With Vixen sated by hubby, my heart and mind cleared. I was ashamed for flirting with Elliot but pleased to escape the snare of his bachelor pad. I drove past the golf course without glancing toward it again and again. Elliot didn’t perk up in my mind except as a seduction clown. After two weeks, however, I involuntarily glanced toward the golf course driveway and to the pro shop, when I drove past. The thought of him positioned behind me, guiding my swing, flashed. Vixen squealed. She wanted Elliot. Early the next morning, as if on cue, he called.
"Hi, it’s Elliot. Just checking to ask how come you haven't stopped by for another lesson. You showed such promise."
“How’d you get my phone number?”
“On your rental form; can I give another lesson?”
He’s called. I knew he would. Now he must plead for his little male ego snip.
"I found a better course."
"With as good an instructor?"
"My swing’s improved".
"Can’t quibble with that, do I get a second chance?"
"Can you improve my swing?"
"I can, I can, how about lunch first? We can discuss improving your posture, then your swing."
Ignoring his need to plead, I retorted.
Words that flew out before I could retract them.
"The cottage restaurant, at noon, they got a special I’d like you to try?"
To recover from my blurted acceptance, he had to heel to me.
"No, how about downtown, the Governor Hotel?"
The Governor Hotel in Olympia, back then, was full service with restaurant and had a rear covered parking garage. While not a "grand dame" due to its 1960's architecture, it was an also-ran. More importantly, like the San Jose Airport Holiday Inn, it had safe car access and concealed parking.
"What's wrong with the cottage?"
"The wine selection’s good but the food’s, well it’s fast served, say frozen, microwave fresh, Sysco?"
"Ha, well the steaks are cooked from scratch. There's a new dessert on the menu. I want you to try. I know you’ll love it."
"You take care of lunch. I'll take care of dessert. See you at noon at the Governor".
I hung up.
This bunny is not going to the buck's cage to be another pro shop loft trophy.
Why am I thinking of going, I’m risking everything? Well, it's only lunch.
Lying to myself it was only lunch, I showered, pulled from the closet the silken dress from long ago, put it back in its corner and decided to go professional with a mid-calf, black, pencil skirt, a conservative, long sleeve white blouse and a wide red waist belt with bow. I laid them on the bed, sat down before my dressing table and put my hair up with bobby pins.
Staring at myself while putting on eye makeup I argued fidelity and lost. No, I argued infidelity and won.
Why am I jeopardizing my marriage, my family?
It's Hubby, he started it!
His stupid swinging idea, that’s why I saw Edward. It’s hubby’s fault. He wanted to trade me around, to have me screw other men so he could get what he wanted. He made me be a hot-wife. Now he’s got his business mistress and video porn harem. He’s got to accept what he did to me.
After blame-shifting myself to justified anger, I phoned the office and told him I wasn't coming in, opened a package of sheer black pantyhose, sat on the edge of the bed and guided toes to the ends, pulled it up tight, stood before the wall mirror and a wave of sexual awareness swept me. The feeling of the silken fabric on my legs buttressed my decision. I put on a slinky black bra, the blouse, skirt, belt, and black high heel shoes, opened my top dresser drawer and selected a pearl necklace, matching bracelet and pearl stud earrings.
Back at the dressing table, I applied dark red lipstick to match my nails, dabbed perfume on the nape of my neck and wrists and as a final act of betrayal put on hubby’s emerald trophy ring rationalizing it was what my husband wanted, a hot-wife.
Worked up to seduction mode, I went to my hiding spot and took out my porcelain pillbox next to my diary. In it were condoms from Darryl days, proof I’d never reformed. Better safe than sorry crossed my mind but like an addict taking the bottle out of the cupboard, the decision had already been made. I morphed in a few hours from faithful wife to libidinous tart, flush with sexual anticipation. I was ready to meet Elliot the seducer, the cocky rooster, so sure of himself.
Downtown, in front of the hotel, doubts assailed me as the excitement of dressing for sex faded. I was breaking rules, meeting someone close to home, known by others I knew and who my husband might meet. While not a golfer we had eaten at the cottage restaurant and would again. The staff could find out. Friends of ours used the course and knew Elliot. Rumors could start. The ladies I golfed with were on alert.
The hotel took up most of a block. I drove around it three times debating with myself until pulling into the rear covered garage telling myself; it's only lunch, again and again.
Parked in a remote space, I strode to the lobby. Sexual arousal returned as my nylon legs caressed each other with each stride. Entering the lobby, I saw Elliot. He was sitting near the front desk, his countenance aplomb, a twinkle in his eyes suggesting anticipated conquest. He guided me innocently to the restaurant as if meeting me for a business lunch.
It’s only lunch. It’s only lunch. It’s only lunch.
Echoed in my mind.
