Best of Best Women's Erotica (27 page)

Was she as desperate as I was? Apparently.

When I realized this, I really fell in love with Siliidi.

 

In our home, Siliidi ruled. Outside, though, she played the role of the subservient woman, turning me into a living legend in our small town. For instance, every Wednesday she would come to the Kmart with a basket of homemade curries and breads as if
she were delivering my lunch. I hated Sri Lankan cooking, but these lunches served an important purpose: every man in Kmart noticed her. She wore a tight spandex miniskirt with no panties, and the curves of her ass showed through the shiny black material. Her tank top, in some loud color like turquoise or yellow, revealed plenty of cleavage, not to mention the outline of her nipples. The men at Kmart couldn't believe that I had married this exotic beauty with “a tight ass and a nice rack”—and that I had her wrapped around my little finger.

“Hubert!” she would call, running through the store, sending her breasts flying up to her chin.

“Hello, Siliidi,” I'd repy in an aloof manner. To the guys around me, it looked like I had everything under control. She wanted me; I could care less about her. (Inside my pants, of course, my erection was almost ready to pop.)

Siliidi embraced and kissed me; I just stood still. “I made you some special treats because I was thinking about you, Hubert!”

Her voice was syrupy sweet. I wanted to melt, but I remained cool—and all the staff could see it. I pointed to my office with the plastic furniture, and blinds on the windows. “In there,” I told my wife.

Siliidi bowed with a sexy flick of her waist. She ran her hands hungrily over my blue polyester uniform and tugged at my name tag. She left the food on the customer service counter and we went into my office. I closed the blinds and moaned loudly for a good five to ten minutes while she gave me head—which anyone in the vicinity could not help but hear. I would munch on a cafeteria hot dog I'd bought earlier so I wouldn't have to eat Siliidi's curry. I loved eating lunch while having my cock sucked. Later I'd throw the Sri Lankan food out in the
dumpster, carefully wrapping it so nobody would see that I hadn't eaten it.

 

This thing that I had going with Siliidi couldn't last, and I knew it. She was eventually going to get her citizenship, and then she wouldn't need me anymore.

After two years in the United States, she was losing her accent. Now, when she told me to strip, she could have been any woman in a porn video. She was losing her uniqueness. I still got instantly hard at the sight of her, but I was less than satisfied with our sex. At first Siliidi had been so exciting, I had to have her, I needed so badly to be inside her. Now, while we were fucking I would think about the stale Twinkies on top of the refrigerator.

 

One night Siliidi was sitting on her side of the bed smoking a cigarette. She extinguished it only halfway through. “I get my citizenship next week,” she said.

Siliidi wasn't desperate anymore. She moved out a few months after she got her papers from the government. I didn't try to stop her.

Sexually, Siliidi had spoiled me. I hadn't jerked off for the entire two years we were married, and I didn't want to jerk off again. Sex with a hot kinky woman with humongous tits had turned out to be everything I'd always wanted, at least in the beginning. Now, I want it again.

But I am faced with the dilemma of being Hubert W. Humphrey—a middle-aged, obese, pasty white, fast-food junkie with a middle management job at Kmart. I may not be the most pathetic man in the world, but I'm never going to be an ace on the singles scene. And I still can't afford a classy whore.

On the Internet, though, I'm a king. I choose who to get off with and when. On the Internet, there are women who need me—women even more desperate than I am.

So, I'm back to
XoticMailOrderBrides.com
. I've even lowered my standards. Now, I chat with them all—scrawny Thais, fake blondes from Russia. After all, you never know when you might find a woman who's desperate for a green card.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW DID I KNOW HE WAS UNFAITHFUL? I KNEW it because I was his second wife. He'd been unfaithful to his first wife—with me. I remember the excuses he gave her: working late, “business trips” we took together, absurdly frequent engine trouble or flat tires.

“She didn't fall for that?” I asked him. He assured me that she believed every word.

