memoirofanaffair

[memoirofanaffair]

I’ve seen the signals and signs a hundred times, the look of need, of desire unquenched, the longing to be overtaken and ravished. I’ve seen it and responded with every ounce of my animal cunning and sly predations. I’ve taken what I wanted. Sighted them. Stalked and observed, sized up, found the weakest point to pounce upon and plunge jagged fangs in to arterial vulnerabilities. Overwhelmed with my pure prescience and power, I’ve had many willingly submit to the kill, and enjoy it and return to me again and again, but this was different. The look on her face in her videos and the display of her jugular and the mention of wet panties in the art museum. It should have ignited every ounce of my black blood and bile, should have wrenched me by the gonads into an actual hunter, ready to claim another wonderful prize, but this was the girl I knew so long ago, sobbing in my arms under a table, us cub and doe, sheltered out from the world. A girl holding my hand and walking past the popular people who wondered what she could possibly want with me. This was my persistent vision of beauty and kindness, But now she was all grown up and staring me dead in the eye with a fire in her bright green eyes. She couldn’t want to. To become prey? Could she?

[memoirofanaffair]

Blushing while chewing on my bottom lip, wandering through a modern art museum in a town that isn’t mine, we exchanged texts, teasing me mostly in between just blatant flattery, my bruised ego soaking up every word. He made some joke about if I ever needed a deviant misanthropic loner, he was my guy. Impulsively, I typed, “you might be just what I was looking for,” and I jammed my pocket into my back pocket, my heart pounding, shocked by my own boldness. I walked around the gallery, ignoring the buzzing in my pocket, trying to slow my heart rate. Steadying myself, I take my phone out of my pocket. Him: Wait. What? Him: Where did you go? Him: If you are looking for me, I’m right here baby. Her: Are we in the same time zone? Can we talk tonight? Him: PST. Yes. When? Her: Tonight. I fly out at 4:00 and can call you as soon as I get home. I’m home alone tonight and we can talk. My palms were sweaty as I typed. The flash of pleasure down my spine as I read where he called me baby, left a warm tingle burning low in my belly. Her: Maybe we can video chat? I’d love to see your face. Him: Sure. We can start there baby. My breath caught again, my whole thrumming at his assumption and his casual casual tone. Even though I hadn’t heard his voice in decades, I could hear that deep growl vibrating in his chest when he called me baby. Her: yeah. Start there. I should let you be until then. I’m in a museum and just knowing I can see you tonight is turning me on. Him: Of course. We wouldn’t want to soak a perfectly good pair of panties in front of any Old Masters. Her: Modern Art. And I don’t wear panties. Him: Thanks. I needed a full blown erection in the middle of my office. Him: (I’m super into modern art) Her: You are so welcome. Literally, any time. Him: You know, back in college, I was as full blown in love with you as I’ve ever been before or since. Her: I know. And I did. I had always known.

[memoirofanaffair]

Through the foggy haze of my remembering, she was a vibrant, angelic, piercing shaft of light through my darkness. The best thing to come from the time. I was at my first rock bottom, as the drugs had gone from escapist carnival excitement to life impacting derailer. From distraction to dereliction happened very fast, but somehow, in the shitstorm of shadows and poor choices and destruction, there was this purity- this perfect beauty- the kind that launches war ships and rocket ships and and heart shivs. I knew love then, the kind of unrelenting die-for-you love, and I had no context or explanation why. I just knew I did. I knew every instinct I had told me to cover and protect her. A few dozen years later, I see her again on a reel, flickering that same face, aged into grace. The big wounded doe eyes now fiery with Promethean knowledge and life. Life found and made and accomplished. A complete and remarkable woman that somehow accomplished so much all the while with one hand compressing her wounds. I wasn’t sure why, what glint or nod or gesture, but I knew she needed me, and a different kind of instinct took over. I never wanted to be in love again. Now I wasn’t sure if I ever had been before.

[memoirofanaffair]

My phone buzzes in my pocket. There he is again. The boy from college who held me while I cried, hiding under one of the big industrial tables on the ground floor of my dorm. The boy who never ever even tried to kiss me, but would always come when I called. The boy who I was careful of, knowing if I told him someone else had hurt me, he would risk himself, to keep me safe. He wasn’t a boy anymore, though. We were both solidly middle aged, him divorced with no kids and a storied past, me married mother of four and president of the PTA. We had followed each other on social media for years, but with almost no actual contact, yet somehow even decades later, just seeing his name filled me with that same sense of safety. This was a man that would never hurt me. Some animal part of my brain knew that so clearly that my rational brain didn’t even bother to get involved. He was safe. He was safety. There had always been an normal social media exchange. I saw when he watched my stories. I’d put the laughing face emoji when he said something clever on Facebook, but this was different. I was traveling out of state, feeling a little bored and lonely, and posting videos of myself, all dressed up with no where to go, a little pouty, a little provocative, but very very g rated middle age mom thirst traps. My husband and I had had a conversation before I left about the sexual mismatch in our relationship. We loved each other. We liked each other. We would never divorce or separate. We built and were building a beautiful life together and neither one of us wanted to blow that up, but he was content with missionary sex on Fridays and maybe a midweek shower quickie before the kids got up. Hell, more than content. Thrilled. Satisfied. And I, um, wasn’t. We ended that conversation with him telling me, I want you to be happy, safe, fulfilled and discreet. I don’t want to know anything about it. I, frankly, had no idea what it was though, so I went on my lonely work trip, drank alone in the hotel bar and masturbated furiously in the hotel room every night before collapsing alone and naked in the cool white hotel bed sheets. In the morning, with a crisp view of the city skyline in the background, I would slip into my robe and FaceTime with my darling children and my sweet husband who would update me on squabbles and tooth loss and say things like, “yep, I’m holding down the fort, but we all really miss you,” while our three year old scaled his back and tried to use him like a jungle gym. Over my week, though, my boy turned man wasn’t just watching my stories. He started messaging me, friendly and mostly innocuous, a little flirty. Saying he’d buy me a drink if he found me alone in a hotel bar. A white hot flash of pleasure had joined the sense of safety I felt every time I saw his name flash on my screen, but I didn’t mean to have an affair. Honestly. I really didn’t.