"Memories of Memphis"

He was my best friend. He was my best friend and perhaps a little more by
the time he said the words I never expected to hear.

“An affair…” Did I hear him right? I stopped halfway through the motion of
spearing a lettuce leaf with a sterling fork. We were in the private room
of a ridiculously posh restaurant just south of Memphis, both of us feeling
ridiculously out of place among the chandeliers and attentive wine
stewards. I looked up at him with what must have been a dumbstruck
expression.

“What?” I was suddenly whispering and not sure why. I felt as frozen as the
ice chips the shrimp appetizers rested upon. My eyes met his greenish brown
ones over his tilted wine glass, and he smiled at me indulgently.

“We’re just hiding from what we already know,” he said with absolute
certainty.

I dropped my fork with a clatter of silver on china. Neither of us noticed.

Is that how it started? How do affairs begin? With a simple gesture or word
that suddenly turns an old friendship or a new stranger into a lover crying
out above you in a rented bed somewhere on the edge of nowhere? Is it
something that drops out of the blue and explodes like a bomb, fragmenting
your life? Or is it something that plants inside you and grows into beauty
and memories that evoke smiles, building you into something stronger than
you once were?

I’ve discovered that for me and my married lover, it is a bounce in your
step that everyone notices but can’t explain how it got there or exactly
when it appeared. It is a phone call, a voice on the other end that is
clearly a man yet when someone asks you who that was, you recall the name
of your best friend who is clearly a woman. It is pulling up beside a
sports car parked outside of a hotel in a town you’ve never visited before,
an open door with the “Do Not Disturb” sign already in place. It is no time
for words before you are rushed into a dimly lit room and surrounded by his
arms, his voice, and his desire as you both collapse to the bed that has
become your refuge.

He was married. I knew that as I walked with him out of the restaurant and
slid into the passenger seat of his sports car. I heard her name in my head
as he drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand on my thigh. I saw her in
my head as the door closed behind us. I listened to her voice laughing with
him as he pressed me back against that door and kissed me. I felt the guilt
as I kissed him back, but I wanted him more than I wanted to heed the
ethical conscience that was shaking its head in shame.

I didn’t hate her. I didn’t even want to hate her. She was a good wife, a
good mother. She was a better woman than me. She didn’t deserve this.

I slipped his wedding band off and it dropped to the floor.

His hands cradled my face as his tongue danced with mine. He groaned low in
his throat, the music of it resounding in my head, telling me this wasn’t
wrong. How could something so beautiful be wrong? I pushed him back and he
hesitated. My hands found the lapels of his black suit jacket and I slid
the silky material over his broad shoulders, letting it drape down his
arms, catching on his hands a moment before falling into a pool of darkness
behind him. My hands came back up of their own accord and found the top
button of his white dress shirt.

I needed this, I thought, as I began to undress him. He stood looking down
at me, his substantial height towering over me. I suddenly remembered that
his wife was quite a bit taller than me. I thought about how they would
look together in bed. The thought filled me with an inexplicable anger. I
wondered if he felt guilty. I found I didn’t really care.

I looked up at him as my hands continued to work. “Anything she did, I will
do. Anything she doesn’t do for you, I will do it, over and over.”

He smiled a slow smile. “I know.”

My dress fell to the floor. I stood before him unashamed, the younger
woman, the adulteress. The kind of woman that other women call a whore in
whispers behind their hands. “You’re special,” he whispered just then,
giving me the permission I needed. I took his hand and led him to the bed.

I sat down before him and finished undressing him. Before his slacks hit
the floor my hand was wrapped around his cock, around the part of him that
I had wanted to taste for so long. I pushed all thoughts of her out of my
mind as I opened my mouth over him. He groaned and buried his shaking hands
into my long hair, thrusting gently between my lips as I sucked him with
the flat of my tongue, wanting to do everything he could imagine a woman
ever doing to his body.

I slid my mouth up to his head and slowly sank back down, letting him watch
as his long rod disappeared into my mouth. He pulled my hair back from my
temple so he could see more. I flicked my tongue quickly across the
sensitive skin just below the head of his cock and he bucked into me on
pure instinct. My hands slid up his thighs and found his balls, heavy and
surprisingly tight with anticipation. His head fell back as I sucked him
harder, faster, letting my fingers play over him. He said my name. I began
to pump him in and out of my mouth in a steady rhythm, my only goal being
to taste the sweet nectar that I knew would be just as unique as he was.

