Making an Honest Woman Ch. 02

My only stop on the way to the motel was at the liquor store, where I bought a liter of Wild Turkey, which I'd developed a taste for in graduate school. I wasn't aiming to get blind drunk, but I needed a quick anaesthetic, and four fingers of bourbon on an empty stomach seemed likely to accomplish the task.

I may have had eight fingers. Oh, well.

When I checked my phone, quasi-blearily, the next morning, I saw that I had a text from Alyssa, and a couple of voice messages from Ellen.

Alyssa had simply asked, "WTF? Mom won't stop crying. LMK."

Should have checked my phone. I texted back. "Rough session w/therapist. Talk tonite."

Ellen's first message simply said, "Dan, please call me." I could tell she was crying. The next one just sounded sad. "I know I hurt you, Dan, and I'm sorry, but however bad you feel, you aren't feeling what it's like the watch the one you love stop loving you, because you know I never did, and I can't imagine I ever will, but it's what I see you doing to me, and it's killing me. Hurt me, Dan, however you need to, but don't stop loving me. I mean it; I will die."

I bet you weren't worried about me not loving you anymore when you were coming on Rob's magic dick, now were you bitch? You sure as hell weren't worried about it when you were telling me to get out of the way so you could finish getting dressed so he could fuck your brains out. If we get divorced, Ellen, it's your fault, even if it's not what you wanted. Hell, I should get that printed on a t-shirt and wear it to our next counseling session.

I texted Ellen, too; didn't want to talk to her yet. "Will see you this eve for supper. Don't die."

I didn't really feel like it, but I went to the gym, anyway; I'd made it part of my morning routine since Monday of the week before, and it had begun paying dividends; I'd lost 10 pounds already. Today I could sweat out the booze on the treadmill.

At work I found time to call the other psychologist on Ellen's list; I'd decided I needed someone separate from the marriage counseling sessions to talk to. After I got an appointment with her, I called Nicole Drake to cancel my individual sessions with her. She didn't seem surprised.

"It's my professional opinion that your marriage can and should be saved," she said. "You both love each other deeply. I know she hurt you, and you want to hurt her back, and the only weapon you have is a divorce. It will hurt her, but it will also hurt your children, and you will be the one who has to live with the guilt of causing so much suffering that could have been avoided."

I told her I wasn't at that point yet, and that I would still show for our next joint session.

Thinking about hurting people reminded me that I had some unfinished business, so I also called the PI I'd used to verify my suspicions about Ellen, and had him send a copy of the file to Mrs. Robert Stevens, Esq. They assured me they'd put in a note with my contact information, in case she wanted confirmation from me that I had sent the file. I sure hoped she'd take him to the cleaners, but, even if she didn't, it seemed likely to put a crimp in his love life, both domestic and extracurricular, for a little while.

After that I felt better. It wasn't revenge, exactly-I didn't know whether I'd harmed him at all, or, if so, how much, and hoped I never would-but at least I had done something. I was aware that my reaction to the surprise I'd gotten yesterday was irrational, and the result of how deeply ingrained in my psyche were the cultural stereotypes of masculinity. He'd insulted me, and, reason that away if I might, I still had to respond in order to maintain my self respect.

The girls were glad to see me, and I had them help me make one of Ellen's favorite meals, pan-roasted duck breasts with sour cherry sauce, brown and wild rice, and broiled asparagus. I'd even picked up a chocolate cake from the bakery, for dessert. I didn't know how many more chances I would have to do something nice for my family.

I opened a bottle of wine as I heard her car pull into the drive. She must have seen my car outside, but rushed in to find me. I reached out my arms, and she ran into them. I held her for a long time; it was the first time in two weeks that we'd embraced.

"Oh, oh, oh, Dan!" she cried. "I love you so much! I'm so, so, sorry . . ."

"Hey, hey!" I spoke reassuringly. "It'll be all right." A little more quietly I said, "The girls are watching, okay? I'm not here to argue; I just want to have a nice dinner with my family, and we can talk after the girls go to bed, if you want."

"The girls already know I'm a basket case," she said, pulling back from the hug and smiling at me. I was seeing a lot of her tear-stained smiley face lately. "Seeing you hold me like this is doing them almost as much good as it's doing me."

"I'm here to help," I said.

