The Lonely Married Lesbian

The young woman with dark black hair and a joker's smile kept looking across the bar at me as I nursed my wine. 'How can she be looking at me?' I kept asking myself, as this gorgeous lady had to be 25 years younger. I tried to not look over, afraid of what I'd see in her eyes, but I couldn't resist. Snagged, connection made, but it is a foolish one.

Forcing my gaze away I look down at my wedding ring twisted listlessly to the side, a byproduct of my renewed interest in the gym creating a band too loose or was it the shakiness of the oath owing my fidelity? The ups and downs throughout my 25 year marriage had been navigated successfully but the wife's dead sex drive, already always less than my own, or her loss of desire for me, has taken its toll. A life outside my marriage seemingly resides over my every thought, every movement.

Suddenly a glass of wine is placed in front of me by the bartender. "The lady in the black leather coat says hello," he says and the walks away. I have a decision to make here. As I stare at that wine glass, I know that to pick it up means an acceptance of what might come, an end of how I used to be; to leave it untouched on the bar safely preserving the story of who I am. Not taking it will snuff out the spark that was lit when that beautiful woman made me feel seen, attractive, wanted.

Like a stranger to my own self, I see my hand reach out for the glass - gently, so gently, picking it up by the stem and slowly bringing it to my lips. Without looking at my ring, I raise that wine to my lips, swallow slowly, and look over at the woman I will soon meet. Did I mean to do that?

She is staring at my lips, a hungry look on her face, and a yearning hits me so strongly I can barely breathe. I am the desert wanderer finally getting water, my parched body soaking up the warm, rolling waves of another's longing.

Though I am older, I am not the aggressor. She approaches, staring the entire time, an interminable approach. I am not brave enough to think my thighs might end up in her hands, my breasts on her lips. I am not brave enough to think I can finally cross that line that has eroded, where once starkly defined paint has now chipped, become chalk.

She is brave enough for the both of us. I feel her warm breath on my neck as she leans over my shoulder, her hair sliding against my own. "What is a sexy woman like you doing sitting here alone? If you were mine, I'd never make you want to sit in a bar away from me." Those words the truth of my world, my brain hearing what the chaos in my heart had tried pounding out to me for several years.

I knew the answer to this question suddenly. What I had been hiding from, this inevitability, became clear. "I'm waiting for you," I whisper, head turning towards those lips so close to my own. She leans in even closer, the heat coming off her body leaving me breathless. My stomach has a sick nervous feeling, lust butterflies long cocooned, set free. Her lips brush the side of my face, so close to my own lips, this tease of a touch, that I feel a whimper try to escape. My body is getting wet, I know my pupils are blown. I want so badly right now I can barely think.

"Leave with me," she says, her voice a deep, husky crushed velvet murmured next to my overly sensitive neck. Her age no longer matters, nor does my ring. Whether I want her specifically or the arousal she can bring is not important; I will take this night for the dream that it is.

"Yes," I say, and relief washes over me. Decision made. No more fence straddling, no more hitting the mute button on my core's storm of wants, churnings unfulfilled. She reaches forward and removes the forgotten glass from my hand, sending a buzz through me as her fingers touch mine. How many years had it been since a simple meeting of my wife's fingers made my breath halt? Am I sure they ever did?

Her fingers wrap around my hand and helped me up from the barstool, pulling me away from the honorable woman who'd walked into that bar tonight. She leads me to a vintage mustang, perfectly restored. 'I guess she really does like old things,' I think to myself, my inner voice carrying a hint of giddy hysteria. "I only collect classic pieces and I take great care of my treasures," she says, putting me into my seat belt as I realize I'd spoken aloud my silly thoughts. I am far too nervous around this beautiful woman and am embarrassed by my awkwardness. She snaps the seatbelt into place, dragging the back of her arm against my hip, upper thigh, across my aching breasts. Another caress to break my thoughts. "And tonight I'm going to take care of you," she says into my ear, sending flutters long dormant through my body.

I will take everything, carve out of this night's memory my oasis. Some of my dry marriage's venom will be pushed out of me when this woman has me as she will. Pleasure will no longer be, to me, denied. The wife's control, that leash of fidelity, snaps as the mustang drives towards this woman's house, this stranger' s bed.

End part one