He screamed as he came, the desperate sound muffled by his shoulder. His
hands tightened in my hair as I took his essence into my mouth, letting it
flood my tongue and sampling it like the finest of wine. He tasted slightly
of musky Cajun spices and I fondly remembered the dinner last night at a
restaurant so appropriately named the Rendezvous. I sucked harder, feeling
the spasms of his manhood against my tongue. I swallowed deeply and moaned
aloud at the pleasure of his juices sliding thickly down my throat. He
watched with fire in his dark eyes.

He was still hard. He pushed me back to the bed and gently spread my legs.
I closed my eyes as his fingertip touched me and all guilt fled as he
licked slowly upward, teasing my clit with the tip of his wet tongue. I
opened underneath him, feeling every bit the wanton slut willing to do
anything to please a man. His hands tenderly worshipped my body, cupping my
breasts and molding them, flicking my hard nipples with his calloused
thumbs. His lips nibbled at my thighs and his tongue curled around my clit
to suck me like I had just sucked him. He pressed one long finger into me
and moaned.

“I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to fuck you for years.”

I bucked into his hand and he obliged by sliding two fingers into me.
Without question as to whether I would like it or not, he pressed one
finger against the tiny hole below my slit, pushing the length of his
finger deep into my ass with one steady plunge. I arched up into him, more
than willing to do anything he wanted, whether he asked or not. He rubbed
his fingers together through the thin wall of my body and sucked hard on my
clit.

I came hard, the sensation running through my body like fire. I tried to
catch my breath but all I could do was hold it, feeling the tremors build.
My pussy clenched tightly on his hand and he moved his fingers within me,
searching every last drop of desire that flowed from me and onto his
tongue. The wave crashed over me and I cried out his name, my fingers
tangling in his long dark hair to pull him closer or to push him away,
which one, I didn’t know. He held my legs open when I would have closed
them to control the feelings coursing through me. He licked me harder. What
I thought would be pain turned into pleasure and I came again, this time
harder than the last. Through the red haze that had consumed my mind I
vaguely knew that he was pulling away from me, so that he could watch as my
body convulsed before him with no shame or modesty.

I slowly became aware of his hands touching me, everywhere, cradling me
like a delicate sculpture while his breath came harsh and ragged against
the curve of my belly. He rose above me, pushing my legs apart to
accommodate him and what he needed. He sat on the bed between my thighs,
looking down at me with both hands caressing my calves.

“I want you,” he said simply. “Do you still want this?”

“I can’t live without it,” I answered with more honesty than I had ever
felt.

I watched as he picked up a shiny gold packet. I took it from his hands and
opened it, the sound somehow confident and soothing. Together we slipped
the protection over him. He moaned as I stroked him.

“I want you inside me,” I almost begged.

He pressed his hard erection against me. I spread my legs wider and we both
looked down, watching as he pressed his hips forward. I felt his head slide
into me and I watched as the rest of him followed, feeling him fill me,
stretching my body tightly around him. My eyes drifted closed. He pushed
deeper inside me and I gasped. He stopped, his body completely embedded
inside me, deeper than any man had ever touched me.

We didn’t move for a moment, just steeping ourselves in the pleasure of
being finally complete with one another. I opened my eyes in the dim light
and looked up at him, studying the way he looked, memorizing him. His head
was slightly forward, as if impressing all the sensation into his memory
just as I was. His dark hair fell over his forehead and curled at the ends,
long enough that it fell almost to his eyes, eyes of a dark brown that
reminded me of warm and rich chocolate. His skin was smooth and almost
flawless, responding deliciously to every touch of my hand across it. His
body was formidable and capable of protecting, yet the fine trembling
within him spoke of hidden vulnerability. I touched his soft lips, and then
slid my hands into his hair, pulling his head back so that he would look
into my eyes.

“Don’t make me wait anymore,” I pleaded quietly.

He pulled back and thrust forward, and my hips began to move with his,
finding our rhythm without pause. Every motion of my body brought him
deeper into me, so deep that I cried out in the surprise and pleasure of
it. His hands moved over me, touching my neck, cradling my shoulders,
caressing my legs as I wrapped them around him. We began slowly, building
into something faster, until he caught my hands in his and pressed them to
the bed above my head.

