Three Infidelities

"Three Infidelities"

by Peter_Cleveland

Kristin stepped out of the shower. I shamelessly ogled her as she dried off. At 48, she was still a lovely sight. Pretty, light-brown hair above and below--some gray mixed in, but that looked pretty too. Nice legs. Breasts far from huge but large enough to sway as she moved. Cute pink nipples. Tummy and bottom not so taut as before but still not bad.

"Are you ogling me?" she inquired.

"Take it as a compliment. Or blame it on the pandemic. My range of entertainments has been greatly reduced. So I'm grabbing me rosebuds where I may."

She winced. She was a professor of chemistry, not English, but even she hated to see a decent poem get mangled. She gave me a quick kiss.

"I have to get dressed," she said. "I have a hot date tonight."

Or what passes as a hot date for married people during a pandemic. We were doing our best to avoid infection, especially as I am ten years her senior. So we got all of the available shots and also cut 'way back on our excursions, on nights out, on all our social life. Kristin even cut back on in-person contact with her best friend Joyce.

Seeing less of Joyce was a bit of a sacrifice for me too. She and I would chat when she'd come by to pick up Kristin or when we'd have her over for dinner. We saw more of her after she and Claude separated and divorced, a few years back.

There was nothing especially remarkable about her, but she was smart, funny, engaging, and attractive. I admit she appeared from time to time in my fantasies. When my libido flagged in bed with Kristin, a few well-chosen thoughts of her friend often got everything back on track.

Pandemic or no, Kristin and I still had to go to work. I'm a mid-level bureaucrat in our town government--currently in Parks and Recreation. Kristin professes at Magdalene College of Hartford. Don't feel bad if you've never heard of it.

Kristin's job does require some travel, including to a few professional conferences each year. She had returned just Tuesday from the annual ACS national conference--American Chemical Society--in Chicago. She had delivered a paper there, attended a half-dozen panels and workshops, interviewed a dozen job candidates, and afterwards visited her sister in Oak Park. All we could do about that week-long excursion was cross our fingers and hope the ventilation and social distancing had worked as intended. So far, so good.

Unfortunately, her paper was not universally admired. I'm sure it was decent enough, but a handful of hecklers had given her a hard time. I didn't know the details. Kristin hadn't wanted to talk much about it.

But back to Kristin's hot date. Saturday night found us on the sofa, our feet flanking my computer's big monitor (temporarily on the coffee table), sharing a bowl of popcorn and streaming the "Best Foreign Film" of 1973.

It was Day for Night, a French comedy about a company filming a movie in Nice. The "inner" movie-in-the-making is a melodrama titled Meet Pamela. Jacqueline Bisset played an emotionally fragile young English actress named Julie Baker, who was acting the role of Pamela. Jean-Pierre Leaud played an emotionally immature actor named Alphonse, who plays the role of Pamela's fiance.

As you'd expect in a movie-about-making-a-movie, the comedy and drama of the cast and crew's (supposed) real lives turned out to be much more interesting and amusing than the movie the cast and crew were supposedly filming--and (this being France) with a good deal more sex, too.

In Day for Night, Julie Baker is married to an older man, a physician. At one point--to prevent Alphonse from quitting the film project in the middle of shooting--Julie gives him a mercy fuck and spends the night in his bed. The next morning, idiot that he is, Alphonse telephones Julie's husband to announce that he has fucked Julie (true) and that the two of them will be running off together (false). When she hears of this, the fragile Julie has a breakdown, and now she can't go on.

Meet Pamela is saved when Julie's husband is flown in. He arrives on the set and gives Julie his love, support, a big hug, and a sedative. Now the cast and crew can all get back to work. Other complications threaten to derail Meet Pamela, but the film finally gets made and everybody goes home happy.

So Julie acts admirably in sleeping with Alphonse to save the project, and then her husband acts admirably in reassuring her of his love and forgiveness. De rien. Je t'aime. We won't let a lovely little act of generosity come between us. As I said, the movie is French. Okay, Julie's husband is probably English, like her, but the movie is French. In French movies, even the Englishmen act like Frenchmen.

