by Angela Mae
(10/23/02)
I am sent -- usually after the wives have hoped for years for a change in
their good, but flawed men or prayed for years for a way out of their
loveless marriages. I am a receptionist, a boss, a waitress at a strip club, a
stripper, or an anonymous willing woman at a nightclub. It doesn't
matter. I am whatever the husbands prefer.
I am usually one in a long line of clandestine lovers: the reason for a
work related convention out of town; long stem red roses sent to an aging
mother allergic to flowers. I'm the reason for the cash withdrawals from the
ATM, the missed dinners, the purchase of a trendy new cologne.
Whether they like the chase or need their ego stroked by a pursuer,
whether they want a chaste girl that has never done this before or a woman who
does this all the time, someone who will be his trophy in a tight crimson
dress with overflowing cleavage or a kinky well kept secret in her Sunday
best, I am the one.
But I am different. I am the best lay they ever had. I know when to
pump harder, play rougher, and squeeze tight the wet velvet walls of my cunt
around their hard or half-hard dicks. I know when to whisper "Oh,
please, I can't take anymore" and I know when to command "Lick me, Bitch." I make
them come so many times in one night, they have trouble getting erect with
their wives for a whole week.
I leave explicit photos of myself in their possession, masturbate while
leaving them voicemail messages, write emails telling them how I need
them to fuck me, or, I send them handwritten letters detailing how I'm going
to penetrate their ass with my favorite dildo. Attractive, willing
girlfriends or boyfriends join us in our bacchanalia. I pop cherries that have
gathered dust through years of neglect or social sanction. I make myself
available for exploration at any hour. Too much of me always leaves them needing
more.
And I need more in return. More time, more tokens of affection, more
legitimacy. The more ridiculously troublesome and involved the
request, the better. And the inconspicuous and cheap is never satisfactory. A
regular Saturday night AND Sunday morning date, a diamond necklace, a car, an
apartment, an outing at the opera, or attendance at the yearly work
golf outing, my wet, dirty grind, my breasts slick with sweat, and my mouth
ready for their seed make it all worthwhile.
Of course, their wives know. He used to tell her that he loved her. He
used to hold her hand in public. He used to take her out in public. He
showered before coming home to kill the stench of the extramarital fuck. He
lied and said there was no one and he always left her with reason to doubt her
instincts. He at least pretended. And the kids had no idea. My
punani sucked the pretense out of their marriages.
Everyone knows. His co-workers. The church. His parents. Her
parents. The kids. The kids' friends. The babysitter (if I am not the
babysitter). I am not a whispered rumor, but a public fact. I walk with him, hang
on his arm, and grab his flaccid ass. I have a face and a body and I refuse
to hide. Because of me, the humiliation of divorce looks opportune
compared with the public loss of dignity and respect that she is currently
enduring.
She stops trying to talk to him about it. She stops trying to figure
out what she did wrong. She starts a savings account. She finds out what
the house is worth. She talks to a lawyer not renowned for propriety and
fair play, and, at home, she smiles through clenched teeth.
I miss a date or two, but I'm still the best thing that ever happened
to him. The sex, when it happens, still blows his mind. Time, time,
time. We will be together someday. She's unstable. He's waiting for the right
moment. I am getting impatient.
Finally, she serves him the papers. The husband is free. This is
going to kill him financially. She's ready to take half and then some for spite.
But he is free. And he wants to fuck me until the skin on his penis
splits.
And my job is done. I am gone. He is left with his hand to satisfy
him. And his wife, his ex-wife, does have half.
She is free. The ex-wife, though not familiar with independence and
its responsibilities, is exhilarated. She takes the garbage to the curb,
the car for oil changes and tune-ups, buys the insurance and pays all the
bills. Her children talk to her like she's a valid human being again. And,
prompted by the horniness that comes when one is free, she lets someone
in again.
She sits on the edge of the bed and the new man services her. Runs his
tongue on her collarbone down her cleavage. Wraps his soft lips around
her erect nipple, his light biting causes sharp shocks that ensnare her
entire body. Kissing her soft stomach, working his way down, he takes his
time, almost too much time. She is so wet that she is practically raining.
He works his nose through her pubic hair, inhaling, then penetrates her
with his tongue, licking up to her emboldened clitoris. He circles, then
sucks and sucks. It feels like he's going to swallow her entire vulva and
drown. Her pelvis starts a possessed rotation and his fingers fill her over
and over again. A wickedly quick tongue on her clit is more than she can
take. She screams to get the satisfaction out of her body and collapses, her
new man smiling between her knees.
It is like this for her, when she wants it. She is not in a rush to
bind herself to another man. She remarries, or she doesn't. She sells the
house and buys a smaller one. Her career and social life is too bustling to
fit in unnecessary housecleaning. She can handle the world on her own. Her
children visit her, bringing the grandchildren. She sees him, the ex,
every once in a while, around town. He looks lonely. Then she smiles. They
make conversation for a couple minutes in the dry cleaner. He says he
misses her. She pats his shoulder like she would a child.
Retirement finds her more active in the community. She practically
starts a second career in advocating for her favorite causes. Her body ages,
but the mind becomes quicker. She does have to slow down, but there are
people around to take up the slack. Her children and grandchildren make sure
the yard work and cleaning is done. She tells stories about how it used to
be and she pushes her female grandchildren to go to college.
Her body starts to place real limits on her living. She feels like a
stereotypical senior citizen, keeping the pharmacies in business single
handedly. Her health becomes more fragile and she finalizes her plans.
She gives favored possessions to loved ones. She slows more and more. But
she is happy for how her life has turned out. She tells everyone that she
loves them. And, then, she is gone.
When she walks into heaven in her youthful, fresh body, she sees me and
knows what kind of angel I am. That I fucked her ex-husband and made
him crazy, caused her pain and pushed her out of a false, but secure place,
into an indifferent world. She walks to me and kneels in front of me,
opening my white robe. She looks at my heavenly cunt, then her lips meet mine,
finding a way to thank me, over and over again.
