the missed opportunity. My eyes ran up and down Brenda's body but it was this other woman I was thinking about.

I thought of Rita's hand on my arm.

"Are you just going to stand there with a hard-on?" Brenda said, interrupting my daydream.

Brenda's question caught me by surprise. So did my erection.

I offered no resistance when Brenda slid to her knees and undid my pants, working them and my shorts to my ankles.

"I've missed this," she said, a hungry look in her eye. And then she took me into her mouth.

This wasn't my wife.

As part of foreplay, Brenda used to tease me by covering the crotch of my pants with her mouth, her heat bringing me to the edge. But once undressed, she refused to suck me.

"Phil teach you this?"

She grinned as she locked eyes with me. "He's taught me a lot of things, Larry."

I let her pull my shoes and socks off, then stepped out of my pants and shorts. She stood up to finish undressing me.

"My pussy's so wet. I can feel--wait! I'll let you feel."

I let her guide my hand. My fingers came away wet from brushing against her inner thighs.

"I want you to fuck me now. Please!"

She rested my hand against her labia and then, on my own, I dipped two fingers into her sex.

She stiffened, gasped and pulled me onto the bed.

She lay on her back, legs apart. "How do you want me?"

"On your hands and knees."

She scrambled to obey.

I was deaf to her cries and screams. I wasn't fucking Brenda, I was fucking Rita. I was fucking the woman at the party, the one who said, "I'm easy."

Brenda's pussy was merely a hole, an abstraction, yet, at the same time, it was real--wet and warm.

I felt good fucking it.

"Use me like a whore," Brenda cried out.

Brenda never talked like this. Our sex life had been plain vanilla.

To keep my mind from thinking about the woman I was fucking, I imagined the things I'd do to the woman at the party. I wished I could remember her name.

But Brenda wouldn't let me fantasize in peace. She disengaged herself from me, got on her knees. "I seem to have developed a taste for cocks infused with pussy juice."

Before I could say anything my cock was all the way down her throat.

Then she lay back on the bed, facing me, legs wide apart. "Fuck me, Larry. Make me your whore."

I slammed into her pussy with all my might.

"That's it! Yes! Yes! Fuck my pussy. Make it come hard, Larry."

But it wasn't Brenda's voice I heard. It was Rita's. It was the woman at the party.

Brenda slapped my shoulder as she squeezed her legs around my waist. "Come in my pussy! Please! I need to feel your spunk in me."

She didn't have to ask twice.

We both screamed as I spurted my release.

Typically I lose my erection shortly after climaxing, but tonight I remained rigid enough to stay in her pussy.

"Thank you," she said, tears streaming down her face.

I didn't know how to respond so I remained silent.

As my afterglow receded I started to withdraw, but she tightened her arms and legs around me. "Don't go! I want you to stay in me. Please!"

She moved just enough to keep me semi-hard.

After a while I responded to her with thrusts of my own.

She gave me a devilish grin. "Do you think I'm a slut?"

"I think what's important is how you feel about yourself, not what someone else thinks."

"But I'm curious what you think."

"I don't think one way or another."

"But you just fucked me. You came in my pussy!"

I tried to withdraw, but she tightened her grip.

"Did you enjoy--of course you did. You came in me."

She was talking to herself now.

"I want you to suck my tits."

Instead I slammed my cock into her, hard.

She yelped.

"I'm a whore," she said. "I need to be punished."

This time I succeeded in withdrawing myself.

"I need you, Larry!"

I shook my head.

"I want you to fuck me. Please!"

"No."

She smirked. "Being mister hard to get?"

"Why are you here?"

"I told you, Phil and I had a fight."

I hopped off the bed. "Brenda, I'm going to take a shower and when I'm finished I'd like for you not to be here."

"You're kicking me out of my own home?"

"It's been a good six months since this was your home."

"It still is. Legally, I'm still your wife."

