My world is not ending. It has been split and will need repair.
After Charlie’s accurate accusation, I lay in bed shaking as tears overwhelmed me.
“I smelled him on you two weeks ago.” “I know what my jism looks like. That weren’t it.”
This was the moment I had dreaded, expected, yet somehow fantasized would never come.
“I’m going to a motel.”
I was surprisingly unconcerned he would be driving drunk…
At five thirty, I woke up, eyes puffy from sobbing, my body still sore from the vigorous lovemaking with Oliver. I slept for maybe three hours.
Oliver…I have ruined this boy’s life with my reckless infatuation. His father was an only parent and he and his siblings had adjusted well to their mother’s death. Now, this could potentially ruin his life or at least get him expelled. By somehow wanting to be mother and lover to this young man, I had potentially exploded his family. I had to do something to prevent or at least minimize the damage.
I sat up and slipped on my slippers, not really knowing what the first step was. True to his words, Charlie was not in the house nor the garage. My marriage might be over but that was strangely not my priority.
I waited until three cups of coffee, half a grapefruit, and a six-thirty dawn helped me to wake up. I dialed Joyce.
The phone rang six times, and a young, grumpy, yawning voice answered, “Phizzipz ressence…”
I cleared my throat. “Morning, Jenny. This is Mrs. Lemont. Is your mom awake by chance?’
There was no answer, just the rustling of cord noise and the soft padding of feet. Nearly two minutes later, an unhappy Joyce coughed once.
“What the fuck, MaryAnn. This had better be life-threatening.”
“It is…Charlie knows…he came home drunk and accused me. And I couldn’t deny it.”
The silence was loaded with volume, like an elephant on my chest.
“Fuck…well…okay then,”
I waited as she took a few breaths, then I burst into liquid-free crying. “Oh my god, Joyce. What am I going to do? That poor boy!”
“He’ll be fine. Don’t be so dramatic. Where is Charlie now?”
I was brought up short by her curtness, but I let her take the lead. I called her after all. “I…I don’t know. He said he would go to a motel.”
“Probably did. I’ll get Fred to check the local ones.”
“Oh, Joyce, is that necessary?” I didn’t want everyone to know my failure.
“Spousal fights ending with one storming out is highly common, kid. Freddy boy has done it a few times himself. So have I, for that matter. I’ll get him up.” There was a pause. “You said he knows. Does he know it’s the kid?”
“No! Oh god no. He only knows it’s another man and – “
“Okay, save it. On my way over.”
Before I could protest, the line went dead.
I was able to get dressed in some sloppy casual things and brush my teeth. I had fresh coffee by the time she arrived. She came in looking like a teacher on her day off but still striking in her height and blonde pulled-back hair. Without speaking, she took me into a hug, and I melted into another series of sobs. She just held me, silent and supportive.
We sat and she put extra sugar in her coffee. She sneered at me. “Its Saturday. I need it.”
She sat back and looked at me for a few moments. I was finally not crying and was sipping my coffee. “What do I do?”
Joyce was practical and efficient as always. “No matter how much he insists, you do not reveal Oliver’s name. It will destroy you both. And me.” She looked away, suppressing some anger. I am sure some of it was inward as she had facilitated the affair so kindly. Even had encouraged it. “He’s hurt. His masculinity has taken a hit. The best way back is for you to be as loving and as remorseful as possible. Maybe even offer to have sex to cleanse your cheating heart or whatever.”
I actually cringed. “I don’t think he will go for that.”
Joyce chuckled. “He’s a man. He will. And he will probably be a little rough about it. Maybe thinking he’s teaching you a lesson or something.”
I looked out the window, suddenly not so sure about Charlie, my marriage, babies, hell, any of it. Joyce was keenly intuitive.
“Unless saving this marriage is not what you want. Is it?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. My voice was quiet, stricken. “I don’t know.”
Joyce nodded and relaxed some, sipping her coffee.
My mind was a whirl of images: Oliver in class, Oliver in my arms, Oliver inside me, filling me with his potent ejaculate. My body was reacting, nipples rising, vagina moistening. I am sure my face was flushed.
“You okay? You look…turned on.” I looked away in embarrassed shock. “You turned on by the prospect of losing Charlie?”
I snapped back to reality and stared wide-eyed at my best friend and mentor. “No! Of course not. I was thinking of him. Oliver and…” I hesitated and then realized that if there was anyone to be honest with in this moment, it was Joyce. “I was thinking of all of the lovemaking. The sex. I was thinking of how I feel for him. I was imagining tomorrow and two things were noticeably absent.”
Joyce, elbows on the table, coffee cup in hand, leaned forward.
“Charlie as my husband…and Oliver and I as a couple.”
“Married?”
I shrugged. “No, just together. It doesn’t seem practical or even possible. It’s ludicrous.” I took a deep breath and looked at my wedding ring. “I don’t think I want to be married, Joyce. I don’t think I want to have a baby. I strayed for a reason. It was easier than I ever imagined it could be.” I looked up at her, conviction filling me with courage. “You told me, at this very table, that I deserve to have some pleasure, some sexual joy. Well, I get it with my lover. And I will not give that up just yet.” Her eyes went wide, and she swallowed. I looked at my cup and spoke mostly to myself. “I will do what I can to minimize the hurt for Charlie. But I think it’s over. It has to be.”
“That was easy.”
His voice shocked us both, and Joyce spilled her coffee. My husband stood at the living room archway, keys in hand. He must have come in through the front door. He was disheveled and unshaven and looked completely defeated.
I leapt up. “Ch-Charlie!” My heart was racing.