I now know that she didn't. I don't. I am just too amazed at his audacity to argue. Now I also know what I didn't know when he and I were making love for hours, pretzeling into impossible, playful, passionate positions and then sleeping, twisted into each other's arms in a borrowed apartment of a friend who was out of town for the weekend while Stephen was supposedly on one of those “business trips.” I
know that Stephen had sex with his wife, though he told me he didn't. I know it because he is still having sex with me. Tender, guilty, exhausted sex.

Now, six years after our illicit affair has been legalized, sanitized into a state of respectability, I am twice wounded. My husband is cheating on me with another woman. And all those years ago my lover, the same man, was cheating on me with his wife. I don't know which betrayal I resent more. I should be angry. I should resist the seductions and cut flowers, as short-lived as his excuses. But I don't, because Stephen's a really great lover. I don't know where he finds the energy. Does it excite him to crawl into my bed with the scent of another woman still clinging to him? To kiss me hungrily…?

The other woman's name is Jennifer. Stephen crawls into my bed as little as fifteen minutes after leaving hers. She lives only a few miles away from us. I've never met her. But I know where she lives. Does it excite him to rush in to me after making love to her? To twine his tongue around mine so that I can almost taste her? So that the smell of her cunt, still wet on his chin, overwhelms me. It excites me. It doesn't lessen my jealousy, but it excites me. When his kisses have inflamed me enough, I push his head down. His rough tongue patiently tickles the inside of my thighs.

“Quickly,” I hurry him. I want some of her juice still on his tongue while he's licking me. Is it me he's thinking of while his tongue wriggles into the muscled cave of my cunt? Is her cunt lightly downed as mine, the hair thinned with age, or is she young and rebelliously shaved smooth? I read his diary but he leaves out details like these. “Jennifer,” I heard him say into the phone as he hung up very quickly. (
J
in his diary.) There
were only two Jennifers in his address book. One of them I recognized as an eighty-year-old great-aunt. I wrote down the other's address and phone number.
Sloppy, Stephen. Very sloppy.
Which is how his first wife caught us. I wasn't surprised his habits hadn't much changed.

I didn't call her. What would I have said? I've driven by her house, hoping to catch sight of her. My jealous curiosity drew me there. One day when I knew him to be on a real business trip, I stopped.
(Let this be a warning to you, Husbands of the World. It is not that difficult to check.)
I got out of the car. I rang her doorbell. She could just as easily have been on the trip with him. She wasn't.

Twenty-something with red braided hair answered the door.

“Hello,” I said, cold and defiant.

“Hello,” she said sweetly.

“Do you know who I am?” I demanded.

She looked puzzled. She shook her head apologetically. “I haven't lived here very long.”

I didn't know what to say. This interview wasn't going at all as I had imagined it.

“I'm Karyn,” I said. “Karyn Feinberg.”

Her red braid bobbed amiably.

“Stephen Feinberg's wife.”

She didn't bat an eyelash. Not a flicker of recognition.

“Are you Jennifer?” Maybe I was at the wrong address.

“Jennifer Reidenbach.” She shook my hand politely.

I felt a little foolish. I kept waiting for Rod Serling to step out from behind a well-manicured bush. Should I ask her, “Are you having an affair with my husband?” Should I demand to smell her pubic hair? Would it be the same salty-sweet I licked off his cheek some nights?

Jennifer Reidenbach was looking at me kindly. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I've lost my…” (Mind. I've definitely lost my mind.) “…My puppy. Have you seen him?”

“What does he look like?”

Like every other imaginary pet. “Brown, furry. About this high. Comes to the name of Romeo.”

“That's a funny name for a dog.”

“Isn't it?”

Jennifer Reidenbach shook her red braid. “No. I haven't seen him.”

“Maybe your husband has seen him.”

“I'm not married.”

“Can I use your phone?” I asked.

“Sure,” the fly said to the spider.

She led me to a kitchen phone. I stared at her pointedly. She left to give me privacy. I hit each of the auto-dial numbers programmed into her phone. One of them was certain to be Stephen's office number or my home. I hung up whenever anyone answered. I didn't hear a voice or message machine that I recognized.
That doesn't prove anything,
I told myself.

The walls of the kitchen and hallways were covered with snapshots. I looked for pictures of him, of them together. They were all of people I didn't know. I took in as much as I could of her apartment. “Are you a photographer?”