Kristin seemed quieter than usual during the Julie's-adultery part of the film, and the grip of her hand on mine seemed to tighten. When Julie's husband behaved so gallantly afterwards, Kristin's eyes moistened. All of that could mean any number of different things--most of them bad--or it could mean nothing. I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

Maybe we should have a long chat sometime soon. Preferably not tonight, though. I still had a few explanations of my own I needed to think through.

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

"Like the movie?" Kristin asked, at the end.

"Loved it," I said. "It was wonderful. Sophisticated and sweet at the same time. That can't be an easy combination to pull off. It was heartwarming. Funny. And very sexy--despite the lack of nudity. That's my main complaint, of course."

"Of course." Kristin rubbed her hand on the front of my trousers. "Did you have any particular actress in mind?" She lowered my zipper, managed to extract my penis, and caressed me with a practiced hand. "Jacqueline Bisset, maybe?"

"Oh, God," I managed to get out between Kristin's strokes. "I never saw her before. I had no idea how beautiful she is.... Or was.... That was 50 years ago. I don't even know if she's still alive."

"I am," Kristin replied. Her mouth replaced her hand. Somehow she managed to talk and suck at the same time. "Think of her in bed with Alphonse. I didn't see any sign of pajamas."

Well, that was a short blowjob. Kristin swallowed my semen, gently licked and sucked for another minute, then tucked me back in.

"Well done," I said. "If brief."

"I had help," she said, smiling. We snuggled.

"Can I repay the favor?"

"Yes... maybe not right this minute, though. When we go up to bed, let's say."

"Like Julie and Alphonse," I replied. "I promise not to phone your husband in the morning and cause a lot of trouble.... That's a joke, Kristin--not a very good one, I know, but my mind is still drifting back to earth after that orgasm. Why so serious?"

Kristin clenched her lips.

"Okay, I said. "How did you like the film?"

"It was lovely.... Wouldn't it be nice if everyone could deal with sex as gracefully as the French? At least the French in French movies."

"Maybe the French really do act like that," I reflected. "At least their middle and upper classes. There was the funeral of that former President... was that Giscard?"

"I think you're thinking of Mitterrand."

"Mitterrand: that's right," I said. "His widow invited his long-time mistress to the funeral and interment. They stood together up front, practically side-by-side. Remember that photo? A very, very classy act by the Widow Mitterrand. Some things are more important than an exclusive license to fuck. Like grief. And love."

She looked me in the eye. "So you do think some things are more important than wedding vows?"

Red flags popped up. "Kristin, it's 10:30 at night. We've had a lovely evening together. We're both tired. I don't think this is a good time to begin a complicated and potentially stressful conversation--do you?"

"The answer, 'No,' to the question I asked you would bring the conversation to a rapid end."

"Dammit, Kristin, you're the academic. When did you ever think any question had a short, simple answer? Even in chemistry!... Let's be hypothetical. Suppose you... how should I put it?... suppose you committed a sexual indiscretion. What should I do then? Blow a gasket because you violated a contract? Charge you with breach of contract and declare our marriage over? Kick you out on your ass because 'nothing is more important than wedding vows'? Is that your idea of a great husband?"

"I give up," she said. "What would you do?"

"I hope I'd act more like Julie's husband, in the movie."

"That's very noble-sounding, Gordon. But it's all based on the hypothetical assumption that I'm the one who strayed."

"Well, didn't you?" I replied.

Oh Christ, did I just say that? Bad, bad move. That accusation was based on nothing more than those ambiguous signals she was giving off during the movie and afterwards. Why did I say that? I opened my mouth, and it just came flying out. Call me Pandora. Anybody want an empty box?

"I take that back," I backpedalled. "I apologize. I guess I just got too caught up in the argument."

"And have you ever strayed?" she asked.

That took me aback. My mind raced. "Somehow that initial 'And' seems packed with meaning," I suggested. "It sounds sort of like a confession. On your part."

She ducked and parried: "Somehow the question I just asked you strikes me as one of the rare ones that do in fact have a short, simple answer. The longest reasonable answer I can imagine is three words--'Yes and no'--which I will construe as indicating a blowjob. There's a two-word answer I think we can rule out: 'I forget.' What remains is a couple of one-word answers."

"So I take it we both have?" I said.

"That's seven words, Gordon. Not one: seven. And not even a declarative sentence but an interrogative! Though... speaking of questions that sound sort of like a confession..."