"Legally you--"

What was I doing? I was arguing with a drunk.

But Brenda wouldn't stop. "We'll see what our lawyer says."

"Speaking of lawyers, I'm seeing Richard next week to get the process moving. You might ask Phil to keep an eye out for something in the mail addressed to you."

She gave me a sullen look. I turned and walked into the ensuite bathroom and turned on the shower. Then I went into the walk-in closet and retrieved a pair of pajamas. If Brenda was still here when I got out of the shower, I didn't want to be naked when I confronted her.

By the time I stepped into the shower the water was hot. As I soaped myself it felt as if I was conducting a ritual, cleansing myself of Brenda, especially getting Brenda off my cock.

But then the shower door opened and Brenda stepped in. "Surprise!"

She embraced me, rubbing herself against my soapy skin.

As angry as I was, I couldn't control my cock's arousal. Especially after Brenda sank to her knees and placed my cock between her breasts.

She looked up at me with a big smile. "You used to love when I did this to you."

In the war between my cock and my brain, my cock was winning hands down. As much as I wanted to follow my brain's pleas, I found it impossible to argue with a tumescent cock itching to ejaculate.

With my cock now in control, all sorts of bizarre thoughts came to me. Maybe divorce wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe Brenda would stop drinking if we went back to fucking regularly like we used to do early in our marriage. Maybe despite her flaws, Brenda was still the best woman for me.

Brenda's voice ripped me out of my fantasyland musings. "My knees are killing me."

I helped her up then sat on the built-in bench on the wall opposite the shower head. After turning Brenda around so she faced away from me, I pulled her onto my lap as she positioned my cock at her entrance.

"Been a while since we've done this, hasn't it?" Brenda chortled.

She leaned forward, planting her hands on my knees for support and ground her hips into me.

I gasped. They were a bitch to come by, but a second orgasm usually was more intense than the first.

"Oh fuck you feel good," she moaned, leaning back until her head rested on my shoulder.

I let her do all the work, enjoying the sensation of her pussy. Just as I started building toward a climax, she lifted herself off me.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she said. "Why am I letting you fuck me?"

She turned to look at me, glanced at my cock waving in frustration, so close and yet so far away.

She snickered. "Phil's got a bigger dick."

"And yet here you are!"

"Fuck you!"

She began to cry as she rushed out of the shower stall. I took a minute to finish myself off and then soaped myself again. When I entered the bedroom, Brenda was gone.

***

When Lynn's fall party invite appeared in my email one day I was stunned. Wasn't it just a month or two ago that I went to her last fall party? How quickly a year had passed.

I remembered last year's party and the woman who wanted me to go home with her, promising me she was 'easy.' Maybe this year I'd take her up on it. In the past year I'd gone on six dates--none of them memorable.

I still had Rita on the brain. The only person I'd fucked in the past twelve months had been my now ex-wife.

I confirmed the invite and made a note on my calendar. It sounded like fun. There was going to be a scavenger hunt.

The day before Lynn's party I was in my neighborhood Whole Foods, at the deli counter when my peripheral vision picked up someone next to me. I gave her a quick glance. A man stood next to her.

"Hello, Larry," the woman said.

It was Rita.

She and the man held hands.

"Hi," I said.

"What looks good?" she said.

She looked happy.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask her.

She did not introduce the man.

I glanced at the offerings in front of me, then looked back at her stupidly.

She smiled. "Too many choices, huh?"

"I guess."

She waved as she and the man turned and walked away.

"Hey, Boss! What'll you have?" said a clerk behind the counter.

He looked to be no older than twenty. Was that a smirk on his face or was I merely being paranoid?

"I'm just looking."

A text arrived that evening as I was about to jump into the shower: sorry for today. saw u & couldn't help myself. wld like chance to explain altho understand if you rather i disappear--again! meet tomorrow AM coffee? at WF? Rita

My initial impulse was to text back 'please go to hell.'