"You joke, but you don't realize how much we all need you," she told me. "We take you for granted-me, by far, the worst of all-but you cannot imagine what you mean to all of us. You're a good man, and, I swear to you, we do know it, and we know how few of those there really are, and how lucky we are to have you."

We had a nice dinner together, and afterward played Robinson Crusoe, another game in which players team up with one another, as shipwreck survivors trying to survive on a deserted island, instead of competing against each other.

When the girls were in bed, I poured us each a glass of wine, and we sat at the kitchen table.

"I want you to know," she said, "that Dr. Drake and I did discuss telling you about . . . about, uh, the orgasm thing. She said that as long as you said you didn't want to hear details, then I should respect that, and she even said that she thought it was unusually wise of you to know that hearing the details might do more harm than good."

"I know," I replied. "I agree that it was unfair of me to accuse you of holding back information that I'd said I didn't want. And I know that I can't rationally blame you for having better sex with a man who's more capable of-"

"No no no no no!" Ellen brought her hand flat down on the tabletop with a loud smack. "It wasn't 'better sex.' It was different, as I told you, yes. Yes, I came with him like I didn't come with you. So fucking what? You want to know why I love it when you make me come? Because you are giving it to me, as a gift. He took it from me, as a trophy. You think I would rather be used than loved?"

"Your behavior suggests that possibility," I said, mildly.

"I know you think her theory about me needing to be seen by someone who isn't you is bullshit," she said, "but I think she's on to something when she says that, because you have it, you can't imagine what it's like not to. It was like a transaction: I gave him sex, and he gave me . . . recognition, reassurance that I was an interesting person, not just basking in the glow of my wonderful husband and amazing children."

"I don't exactly think it's bullshit," I said. "The problem is not the theory. The problem is that you didn't turn to me; you turned to another man, and in doing so you opened up a gap between us. I just don't understand how you could do that, if you love me. It only makes sense if you don't."

"It doesn't make sense because it has nothing to do with reason," she said. "I backed into it with my eyes closed, because I couldn't bear to let myself see what was happening. It was just about feeling something that I didn't know I was missing until I began to feel it; which was, I repeat, NOT the sex. I know we've slowed down, and I am as much to blame for that as you, and I would like to change that, but it wasn't horniness that caused me to cheat on you." She seemed surprised at the last words that came out of her mouth. "Oh, god." She started to cry.

"Okay," I said. "Let's assume that what you say is true. How do I have sex with you, now? I still want you, still find you desirable, but how do I come to you now without wondering whether you wish it was him, and not me? How'm I supposed to enjoy making love to a woman whom I suspect may only be-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" Her eyes were blazing, now. "I know I deserve all kinds of abuse, but I will not let you say that I could fake my desire for you. You know me, Dan. I'm not a great actress. You know I've always loved what you do to me. You want to know how you can have sex with me? Come to bed with me, now, please. I've never begged a man to make love to me, but I'm begging you. I need it. And I don't mean, I need an orgasm; I honestly don't care if I come or not. Coming, for men, is the goal, because it literally is the finish line; when you do it, it's over. For women, it's different; coming is good, and certainly necessary, sometimes; but the goal, unless you're just scratching an itch, is the closeness. I need the closeness with you, please."

"This isn't going to fix everything," I said.

"I don't care about that, right now," she replied. "Just come upstairs and make love to me, please."

We stood, and she came up to me, almost shyly, her eyes lowered. She put her hands on my chest, and I placed mine on her hips. She said, surprised, "You've lost weight."

"A few pounds," I told her.

"It looks good." She tilted her head back and I lowered my lips to hers, and we kissed, gently, playfully; no stabbing of tongues deep into throats, but dancing, touching, tasting. She had her arms around my neck, now, hands in my hair; I locked my arms behind her back, crushing her into me. Suddenly I stopped, and pushed her back away from me; she looked at me dazedly. I grinned, stooped, and put my shoulder into her waist, wrapping my right arm just under her ass, then lifted her over my shoulder. She let out a mild shriek, then giggled, as I headed out of the kitchen, for the stairs.

At the foot of our bed I leaned forward, slipping into a fall as her weight overbalanced me; we hit the bed and bounced together, laughing as my face pressed into her breasts. I used my arms to push up, and inched forward over her until we were face to face.

"You're mine," I said.

"Yes," she said, smiling up at me.

