I admit that I’ve been putting of writing this account of what happened after my first adulterous indiscretion. It is only because I don’t feel myself equal to the task, and so have been agonising over the form it should take.
Finally I’ve decided to continue as I started, by give you the bare-bones of the tale. That is, without any attempt to add colourful introspection, which would flesh it out, and perhaps make it more palatable.
In time, as my skill improves, I’ll attempt to write the content in a fuller more rounded fashion.
There were twenty six people in the room; eleven gays who’d come out all the way; five suited and booted, clean shaven city gays, with broad shoulders and manicured finger-nails, who could have been mistaken for off duty CIA agents; a quartet of arty honeys, who went around air kissing everyone they met; a man in an old leather jacket, creaseless baggy kneed corded trousers and unruly black hair, that constantly slipped over his eyes and was flicked back with a vicious shake of his head; a tall ebony black man with wide features and rich brown eyes, whose bald head shone like polished obsidian glass; a woman resplendent in a blue patterned Nigerian head scarf and a long brown dress, with a variegated blue swirling patterns and big open sleeves; the Italian, in a loose jacket, close fitting black T-shirt, dark trousers and expensive leather shoes; Christian, in tight jeans and a blue silk short sleeved shirt. And me, wishing I’d found an excuse not to come or worn a full Burka, instead of a pencil skirt and high heeled shoes.
It had been three weeks and three days since the night of the art gallery and the events that followed.
The previous Tuesday Christian had phoned with some exciting news; he had won a major contract to provide artwork for a firm of architects and engineers, and he was having a party at a hotel to celebrate.
I knew it was a mistake the moment I walked in and saw him across the room. The bottom dropped out of my stomach, my knees turned to jelly, and the hairs on my neck stood up and waved excitedly.
I quickly retreated to the bar an ordered a vodka and orange, reminding myself that Christian wasn’t to blame, because he didn’t know of my shame.
“You look as lovely as I remember,” he said, coming up beside me.
“Christian didn’t tell me you would be here.”
“I asked him not to. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t come if you knew.”
“I wouldn’t have. That doesn’t mean I am afraid of you?”
“I think that you are afraid of very little. But you are prudent, and wise enough to stay well away from me; especially since we both know we have unfinished business.”
“There is nothing unfinished between us?”
“If we made love again, you’d realise that we left a whole lot of things un-done.”
“That night was a horrible mistake. It’s never going to happen again. So please don’t mention it again, to me or anyone else.”
“I won’t. But I can’t promise to not to think about it, and recall how beautiful you looked when your orgasm overtook you. Anyway, we Italian’s have a saying which translates as – never is a long time, and life is too short to talk about never.”
“Me thinks you’ve been reading too many cheap romantic novels. Just what are you doing here?”
“I was in a position to put Christian’s name forward for the contract.”
“Oh, I see; this was all your doing; all a ruse to get me here? What happens when he finds out?”
“There’s no need for him to. Not unless you plan to tell him. Anyway, he’s well capable of fulfilling the contract; he’s a very talented artist, I’ve seen a lot of his work over the past few weeks. Don’t you think he’s able to produce all the paintings he’s said he can?”
“He’s talented enough, but his talent wasn’t the reason he was given the contract?”
“I agree that there are a thousand equally talented or more talents artists in this city alone, who could’ve been given the contract, but at the end of the day, it’s about who you know, and where you were in the queue when the goodies were handed out. Don’t you agree?”
“And where do I fit into your Machiavellian scheme?”
“You are very direct. I like that. I admit that it was because of you that I kept in touch with your friend.”
“Because I let you screw me you mean?”
“No, because I find that I want to go on screwing you.”
“And if I should say, no – what then?”“Don’t work, I have no intention of depriving Christian of his chance to make a small fortune; let alone get his foot in the door for any future work that might come up.”
“Is that a promise?”
“On my sainted mother’s grave.”
“In that case the answer is no. I have no interest in carrying on a clandestine affair with you, or with anyone else. I made one mistake and I shan’t be repeating it.”
“We made love five times that night, not once.”
“Am I supposed to me impressed with your stamina?”
“I recall that after the third time, you demanded that we do it again with you on top.”
“It’s not fair to talk to me this way.”
“Why? Talking about it is turning you on.”
“I’d be willing to bet that if I reached between your legs, I’d discover that you are as wet as you were that night.”
“If you did I’d be forced to slap you.”
“Is it because you are married, and you’re afraid your husband will find out that you have a lover? Or is it because you find me sexually unappealing, now that you are sober and not buoyed up on a carpet of marijuana fumes?”
“Do I need a specific reason? Is a straight no, not enough for you? Or does your ego have to have some anchor to cling to.”
He laughed. “Let’s say that my ego is as fragile as you think it is; that doesn’t make our obvious attraction any less powerful.”
“What about your wife?”
“My wife? She’s Italian and a realist. She knows me, and accepts that I’m never going to be completely faithful, even though I love her unreservedly.”
“That’s very modern and open minded of her.”
“Modern? No. Italian wives have always been pragmatic realists.”
“Is that because Italian husbands are naturally adulterous?”
“The one fuels the other, cara mia.”
“I don’t think I want to be the filling in your Italian style ménage a’ trios.”
“Even though right now you’re remembering what it felt like when we made love, just before you threw on your clothes and ran from my apartment.”
“I didn’t run. I-”
That’s the problem with this sort of thing; interruptions can be embarrassing and fatal.