The maître d’ and waitresses knew neither of us. If they did, they were professionally indifferent. No other dinners there were known by me. Furtive scanned glances at new arrivals added anonymity confidence. He remembered and ordered a bottle of the same wine I ordered at his cottage restaurant. We tarried before menu selection until the bottle was near empty. I was tipsy but sober. He suggested another but I declined and ordered a crab salad. During wine and salad, I replied to his banter and innuendos and little male ego put-downs.
He was an expert seducer but too sure of himself. Leaving crossed my mind but we continued to parry across from one another as our salads disappeared. He was nice-looking, if not handsome. His mannerisms were attractive with a glint to his eyes which combined suggestions of sleepy seduction, cheerfulness and a bit of danger. Vixen was enthralled simply by the prospect of another man while my heart and mind surrendered to his eyes. With the plates removed he asked.
"What's for dessert?"
If I ordered a dessert menu it meant, no go. I had to be the desert. His eyes were inviting the answer he sought. It was my move. Staring blankly, saying nothing, I opened my purse and set the pillbox on the table, thought about grabbing it back but didn't.
He stared perplexed.
He pulled it close and flipped the latch open with his thumbnail; slowly raised the lid, a broad smile crossed his face. His look in my eyes said.
It was too late to retreat. I took the pillbox back and snapped the lid shut.
"Get a room, one with a view."
He got up, waited for me to follow but I sat still. Understanding, he went to the lobby registration desk alone. I went to the ladies’ room. When I came out, he was at our table signing for the bill, relieved to see me approach and sit down.
“What’s the room number?”
“821, it’s on the top floor, with a view of downtown.”
“Go there and wait. Give me a few minutes. I’ll meet you there.”
Nodding assent, a slight leer suppressed, he left. I went back to the restroom, checked my hair and makeup again, casually walked to the lobby, entered the garage and walked to my car to see if I was observed. Garnering the attention of no one, I returned to the lobby, got on the elevator, pushed the top floor button, counted the dings as it slid past each floor uninterrupted and relieved with no stops, entered the eighth-floor corridor.
Following the arrow sign, I went to 821 and tapped. Smiling, Elliot opened the door. He remained fully dressed. It pleased me he hadn’t assumed to undress before my arrival. The room was dark with the curtains closed. I went to the windows and pulled the drapes open. Light flooded in. I set my purse on a little table next to the expanse of glass windows, the broad view of downtown before us. Three blocks away, hubby’s office window was plain to see. It was the corner window on the second floor. Distance blurred a clear image but we could see one another if we faced our windows and stared. Transfixed, I mused.
We can see one another but can’t be sure.
None could look directly in our room due to the room’s eight-floor height. The surrounding buildings were two to three stories. The windows provided a chance for my secret puppet shadow to perform on an aerial perch, openly visible but discernable by none.
Elliot approached and stood behind me, as if to give another swing lesson but instead gently kissed the nape of my neck. Perfume and aftershave scents commingled. I arched my neck to greet his caresses and pushed my buttocks against him like during the golf session. He reached down and held my hips and stuck his tongue in the ear cocked to him. I lifted his hands to my blouse to grip my breasts, then pressed palms against the window to stabilize my posture.
His years of golfing gave him a firm grip. He became aggressive, kissing the nape of my neck and then my ears, darting his tongue in and out, his hands held fast on my breasts. He began a dry hump. My palms were splayed on the window, my head pressed against the glass, bobby pins broke loose and fell from my tussled hair to the floor. I reached down between bumps to my purse, pulled out the pillbox and handed it back to him.
Disengaged, he dropped his pants, fumbled and put a condom on while I slid my skirt above my belt and pulled my pantyhose down to my knees. I spread my entangled legs as best I could, felt back for his penis and guided it in. With face pressed against the window, I grasped a sliding glass door handle to stabilize myself against his assault.
Letting go of my bloused breasts, he clutched my hips to assist I stopped looking at the jerking view of my husband's office window, closed my eyes and a shudder swept my body as my head bumped the window glass.
I raised my head back to again see hubby’s office window As he did, I thought of my husband.
You wanted to watch me swinging. Well, I just did where you could ‘a watched if you'd only looked.
“That was our cordial. We’d better undress for dessert."
I stepped out of my shoes, took off my belt and skirt removed my blouse and set them neatly on a chair, sat down and rolled off the pantyhose and put it on my clothing heap. A run in them was evident. I put my shoes back on to avoid my bare feet walking on the carpet so many had trod on and took my purse to the bathroom. Before the mirror I took out the remaining bobby pins, reapplied lipstick and took a washcloth and wiped my pubic area, sticky from love secretions.
Taking a large towel, wet it in warm water, went to the bed where he lay sprawled naked and had him move until his legs dangled over the bed's edge, knees spread and swabbed his pubic area and chest. I then gave him a male anatomy lesson.
Although a lover boy, his member was average size and a little placid but this was excused due to his recent male essence discharge.
I lay on him whispering naughty words in his ear.
“Now I want to see what kind of horse you are. Let’s start with a nice trot. Then you can gallop ."