I leaned down to kiss her forcefully, then sat back on my knees over her, and began undoing the buttons on her blouse, while she watched my face. With the blouse open, I unhooked her bra (she prefers front-hook style, as I had long ago learned), and used one hand to fondle each one in turn, again saying, as I looked in her eyes, "Mine."

"Yes, yours," she agreed.

Moving down, I opened her pants and backed off of the bed, sliding them down her legs as I went; she lifted her hips to help, putting her arms behind her head to support it as she watched me. Kneeling over her again, I cupped her panty-covered mons. "Mine, do you understand?"

"Yours. Yes, I understand. No one else will ever see or touch me there, I swear to you. I love that I belong to you. And . . ." she hesitated. "You belong to me?" It came out as a question.

"Only to you, unless you disrespect me again."

"Never."

She was wearing a pair of older, brief-style nylon panties-I guess she hadn't expected things might go this way-and I reached down with both hands, grasped the front, digging my nails into the fabric, and pulled, tearing them away from her.

"Oh, my god!" she gushed. This was not something I was in the habit of doing, but it seemed she liked it. She had, as always, a neatly trimmed bush of dark, curly hair, and I could see her lips glistening with moisture. That she wasn't faking. I stood at the end of the bed, and began taking off my shirt.

"I'm going to fuck you now," I said, and she looked at me with her eyes wide; I'm pretty sure I'd never said that exact sentence to her before. Narrative overlay wasn't a normal part of our foreplay.

"Do it. Fuck me."

I was almost out of my pants; as I kicked them to the side, I told her, "On your knees." She obeyed, looking over her shoulder at me with the same wide-eyed expression, and the hint of a smile. I reached forward, grabbed her hips, and pulled her back to where I stood, with my knees pressing against the edge of the mattress. My cock was as hard as it's ever been, and I pressed it into her folds, finding her entrance, and thrust up and inside of her.

She gasped, then gurgled, "Oh, my god."

Still grasping her hips, I held her in place as I fucked her. She had tried at first moving back against me to help, but quickly got the message, and left the movement to me. I pressed on her shoulders, and she sank down onto her elbows, pressing her face into the sheets, moaning softly. The air was filled with the smell of her arousal, and with the sloshing, slapping noises I was making as I sawed in and out of her. I was surprised, but pleased, to realize that in spite of the fact that it'd been several weeks since we had sex, I felt fully in control of myself.

"Whose pussy?" I grunted at her.

"Your . . . uh . . . your pussy," she groaned.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, god, yes."

I gave her a few more strokes, then pulled out and stood back.

"What . . ." she wasn't expecting this.

"We need to talk some more," I told her. With my cock still hard and bobbing, I walked around to my side of the bed and lay down next to her. She crawled up and tentatively rested her head on my chest, and put her arm over my stomach. I stroked her hair with the hand of the arm that lay underneath her head.

"I still hate you for what you did," I said.

"Hate, but love, too?" she asked.

"Yes, love, too," I said. "I can't help it. I can't turn it off. I honestly wish I could. You left me for another man."

"I never . . ." she began. "I always came back to you."

"Came back to your comfortable home, your children, maybe."

"No, I came back for your love. I told you, I never felt anything like love for him, and he certainly didn't love me."

"What did you feel for him? I've read a bit about women's infidelity, you know, lately it's become kind of an obsession of mine, and all of the reputable sources agree that most women cheat to establish and enjoy an emotional connection that they aren't getting from their partners. So, what were you getting? If I don't have it-if I can't give it to you-then I don't see how we can stay together."

"I don't know! I mean, I think that what Dr. Drake said is true-that he gave me the special recognition I couldn't get from you, since you sort of have to see me as special. But she says that there are things I can do to guard against being tempted again. As if another man might be interested in me. I'm 46, Dan; I'm rapidly losing whatever it was that made me attractive to men. I'm surprised you think you have anything to worry about."

"I'm worried because it happened, and, if it happened, it can happen again. Are you afraid of getting old? Afraid of dying?"

"I don't know," she said again. "I didn't think so, but maybe. I'm not strong like you, Dan. I try to be, but . . ."

"You think I'm not afraid? I was so afraid of having lost you. I'm still afraid that I must be unloveable, since you, the person I thought loved me most in the world, turned away from me to someone else. Do you know what that feels like?"