He drove into me with hard and vicious thrusts, his cock bruising the door
of my womb, and I cried out in abandon, not caring who heard me as I
enjoyed him. I felt the muscles of his back tense and relax as he pumped
into me. He buried his head in my shoulder and took me with no gentleness,
nothing but rough possessiveness and a near-anger that left me shaking with
the pleasure of being able to give myself so freely. I met every thrust
until he became too rough for me to match his power, then I wrapped myself
more tightly around him and closed my eyes, feeling another orgasm building
somewhere within.

My body felt like liquid fire around him. He released my hands as he felt
the contractions build inside my body, finally exploding around him in a
cascade of color and my voice, whimpering his name into the quiet of the
room. I slid my hands into his hair, holding him close to me as I bucked
mindlessly against him, feeling for the first time the sensation of being
completely under his control. It was a heady and addictive feeling.

He followed close behind me, letting the pulse of my orgasm drive him over
his own edge of passion. I felt him throb deep within me as he came, heard
the echo of his deep and raspy voice as he called my name. His fingers
clenched in the sheets and his teeth settled on my neck, biting down as the
last of his orgasm washed over him, making his body limp and supple against
mine. He slowly lowered himself to cover me with his weight, pressing our
bodies so closely together that we shared the breaths that burned as they
filled our lungs.

I slid my hands through his hair again and again, soothing him, feeling his
breath ease and his heartbeat slow as he pressed against me. He moved his
hips slightly and pulled out gently, leaving my body aching with a void I
needed him to fill again. I let my legs drop from his hips and stretched
them out beside his longer ones, feeling the pleasant tingle in my muscles
that only comes from being thoroughly enjoyed.

After a few moments he moved away from me briefly, then came back to my
side and pulled a blanket up over us, snuggling behind me. The tip of his
nose was cold. He buried his face into my neck and I smiled to myself as I
felt his skin warm with the heat of my body.

“How long do we have?” I asked him after a few moments of lightly caressing
his hands that were linked around my waist.

“I have a show tonight about an hour from here. Then another one in
Tennessee tomorrow. Then I have to go back home.” His answer was regretful
and hopeful all at once.

“Two days,” I whispered. I knew the rock-solid trust his wife had in her
musician husband, the trust a couple had to have to survive a life on the
road. I was contemplating that when he spoke again.

“Will you go with me?” he asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

I turned to face him in the bed. I traced the tiny lines of his forehead
with my fingertip. I thought about what my answer would mean, about whether
or not it was wise to continue this affair we had started. I waited for the
guilt to come, braced myself for it, and only found certainty and a slight
sadness.

“I will go with you,” I said simply.

Thus began a new phase of my life, that of lover and mistress to a married
man. I suppose I should feel incredible debilitating shame and a desperate
need to redeem my self-respect. At least, that is what those women who
whisper about me behind their hands think I should feel.

I simply feel sorry for those who don’t have what I discovered, for those
who can’t feel the passion and rebirth I have found at the hands of my
lover. Of course I have my moments of guilt. Any person having an affair
cannot avoid that little voice in her head, that annoying part of her that
insists on being morally straight most of the time. Yet I recognize what I
am doing and I take all responsibility for it.

And tomorrow I will see his wife. She and I will have lunch. I will listen
as she shares little tidbits of her life, the escapades of her young
children, the latest headaches of her part-time job. She will be as lovely
as ever with her beautiful red hair and her skin like fine china. She will
complain about having a man on the road and how often he is gone chasing
his dreams with that guitar that he seems to enjoy more than he enjoys her.
She will look at me, at her friend, and share secrets that she believes
will be held in utmost confidence.

And I will share with her, everything and anything I feel like sharing,
with the exception of one thing. I will smile as I don’t tell her that just
last night I fucked her husband in a hotel bed in Memphis. I will laugh at
her jokes as I don’t tell her that I will be on a plane as soon as I pay
our tab, heading to a concert in Jackson, where I will watch her man from
the front row and later I will undress him, make love to him right after he
calls her to tell her goodnight. As she puts their children to bed I will
be riding him in a hotel room, making him cry out my name and forget all
about her.

My conscience is clear. I will lose no sleep as I lie beside him. I did
tell you she is a better woman than I am. Remember?