He paced into a nice trot, began to run and then went into a gallop with my heels locked behind his ankles, prodding his pace until I shouted: "Now, now!".
We lay spent on the bed. After a few minutes, he rolled off, got up and said on his way to the bathroom.
I got up and we showered. He watched me dry then redress, sans pantyhose due to their run. After he redressed, I instructed him to leave first.
As he opened the door to leave, he asked.
"When can we meet again?"
"You sure you want to?"
"Yes, that's the best dessert ever, sugar, cream, and spice all in one."
"I’ll call when it's again dessert time. Don’t call me."
In the mirror, my reflected blouse and skirt were crumpled. Undressing again, I found the room’s iron and smoothed them out on the bed. I put my hair back up with retrieved bobby pins. Redressed again, I fixed my makeup and reapplied lipstick. I stood before the full-length mirror to see if I looked like I just experienced a hotel room tryst. My eyes said, obviously. I put on sunglasses then took them off. Shades in a hotel are a sure sign of guilt.
He was gone an hour before I was ready to leave. I walked through the room to ensure nothing was forgotten, put the pantyhose in my purse and left five dollars on the nightstand for the housekeeper. My handprints and smudged lipstick smear were evident on the tryst window. I left them for the maid to clean thinking how Mom would, "tisk, tisk".
I rode the elevator down hoping for a nonstop departure. Instead, the car stopped twice and filled. Loaded, it provided an exit screen in the lobby. Finally, in my car, I said a little prayer to ensure it started and drove to the ambiguous safety of the street.
Secure in the anonymity of traffic, I drove by our office to see if hubby's car was there. It was. I pulled in the garage at home, clicked the garage door opener to secure the door, traipsed upstairs to my bedroom, locked the door and showered again. I changed to casual clothes, put the blouse and skirt in the cleaner's bag and the pantyhose in the wastebasket.
Even with fresh cologne, Elliot's essence lingered.
Elliot’s next gift was going to be the brand of aftershave I get for hubby.
In the kitchen, I cooked spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread, a hubby favorite to cover latent suspicious body odors. As the spaghetti boiled it was.
I couldn’t help myself. Now it’s Mission Accomplished. Let’s see what happens next.
Despite track covering, hubby intuitively suspected something.
“Honey what did you do today so you couldn’t come to the office?”
“I had lunch at the Governor Hotel.”
“No, with one of the people I golf with”.
He didn't ask more but in bed at night sought sex. I didn’t resist but skipped on top. Vixen surprised me and squeaked out a small orgasm as I thought about the lipstick on the window.
In the early morn, I awoke as my husband snored and realized even with marriage re-commitment, I was back milking two men. I knew I was going to continue "swinging the golf club", felt guilty and wondered.
Do I have a character flaw or am I simply promiscuous, perhaps both?
It wasn’t like that. When one thinks, talks to themselves, rationalizes pros and cons they don’t say it in words? I didn’t verbalize it. It was primordial, without words in any language. It was ambivalence acceptance of who I was without mental discussion. I couldn’t change. I was both. With marriage security, I enjoyed illicit sex and its excitement, a cheat. That was it, I was a serial cheater. There was no excuse or justification.
I got up and fixed a breakfast of mushroom, cheese and artichoke heart omelets with, salsa, sausages, and toast. If I couldn't be faithful, I’d at least treat my husband like Camelot King Arthur at the dining table even if I was his libidinous Guenevere in bed.
The next morning, we rode to work together. I went to his office window and stared back at the Governor Hotel and the window on which I smeared lipstick. The distance made determining which window difficult but I was pretty sure which one it was. He’d need a telescope to have watched. I put one on his Christmas gift list.
“What are you staring at, hon?”
“The Governor Hotel, let’s go there for lunch.”
The maître d’ took us to our table and gave me no notice, the waitress was indifferent, they were professional indifferent. After four years of faithfulness, again wanton, I didn't feel guilt. Instead, a sense of being normal again occurred, the norm of milking two men. Fear of being caught was part of my life mode, not guilt. I was addicted to intrigue risk, a gambler betting against odds with husband, kids and my reputation as the ante. Worse, I accepted who I was, a double agent betraying those loved, guilty without remorse.
Elliot disobeyed and called home the evening after. He wanted to see me. I told him discretion was required and I would call him but when I failed to do so the next day he called at the office. To avoid his calling, I called each morning from a downtown phone booth and put off a meeting for a week to ensure he was fully recharged.
He wanted to meet at his pro shop pad but again I refused to be just another trophy conquest and told him to again get a room at the Governor. I requested one facing the other direction, toward the Sound not wanting to look at the office while cheating again. We met at the Governor, sans lunch twice more.
While a seducer he knew little about female sexuality. He began my cunnilingus, manual manipulation, and mutual masturbation training. His first lesson was learning he was ignorant about female anatomy.
Author Notes: After meeting to be unfaithful again the wife switches to set things up for a longer term mode of adultery.