Summer put her hand up, palm toward me, and stared ahead. Her lips were pressed together. She was feigning deep interest in the three promotional videos that were replaying on the small screen in front of her.

I couldn't tell which kind of mood she was in: the one where I could do something goofy, and she'd crack up, or the one where she'd stay mad for half the flight.

I decided to take my chances.

I put the barf bag on my hand and began to sing a Brittany Spears song in an operatic voice. For extra effect, I employed my “Italian” accent. Summer liked this accent, because it was terrible, and sounded more like the Swedish Chef than anything Italian.

She continued to stare straight ahead, but I could see that she had cracked. Her eyes had softened. She wasn't smiling, but the corners of her mouth had turned just ever so slightly upward.

No one else would have noticed the change but me.

I straightened my hand, and the mouth of my barf bag puppet let it rip:

“I’ll never tell, tell on myzelf.... buht I ghope she smella my pervume-eh, cacciatore!”

She was close to disintegrating.

I moved the bag close to her ear.

“Chicken,” I whispered. The puppet leaned in, and its voice dropped to Barry-White lows.

“Cacciatore.”

She lost it, with a wet snort. She leaned forward and covered her face.

I made the barf bag puppet throw its head back in delight and wave at the last of the passengers settling into their seats.

Even though something – and who ever knew what it was? - had caused a marital dispute nearly two hours ago, and we had been exchanging sharp but courteous words with each other only when necessary, I was still riding high on the fact that we were leaving.

Traveling to Italy. For two months.

And – and this was key: without our children.

Alone.

Alone to finish conversations and have dinner whenever we wanted and shuttle absolutely no one to soccer practice or anything else they desired to do.

I gave a sigh of satisfaction. Ah, yes. Italy was but ten hours away, and all of the delicious food, the classical art, the mornings filled with sex and decent coffee, stretched out before me.

Summer, of course, had been fretting up to the last minute and still was, about the kids and whether or not we should be abandoning them to a month of summer camp and another of hanging out with their cousins.

I had no such reservations, and I had been drinking a lot of wine in the bar to prove it.

(Come to think of it, this was almost certainly how the fight had begun.)

At long last, the late passengers found their way to their seats, the slight attendants clicked and locked and checked their way down the aisles.

We were stuffed in the middle of the middle row, but thanks to Summer, who insisted on being at the airport six hours before our flight (an exaggeration, but we were there something like four hours before), we were in the front-most row of Economy. This meant an extra two feet of leg space.

I stretched out, slumping to recline in spite of the repeated warnings to have my chair in the upright position.

The windows turned to a green blur, and then a gray one, and then a sheet of blue, and the sound I had been waiting for hummed softly from above us. Ding-dong.

Seatbelts off. And time for booze.

I turned to Summer, planning to gently entertain and cajole her until she indulged in glass of wine.

To my surprise, she was already like a new woman. Her face had relaxed, and she was smiling. She let out a sigh, one that I rarely heard from her: it was the sigh she used when she closed the door on something.

“I think I'm going to get drunk now,” she said pleasantly, without my having to suggest anything.

Summer was thirty-five this year, and while her appearance did not betray her age at all, her demeanor often made her seem at least that old, if not older. She had left her career behind to take care of our two children, and she applied the same zeal to that job that she had to her job in marketing. The only problem was that the children didn't involve nearly as much pressure or dedication, and she had made up for this by becoming permanently terse and by volunteering for everything under the sun. Now, I liked to joke, she worked just as hard for a negative amount of money.

On the bright side, she could never be fired.

Added to this, we had been married for fourteen years. I knew Summer still loved me, but it was evident in everything she did that she was always thinking of me as an afterthought. First, there was the business of the children, and then dinner, and then taxes, and then the dog, and then, at the end of the list, was me. She had time to run her fingers through my hair out of habit, and kiss me quickly on the cheek. Her mind, though, was always somewhere else. Usually something she had to do.

And then there was sex. She was always tired, and always in a hurry. While she seemed to know that it was good for our relationship to let me talk her into it once in a while, she often seemed to be miles away in her own mind. Usually worrying about soccer cleats or refreshments for the PTA meeting or any one of the six dozen things she volunteered for.

In short, like most women with children and fourteen years of marriage under their belts, she had become tired and cranky 85% of the time.

It was the possibility of moments like this that made me hold on, in my mind, to the love I had for her, and keep my fingers crossed that the other 15% did not happen while we were all sleeping.

She turned in the small seat and folded her leg up underneath her. She pulled the band that had been holding her hair in a ponytail loose, and shook out her mahogany-colored, shoulder-length hair. She rested her head against a hand that she buried in her silken mane, and blinked at me. “I'm so excited,” she said, and her eyes were wet and bright like she really was. “I finally feel like our vacation is beginning.”

I warned myself off advising her that she could have had this feeling three hours ago if she had ordered as many glasses of wine as I had, and instead took a chance by reaching out for her neck.

Her ample breasts were pushed up by the way she was sitting, and I let my eyes wander to them.

Summer followed my eyes, but instead of a flicker of annoyance crossing her face, as often happened, she smiled. She followed my gaze down to her chest, and pushed her breasts together for a better view.