"I know what it feels like to be afraid that your husband won't love you anymore, yes," she said, sadly. "The fact that I brought it on myself doesn't make it any less painful." She paused. "I'm sorry I did this, Dan. And I don't mean I'm sorry I hurt you, or I wish I hadn't got caught. I regret it all. Yes, it was fun, but I'm so ashamed of myself for letting myself risk everything for a little bit of fun-and it was only a little bit, in spite of what I know you suspect. You're a man, so you'll probably never understand, but the orgasm thing is sooo not a big deal."

I thought for a minute about Rob Stevens. "I had my PI mail a copy of the file he compiled for me to his wife."

She looked at me for a minute. "That's how you found out?"

"That's how I confirmed my suspicions," I told her. "You know me; gotta have the evidence before drawing a conclusion."

She started to ask: "Pictures?"

"Nothing X-rated. You going into and coming out of his apartment, when you said you'd be somewhere else. Some interviews with people you both work with, including Meg."

"I feel sorry for his wife," she said.

"I do, too," I agreed. "But I think she has the right to know, and he had to suffer. The way you told it, he was the aggressor; if he did it to you, he was doing it to others, and I couldn't let him slide. He's hurting too many people."

"I have no problem with you hurting him," she said, "as long as you don't do something you'd get arrested for, and then I'd lose you again. He's nothing to me; never was."

"I had to break into the Disney World vacation fund to pay the PI," I confessed.

"So I guess that's on me, too," she said, sadly. "At least we didn't tell the girls, yet." She rolled away from me, curling into the fetal position. "Maybe you shouldn't love me. I fucked everything up. Go find one of those graduate students you say is always coming on to you, and start over."

I rolled over and spooned her, pulling her tightly to me. "I didn't say, 'always.' I just said I'd had opportunities. And you know I would never do anything with a student, even if I weren't married."

"So, sign up for one of those online dating services. I'll help you write your profile: 'Tall, handsome college professor, good listener, great lover, fantastic father, needs good woman to help him get over the cheating slut who broke his heart.' Lose a few more pounds, spend some time in a tanning booth, and we'll put a shirtless picture up for you; I'll take it myself."

"You think I need to lose a few more pounds" I asked, and laughed, to show I wasn't hurt.

"No! I think you're perfect. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry . . ."

"Shh," I said, and squeezed her. "Are there any more secrets? Any other men, anything else you've hidden from me? If so, you have to tell me, right now. If there are, and I find out, I will never touch you again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered, "I understand. And no. No other men. Nothing. Apart from this one disastrous adventure, I'm just an average, boring, working wife and mother."

I said, "You're an exceptional working wife and mother, and I suspect that's what we have to work on getting you to understand. You don't have to have an affair to be special. If you want to spread your wings, come talk to me; I can help you. The only catch is, whatever you do, you have to do with me, and only with me."

She rolled back towards me, so we were nose-to-nose. "I know I lost my mind and forgot, but I swear I will remember that it is special, as long as it's with you."

I pulled her to me and we kissed; I felt myself stiffening.

She smiled at me, and took my rapidly reinflating member in her hand. "I think you have some unfinished business."

I smiled back. "I do. But first, I'm going to give you a Dan Tucker orgasm. I hope you like it, because it had better be the last kind of orgasm you ever have, for the rest of your life." I started moving down between her legs.

"Can't I ever masturbate, if you're away?" she asked, as she settled back against the bed.

I traced her lips with the tip of my tongue, slowly and lightly. "Mine," I said.

She shuddered, and laughed. "Okay, yours."

I spent the night. I know, I shouldn't have, but it felt so good.

The girls were clearly pleased to see me the next morning. Alyssa gave me a look, and I just shrugged; I'm sure she guessed that we'd had sex. Ellen was glowing. Again, it felt good. After the girls had left, I kissed Ellen and left for work. I didn't want to talk, and I don't think she did, either; we were still enjoying the feeling of just being together, normally.

After teaching and office hours I left campus to keep my appointment with the new therapist, Dr. Monica Andersen. She had a suite in a low-rise office building; no receptionist, you just pressed a buzzer to be let in, and so she'd know you were there. I was a little early, and sat for a few minutes alone in the small waiting room. Danish modern furniture, with a healthy supply of fairly recent popular magazines neatly arranged on a coffee table.