A Hail Mary pass now seemed my best option. "Would this be a good time for that orgasm I owe you?"

She paused only for a second. "It would indeed," she replied. "And for the two or three orgasms you will find yourself giving me after that one. Just to be fair, my body is available to you afterwards--or in-between--if your body is up for it. So to speak. What color are her nipples, by the way?"

"Whose nipples?"

"Jacqueline Bisset's"

"I have no idea," I replied.

"In your imagination, I mean."

"Brown."

"Okay, I can live with that. Last one in bed has to go down on me." She stood and quickly climbed the stairs.

I set the thermostat back, brushed my teeth, turned off the lights, then walked up to the bedroom, grateful that disaster had been averted. At least postponed. We could have a long talk some other time, maybe tomorrow. We had more important matters to attend to now.

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

Kristin was on her back in bed, naked. A hand subtly moved away from her crotch as I entered--not subtly enough to fool anyone. I gave her a smile and a wink.

As I undressed, Kristin pretended to be annoyed. "Took you long enough to get here," she observed.

"I was thinking of your final words downstairs," I replied. "I wanted to be sure I came in last." I slipped into bed beside her. She turned on her side, and I put an arm around her. My hand caressed her back as we kissed. By now I had discovered what the Chinese had known for centuries: women's backs are sexy--including Kristin's.

My hand moved to her breasts. They were a little different now than they had been fifteen years ago: softer. Still beautiful, still sexy, and still a good size. A pink nipple stiffened between my fingers.

I put my mouth onto a breast and moved my hand down her stomach and onto her furry pubic mound, putting some pressure just above her clitoris, as she likes. Back at her breast, my tongue traced her areola then prodded the base of the nipple. Kristin made a few little noises of enjoyment, just to keep me posted.

She wouldn't have minded being rubbed with my fingers some more, but I was eager to smell and taste her. I moved my body down, spread her thighs, and put my head between her legs. She had already placed the old tan hand towel between her bottom and the sheet. We brought out the towel from a bedside drawer when we were anticipating a serious bout of cunnilingus. At the end of our romp she'd toss it onto the floor, and nobody would have to sleep on the wet spot.

Inhaling her lovely scent, I planted a couple dozen kisses on the cleft of her outer labia while putting some finger pressure near the bottom of the cleft. After a minute she was still fairly dry, so I got serious with my licking. Kristin placed a hand lightly on the back of my head. A signal that all was well, and I should keep doing just what I was doing.

That little act reminded me, once again, how subtle and complex our connections to each other were, how comfortable we were sharing our intimate parts with each other, how knowledgeable we were about our own and each other's sexual response. You couldn't do this with a new lover: communicate intimately and subtly but silently, guide each other near-perfectly, without saying a word, through the complex ballet that really good sex is. You could have really good sex with an unfamiliar lover, I knew, but you couldn't do it silently.

Kristin's labia moistened and opened as I licked. My instinct was to head for her clitoris, but I knew better. Instead, my tongue went here and there around her entire pussy: lapping, prodding, rubbing, zig-zagging, flicking. My left index finger pressed on the lower part of her vaginal opening. My right hand fondled her mound of Venus. I savored again her wonderful scent and taste and the lovely feel of her pubic hair under my hand. She was taking deeper breaths now.

After a couple of minutes I focused more on her clitoris, flicking it gently with the tip of my tongue--first slowly then more rapidly. The move to her clitoris was well timed. Soon Kristin was breathing rapidly. She grasped my hand on her mound. Her nipples stiffened further, and her body tensed. I plastered my mouth tight against her labia, flicked my tongue faster on the little button. Then I reached up, grabbed a breast in each hand, and manhandled them--just as I believe more than a few lads had done to her breasts, decades ago, in the front or back seat of a parked car. She clasped my head tight as her hips bucked and she climaxed.

Several seconds later, her hand lightly caressed the back of my head. I relaxed my grip on her breasts, and I gently licked her moisture, which was now everywhere between her legs.

"That was nice," she said, softly.

"For me, too.... Care for another?"

"Oh, yes."

"First say those three magic words," I teased.

"Do it again," she said. "Please."