“I wish,” she said wistfully. “I mean, yes, I am. I'm trying to be.”

In spite of myself, I liked her. I went from room to room, looking at the photographs; looking around for some evidence, some telltale sign of Stephen.

“Maybe Romeo will come home on his own,” Jennifer suggested.

“What?”

“Your dog. I hope you find him.”

“Oh, him. He's the wandering type, seems like he forgets where home is.”

“You should have him neutered,” Jennifer said.

“That's a good idea,” I agreed. Then I saw it—a picture of Stephen, a Polaroid of the two of them at the County Fair.
Last year's
fair!

“Who is this?” I tapped the photo.

“That's my boyfriend, Mark.”

“Mark?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He looks familiar,” I told her. My teeth felt sharper for saying it.

“Does he? He lives in Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia?” I choked.

“Yes, he calls me when he comes to town. He comes here a lot on business. But not often enough. You know how long-distance relationships are.”

“No…why don't you tell me?” So she did. Every word she said made my eyes a little wider. She was a very young, very beautiful, very gullible girl. He'd told her his name was Mark Smith.

“Smith?” I said. “You must be kidding.”

She laughed, a completely guileless laugh. “That's what I said when he first told me. But somebody has to be named Smith, right?”

“Right.”

She made me coffee and told me how they met, the last time
she'd seen him, every implausible word he'd ever said, how fervently she believed them all, and of course, what a wonderful lover he was. I ground my teeth silently.

“How do you know he's not married?” I asked her.

“Oh,” she shrugged the idea off. “I'd know. I want to show you something.” She took me by the hand and led me to her bedroom. The bed was covered in tie-dyed silk. The walls were crowded with pictures. Here was Stephen. There was Stephen. Stephen everywhere. It was a temple. The walls were altars and Stephen's face blazed like a candle in every corner.

In one he held his hand out in protest.
No more pictures.
Another was clearly taken in the garden of his mother's house. (What had they been doing there? Where had his mother been? Whose house had “Mark” said it was?) Every piece of the puzzle fragmented into more questions. I was more confused than ever. More pictures were of him sprawled on her bed, this very bed. I looked at the rumpled sheets, smoothed them with my hand. In some he was naked. In some, sleeping. In some he was looking out at her with undisguised lust. It was odd, since he seemed to be looking right out of the picture at me. He seemed to be saying
I want you. Now.
Although I knew it was not me he had been wanting, my clit leaped like a candlewick under the familiar attention of a match.

Jennifer grinned like a child sharing a secret treasure with a friend, which is in fact what she was. I ruffled her hair.

As I was leaving, Jennifer hugged me earnestly. “I hope you get Romeo back. I know how terrible it is to lose something you love.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Please come back again.”

I grinned wickedly. “I will.”

After that, I did what any vigilant dog-owner would do. I kept my husband on a tight leash. I made plans to do things in the evening, couple things, command-performance things like dinner at his mother's. I became good friends with the boss's wife. We had dinner with them once a week. I'd have finagled more if I could but it was difficult to wrench the boss away from
his
mistress—a girl who worked in the office and looked no more than sixteen. I dropped in at Stephen's office unexpectedly “to have lunch together.” I was suspiciously romantic and spontaneous. Stephen retaliated by varying his lunch hour erratically and saying, “If I'd only known you were coming,” hoping to force me to call and announce my surprise inspections. It was a statistical certainty that one day I would be arriving as he was leaving. That day came. He didn't see me, so what choice did I have but to follow him? What would I do if he led me to her house? Would I burst in on them, catch them in bed, wipe the lust and bliss off their amazed faces, while the lustful, blissful photos stared down from the bedroom walls at us—a jury of our peers? Would I sit frozen in the car while they made love inside? What if I rang the bell and no one answered? Who would untangle her limbs from her lover to answer the door? Leave him for Jehovah's witnesses, Girl Scout cookies, or pseudoneighbors' lost dogs? And when they didn't answer the door, what would I do? Crawl in a window? Break down the door? Call 911?
Help. My husband is making love to a beautiful woman.