Never Again?

At that moment, the tipping point where the pleasure is too much and it explodes, scenes or pictures flash through my mind while the electric sensations flash through my body. It might be something beautiful—a waterfall or flower, something erotic—a kiss or a nude, or something completely irrational and unrelated—a storefront or an image of my bathroom sink. But this time it was memory. Sweet, beautiful, and irrational memory.

Will laying papers on my desk. Will grinning at me from across the copy machine. Will handing me a cup of coffee. Will on a park bench. Will chewing on a pencil. Will...Will...Will. Images stored in my mind that I'd had no recollection of until that moment. And I treasured them for the precious few seconds they were there until they faded with the orgasm and left me staring at the black backs of my eyelids.

I couldn't hear Will's voice anymore. Apparently, the story was over. I also couldn't bring myself to open my eyes and look at the screen. Because that would be facing, at least on some level, what I'd just done. While Will was on the other end of a computer connection, he was still here, in bed with me, having a sexual experience. Therefore, I had just cheated on my husband.

***

The scream overdrove my laptop speakers. I was surprised it didn't dim the apartment lights.

Is there anything more erotic than a woman's face as she comes? The pain; the surprise; the baring of need, and so much more? Just for a second, all is there. The soul aflame.

She'd moved in and out of shot as she'd writhed and worked herself harder. When Sheila came, from her webcam's immobile point of view, it looked as if she'd suddenly been lifted clean off the bed. Then she fell back into shot, and my speakers nearly buckled at the vocal accompaniment. This was also an erotic sound, but something in it...

Something in the whole experience was off. I'd been tugging away as I watched her. My own private show. But as she became more and more embroiled in her own actions, and just when I should have become more and more excited myself, I felt the peculiar sensation of my cock, so near to ejaculation, changing its mind. Usually, it's the other way around: the mind is unwilling, the flesh is raring to go. This was different. It shrank in my hand as her orgasm grew. By the time she'd come, I was nothing. Reset. Back to page 1.

She had her face turned away from the screen, and the camera. The ruby rush around her neck told one story; her face askance told another. I could tell - how? a tilt of her face? the angle of a neck? - that she was hurting. That she was torn. Victorious, yes. But more. Or rather less.

Hey, I whispered quietly. Then a little louder: Hey.

You just woke my neighbours up. It's OK. I hate them anyway. And now I need new speakers for my laptop. Small price to pay.

Silence. She was still, though, listening. This is it, I thought: she's going to close her laptop and shut me out. My stomach tightened, cold and sickened.

Sheila? Hey? You... still there? To my astonishment, in the stillness that followed, I was biting my lip.

Across the street, ambulance sirens wailed laments for the fallen.

***

I opened my eyes at the sound of his voice, but I still didn't face the screen. My heart thumped hard in my chest, and it didn't have anything to do with arousal anymore. Shame. Embarrassment. Anger. Disappointment even. But the arousal that had so enflamed me for the whole evening was thoroughly doused.

Sheila? Hey? You... still there?

I turned my head and looked at him. His faced seemed... pinched, worried, uncertain. He was chewing on his bottom lip—a gesture unfamiliar to me. When I'd known him before he was all confidence and strong body language. Even when he bared his soul to me, on the outside, he looked strong, unshakable.

What the hell was I doing? I didn't even know this man anymore. Maybe I'd never known him.

I'm here.

I didn't know what else to say. What was the proper conversation for post-adulterous cybersex? I flashed back to the alley where we'd had our first sexual encounter all those years ago. This same awkward silence had pervaded the aftermath then too.

Apparently, today was all about memories. Because I was suddenly struck with the image of sitting in a work conference room with Will. It was one of the first real conversations the two of us ever had. He'd asked me why I went into business and what my goals were and I told him I was going all the way to the top, but that unlike most CEO's, my hands were going to be clean when I got there. No shady deals, no backstabbing, no lying, no cheating.

"You're an idealist, Sheila," he'd said with a crooked grin. "I like that. I hope you stay that way."

Now, I'd made several lateral moves, company to company, but the cold hard truth was that I probably wasn't going to get much higher than the position I currently held. I'd never admitted it out loud, but lately, I'd started to secretly admit it to myself. I didn't hob-knob at the country club with the right people and many of the higher ups considered me too much of a 'straight arrow' and 'conventional thinker.' But as an arrow, I was so much more crooked than I'd ever imagined I'd be back when I had that conversation with Will in that conference room.

I wasn't proud of it, but I'd done my share of professional shady deals and backstabbing. I'd told my half truths. And it wasn't just professional. I'd done it in my personal life too. Wasn't my whole initial affair with Will a shady deal? Not to mention what just happened. Didn't I backstab Emma-Louise back then? Steven now?

Will had liked idealist Sheila. But she left my life a long, long time ago.

I guess I've been on both sides of it now, I finally said, glancing at the screen. I looked him dead in the eye. First, I was the other woman. Now, I'm the cheating married woman.

A thought struck me and I stiffened. I don't even know where my husband is. For all I know, he went off and killed himself. Like Emma Louise. Isn't that what happens when Will and I have an affair? I gave myself a mental shake. I knew it wasn't true. Steven wasn't mentally unstable. He was just pissed off at me--with good reason. Emma Louise had been depressed for years. My actions didn't bring about her suicide. I knew that. I did. But my actions weren't without consequences either. I knew that too.

I'm not who you think I am, Will. I'm not the Sheila you used to know. Not even close.

***

And now she is gone.

The window from Sheila went black. The sound died. She'd left me on my own.

(...the cheating married woman...)

I got out of bed, adjusted my underwear, and leaned against the cold black glass of the window frame. Outside, the ambulances had stilled, but it was not quiet. A couple, the woman careening and drunk, were arguing outside the side exit to the ER. She had blood stains down her top. It was not clear to whom the blood belonged. The guy, I'd bet.

Emma-Louise suddenly flooded my thoughts. This had happened before. I'd had my share of - no polite way to put this - groupies when promoting my novel. Willowy, intense fuck ups, for the most part, barely adequate in bed. I had fucked them like ghosts - as if they were not really there. And I had felt nothing after those encounters. No remorse. No pain. No guilt.

Now, I felt intense guilt. You never quite escape grief. You think you've turned a corner when there it is, standing on the sidewalk, plain as day, nodding grimly to you again. But this was the first time I felt a resurgence of the pain I'd felt when, in my frantic, muddled head, I added 2+2 (me plus Sheila) and came up with 5 (made Em die). But that was not all.

Mixed with it - surely not? Wormy nerves balling in my stomach. Sickening. Guilt - and, unmistakably, the disgusting early stirrings of love.

(...not even close...)

I pulled on a sweater, suddenly chilly. I sat back in bed and opened Facebook. I typed quickly.

The title of the message: "Never Again?"

Don't go. Don't leave it like this.

I've loved two people in my adult life. One is now dead. I don't want you to leave me too.

I accept I do not know you. You need to accept that I do, in ways that matter still. I felt that tonight. I feel it right now. But I want to know more.

Not online though. At least, not like tonight. WONDERFUL though it was. (You coming... my new favourite symphony.)

Mail me. Tell me more. I'll be in your town - you know that already.

Then, after we've written, if you think we have nothing to say to each other, I'll cancel the trip entirely.

But if you want me to be part of your life, in any capacity, I'll come and stay over in a hotel with a great restaurant. And an even better bar.

I miss you, it turns out.

Dammit. Don't go.

I read it back to myself. My eyes stung a little. I ignored them, proofed, and hit send.

Six days later, she replied.

*******************

END OF PART ONE

*******************