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

We woke Sunday morning to a sunny bedroom. We were naked, snuggled together, and content. Alas, my lips and chin no longer smelled of Kristin's moisture despite a heavy application of it the night before. Kristin had indeed had the four orgasms she had predicted, and numbers two and three were impressive. I was enjoying her climaxes so much, I waited until she was all finished before mounting her. Rarely can I climax twice in a day any more, but we managed it last night.

Now, the morning after, we were on our sides, snuggling like spoons, her back to my front. After a while she rolled over and faced me. She put an arm around my shoulder, kissed me, and smiled.

"Thank you for last night," she said. "It was very therapeutic."

"The pleasure was all mine," I lied.

"At the end, yes." She smiled again. "When would you like to talk? After breakfast?"

"How about at breakfast?" I suggested. "Then we'll both have lots of things at hand we can throw at each other, including both hot and cold liquids."

She smiled and kissed my forehead. "Deal," she said. Then she rose and, as usual, beat me into the bathroom.

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

Kristin chewed and swallowed some more whole-grain toast. "Me first?" she proposed. I shrugged. She took a sip of black coffee.

"It was the paper I gave," she began. "At a little, provincial college like Magdalene, obviously our labs are going to be pretty sparsely equipped, and corporate grant money is going to be in short supply, right? So how cutting-edge is our chemistry research going to be? But we all do a lot of teaching, so there's some research possibilities. So I did a paper on pedagogy.

"That research wasn't state-of-the-art either, but at least I had something reasonably interesting to talk about. We've been coed for 20 years now, but we still get more girls than boys, and our chemistry classes probably have a higher percentage of girls in them than most colleges'. Of course I wouldn't dream of using the term "girls" in a conference paper--they are "young women"--but, entre nous, they're still girls."

"I love it when you talk dirty in French," I teased. "At what point are they no longer 'girls' but 'women'?"

"When they ditch their virginity, learn how a clitoris works, turn 21, and start paying their own rent. All four required. And if you keep interrupting, we won't have time to get to the juicy parts of the story."

I bit my lip then drank some more coffee. Kristin continued.

"So I did a little library research on male-vs.-female learning styles, and I talked to some people in the Education Department, talked to Jill in Psychology. Designed a small case study in my courses. It wasn't hard science, but it was interesting and suggestive. Plenty good enough for a conference paper, I thought.

"My results weren't anything surprising. Girls do better when they work together in small groups instead of individually. They do better when the groups are all-female, not mixed. Boys do a little better in an atmosphere of competition; girls do better in an atmosphere of cooperation. There's more, but you get the gist.

"None of these results should surprise anyone who knows anything about gender differences, right? The main thing I contributed was exploring the implications for designing a college chemistry course."

My mind had started to wander. I found myself admiring Kristin's lovely breasts yet again. They were just behind a thin B-cup bra and a thinner yellow blouse. She caught my gaze and gave me a scowl that fortunately didn't look entirely sincere. I took another bite of toast and smiled.

"So that's the paper I delivered that Wednesday afternoon at ACS. Of course I changed 'girls' and 'boys' to 'young women' and 'young men.' Okay, so there's three speakers on my panel, each talking about teaching chemistry. We each give our 20-minute paper, and then there's a 25-minute question-and-answer period.

"So everything is fine and mellow through the three papers and maybe the first three minutes of the Q&A. Then some guy stands up and starts laying into me about how oppressive and prejudiced and hurtful my paper was, with its cavalier assumptions about gender identifications. How indifferent I am to the struggles of genderqueer, nonbinary, transgender, and six other nonconforming gender modalities. Whatever the hell a modality is. Then another person stands up--I couldn't say if this one was a man or a woman, and I suppose I'm just showing my hopelessness by falsely implying there are only two possibilities instead of 11. Anyway, he, she, or whatever rips into me for being 'heteronormative' and 'cis-normative' and oblivious to the feelings of the transgendered who are on the journey to becoming their authentic selves.

"And I make the mistake of trying irony on this person, and I say, perhaps somewhere along the path of this journey they might want to learn a little chemistry, and that's all I'm trying to do here. Well, that didn't work, and then a third one stands up and really tears into me for piling macroaggressions on top of the thousands of microaggressions I had already inflicted upon the audience in my paper.