How to Have an Affair and Other Instructions. Michael Hemmingson
know you want to.” He leaned close to her ear. “Close your eyes, and listen to the train.”
She did.
“You’re hot,” he said.
“I’m wet,” she said.
“You will fuck him.”
“You want me to fuck another man?”
“I want you to fuck,” he said.
She opened her eyes. “So what do we do? Go over there, make a proposition?”
“Don’t be coy.”
“This is your game, Master.”
“We don’t want him to feel set-up. We want it to seem natural. We’ll go back to our seats and wait a bit. Ten minutes. You’ll come back, alone, and let it play as it lays.”
They left the bar. Sharon quickly glanced at the man; he was admiring the contour of her ass. She made eye contact.
The Indecent Encounter
His name was Andrew and he didn’t take too long to approach her. Sharon was at the counter, having another glass of wine, alone this time. Andrew used the excuse to get another drink and sit next to her. Sharon ignored him.
“I can’t drink wine,” he said.
She sighed. “Why?”
“Bad memories.”
“Wine?” She looked at him.
“Silly high school nights.”
“So what do you drink now?”
“Bloody Marys.”
“I prefer margaritas.”
“Can I get you one?”
“I’m drinking wine.”
He nodded. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Your name.”
“Sharon.”
He told her his name.
They drank.
“Can I ask you something again?”
“Sure.”
“The guy you were here with, not long ago,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Husband?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.
“Lover?”
“Eh.”
“Father? Uncle?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Stranger?”
“You’re the stranger,” she said.
“Okay, so this is bad,” he said.
“Why is it bad?”
“I’m making a fool of myself.”
“What’s a fool?”
He laughed.
“Funny?”
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“So are you,” she said.
“I’m going to see my mother.”
“That’s nice.”
“She’s dying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Cancer,” he said. “Stomach.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You don’t want to hear this.”
“No,” she said, “I don’t.”
“I’d like to kiss you,” he said.
“Not in public.”
“Where else would we kiss on a train?”
“We could always squeeze into a bathroom.”
“Really?”
“You’re not as naive as you act,” she said.
“I never picked up anyone on a train,” he confessed.
“No? It’s fun. Right?”
“What?”
She leaned forward. “Isn’t this fun?”
“It is,” he said.
She whispered, “Wish to go into the bathroom, my dear?”
He said, “Yes.”
She took his hand, and led him into the women’s restroom. Once in, she pushed him against the wall, his face hitting it. She locked the door. He turned around. She slapped him across the face “Kiss me,” she said, “you dirty pervert.”
She grabbed his head, and brought their mouths together.
“It’s so cramped in here,” Andrew said.
“Yeah.” Sharon got down on her knees. She undid his trousers, pulling them down, as well as his boxers. His thin, curved cock sprang in front of her face. It stank of sweat. She took it in her mouth. She was afraid he was going to come fast. She got up, pulled her skirt up and leaned against the sink.
“No underwear,” he said.
“You noticed.”
He saw the tampon string dangling out of her. “Um.”
“Hurry,” she said, “fuck me.”
He grabbed her hips, and shoved his cock into her. It was all very fast. There was blood.
They exited the restroom and didn’t say a word to each other, didn’t look at each other, went their separate ways.
She found Gerald and sat down next to him.
He ignored her the rest of the way to Chicago.
She felt like a dirty, skanky slut and she liked it.
THE END OF CELIBACY
Hannah had a quirky look to her I found appealing—thick, dark-rimmed glasses; a white streak in her otherwise jet black hair; an odd-assortment of attire, cool in this age of the awkward. She was one of the regulars who hung out at the pub down the street from my apartment. Some friends were playing pool, which wasn’t my thing. Hannah bought a pitcher of beer and we sat together.
A guy was bending, ready to take a shot at the table, his rear end very close to us. “Get your butt somewhere else,” Hannah said, “or I’ll take a pool stick and shove it up”
“That’s not very nice,” I said. “How’d you like it if someone stuck a pool stick in your ass?”
Hannah raised her brows. “I just might like it.”
That was the first clue I didn’t get—I wasn’t paying attention. I’d recall in hindsight, yes, as well as overhearing her talk about how her favorite scene in Last Tango in Paris was when Marlon Brando put butter up his young lover’s backdoor before sodomizing her.
Soon the beer was gone.
“What will you do now?” Hannah said.
“Don’t know,” I said.
She took her glasses off and looked at them. “I live a block away, you know.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know. So do I.”
This was the second clue—and