Like all men would in this situation, I immediately started formulating plans for getting laid on the plane. At the time, they were only partially serious.

But as Summer and I proceeded to knock back tiny bottle of wine after tiny bottle of wine, the idea began to seem more and more realistic.

I was trying to come up with the best way to broach the subject, when Summer leaned in to my ear. She misjudged the distance and cracked her head clumsily against my temple, laughed, and then smashed her lips against my neck. She was quite drunk. “Ever join the Mile High club?” she giggled.

My eyes widened. Not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't believe Summer was suggesting it.

She twisted her body even more in my direction. Her foot moved up and down in a quick tapping motion. Her eyes looked at mine.

I was unsure of what to do. This was completely unlike Summer, who was a few things: somewhat prude, usually a little conservative in bed, and a huge stickler about rules and regulations. She was also a recovering Catholic, and there were several nuns on this flight, something I had no doubt she had noticed.

Of course
I
was game for sneaking into a lavatory and having sex with my wife. But I didn't want to seize upon her offer unless it was genuine, and have her roll her eyes at me and make a fool of me.

So I grinned, and waited for her next move.

She pressed her lips together, and pushed up by her legs to look over the seat-back.

She plopped down. “I think the ones in the back are our best bet,” she whispered. “They have a bunch of juices and waters back there, and so you can stand around waiting for the perfect opportunity without looking to weird.”

Her eyes fell on the nuns a few rows back. “If it isn't casual,” she warned, sounding more like herself, “don't do it. We'll try again later.”

And then she unlocked her seatbelt, and she was gone.

I had been staring at her mouth, and her breasts, and not really listening to the plan, I admit. My head was filling up with images of her hair spread out against the mirror, and her legs pressed up against the wall, her strappy sandals by my cheeks...my mind began to wander to other, dirtier places.

I felt like all eyes were on me as I worked my way back to the lavatory, through the overhanging legs and arms and pillows that clutter the plane after 5 hours in flight. I was trying to hide my erection and look casual, but probably succeeded at neither.

A single flight attendant was sitting, bored, by the cups of juice. She was reading a magazine. Summer was nowhere in sight. I looked around at the lavatories. Several were unoccupied, several were occupied. I had no idea what to do, and it was just beginning to occur to me that I was quite drunk.

Summer opened the door next to me and pulled me in to the lavatory.

Inside, we were smashed against each other. The high-pitched whine of the plane made me feel, though, like we could do anything and go unheard.

Summer smiled and held up her hand. She was holding something cream-colored in it, and it took me a moment to realize what it was. When the faint scent of her excitement drifted into my nose, I understood: she had already taken off her panties.

She was serious.

She wasted no time. Her hands found my belt, and quickly released me from my pants and my boxers. When her hand wrapped around my cock and it was hard, she rubbed her lips together and gave a murmur of approval.

It was very suddenly like we were young again, and all of the things that had happened between meeting each other and now disappeared. I was filled with the kind of vigor I hadn't had in a long time. I crushed my mouth against hers, trying to drink her up. She tasted like wine and something lightly fruity, lip gloss maybe. The combination was intoxicating – childish and grown-up.

She pushed a leg onto the sink to slide up the wall behind her and push herself upward. I barely had to lift her, only to place my hand under her tensed, hard thigh that was still strong and well-muscled from her persistent yoga classes. I found her with my cock, and her pussy was wet and hot. Ready for me.

I fell inside of her, and we clung to each other, trying to be quiet and not slam into the wall too much. I moved slowly, much slower than I wanted to, sinking into her. She clasped the back of my head with one hand and dug her fingernails into the flesh of my ass with the other. Her pussy clenched around my cock, and I could feel her twisting inside of herself as she came close to coming. Her stomach tightened next to mine, and we were both sweating through our t-shirts.

When she came she leaned forward and bit my shoulder. Her fierce nails dug even harder into my ass. I was buried inside of her, and I forgot where we were. All I could feel was her heat; all I could smell was her honeyed pussy; all I could taste was her sweet sweat as I bit gently into her skin. Her cum was dripping onto my balls, and I moved within her, wanting so badly to throw the door open, push her onto the ground, and slam into her as hard as I could.

I had to settle for slowly turning and twisting inside of all of her dewy, superheated flesh, until I burst and filled her up.

We panted together for a few moments.

As sex always is, the whole scene was suddenly comical. We surveyed the way were crammed and contorted in the steel bathroom, and the disgusting used-ness of the place, which we had been blind to at first, began to appear everywhere. Our eyes met and we laughed together.

“You go first,” she said. And then she moved her mouth lightly over mine, with just her lips teasing me. “I have to put my underwear on.”

I got a look from the bored flight attendant, who rolled her eyes in a way that I could see, flipped another page of her magazine, and gave off the loud impression that she had seen it all before.

I returned to my seat with my blood racing, my ears pounding. I was feeling the high of great sex, the high of a new, exciting woman. Because even though Summer was my wife of almost fifteen years, she seemed like a brand-new woman since she boarded this flight.

It was shaping up to be an excellent summer in Italy.

BOOK: The Hotwife Summer

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