“That’s me. Your husband, Charlie. At least for the time being. Hello, Joyce. You must be up to speed based on what I just heard. Or perhaps you already knew. The whole ‘ladies night’ ruse and all.”
Joyce did not react, just casually wiped up the spill. “I am. Sorry, that was MaryAnn’s choice.”
“Convenient,” he snarled.
Joyce was unfazed. “I will leave you two to talk.” She looked directly at me. “Unless you need me to stay.”
“I would like you to. For now, at least.”
“Jesus, MaryAnn. I’m not the one who’s the problem here.” There was one ounce of solace: his voice told me he had heard I wanted my lover, but not that it was my student.
“Charlie, I want us to talk. Really talk. Joyce gives me confidence. And listening often eludes you.”
He rolled his eyes, then turned and flopped in his easy chair. “Oh, sure. Wait, is she the one you’re sleeping with?”
I was following to sit on the couch. “Don’t be crude! No, she is not.”
Joyce, ever the one to not take guff, muttered as she passed him, “But I am quite the catch, should anyone want to shake things up.”
We all sat; silence asking the questions that no one wanted to answer. I finally got the courage. “I am so sorry. I did not seek this; it just…unfolded. I regret the pain it is causing. And I hate that you are hurt.”
He laughed and sank a bit lower. I was not at all surprised he was not yelling and chastising me. Or worse, getting physical. Ferocity was never in his personality. Even in a good way. “I am sorry, hon, really, truly. I love you.”
“Fuck that, Mar. You don’t get to say that anymore.” His eyes were red and wet, and I sat back a bit. Joyce made to speak and he stopped her with his hand. “If we are over, truly over, then don’t you think I deserve the truth?” He ticked off his fingers. “How long? With who? Where?”
I couldn’t answer.
The next question seemed to really hurt him. “Did he use a rubber?”
I looked at the floor as my whole body went red. I shook my head in embarrassed panic.
He leaned forward and got very low and menacing. “Okay, then, how about these? Why? What did I do wrong? And who the fuck are you?”
His vulgar language was hitting me like punches to my gut. My tears exploded, and Joyce took my hand. “You need him to quit, kid?”
Charlie flopped backwards. “Sure, I’m the bad guy! Jesus!”
I lost it and let loose with a shaky voice and a runny nose. “I am sorry, Charlie. I am not in love with you anymore. It’s that simple. Being with…him has shown me that I can be truly in love.” Joyce’s eyes went wide with shock. “And all of the talk about a baby – you never acknowledge my concerns nor my career. It’s always about what you want and not what I need.” I took a deep breath, and clarity took my heart by the hand and gave me an injection of courage. “I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” I held my breath and collapsed onto Joyce in heaving sobs. I had no energy to brace for whatever was coming, and I was so thankful she felt like a shield.
The next few minutes saw him go up and pack his bag, his body on some type of automatic. I stayed on the couch with Joyce and we said nothing. He slunk down the stairs and opened the front door.
“I’ll get a lawyer.” He walked out and the door closed with a soft thud. It was then that I saw his wedding band on the floor of the entryway.
***
The next week was rough. Joyce, true to her word, told Oliver everything. She made him promise to keep it together and wait for me to come to him. He was sweet, she said, only voicing concern for me and taking full blame. She assured him it was not his fault and that my marriage was already in trouble. She also stressed the vitality that he not show anything at school and was surprised by his commiseration.
He would come to class and was a bit subdued but played his part well. On Thursday, our usual sex day, he stayed for a minute after and all we did was hold hands before I nodded for him to go. He whispered he loved me and I followed suit. There was still hope for this crazy relationship.
The next month, into the holidays, was full of difficult conversations. My mother was shockingly supportive, saying that whoever I was involved with had to be an improvement. She said she never liked Charlie, but I think that was for my benefit.
Charlie moved in with his parents two towns over. His mother called the night before Thanksgiving and screamed for a good seven minutes solid. “Whore, tramp, home wrecker.” She did the whole list. I took it. Through all of this mess, no one but her had asked who it was I had cheated with. I ignored the question and she assumed it was a fellow teacher. “Probably some hunky PE fella!” After she hung up, I was surprisingly at ease. It was sinking in: we were never really right for each other.
***
It was the Saturday morning of the next weekend that hope came to visit in the form of Joyce, again. We had been speaking daily, and Fred had been the liaison between us for Charlie to take his stuff. (She had also gotten me my own lawyer, a brother-in-law’s cousin). She said she was coming by to talk about the holidays, knowing that shopping for Charlie was a favorite pastime of mine. I had literally picked out all of his clothes, and with genuine care.
She knocked on the door, and I opened it with a bit of surprise. She usually just walked in. She smiled, looking wonderful in a stylish hat and scarf combo with a grey tweed overcoat.
“I brought you an early Christmas present. I think it’s time, don’t you?” She stepped aside, and there he was. Oliver Kelly, beaming and looking sexier than ever, holding a potted poinsettia. I gasped a cry of joy, and he rushed into my arms for a hugely needed hug. I clung to him and cried (it seems like I did that a lot lately).
“I missed you so much, Madame!” he mumbled into my shoulder, and I just sighed. We swayed. Joyce took the plant and put it on the table. She slowly slipped out and closed the door. “I’m sorry about Mr. Weber. I truly am.”
I choked as love for him took on a different taste. What a great kid. “You’re taller. In just a month!” I was rubbing his shoulders and his wavy hair, the maternal part of our kinky relationship manifesting.
“You still smell like heaven.” He was squeezing my back, afraid, I am sure, to touch my buttocks.
We kissed and everything aligned perfectly. Our tongues remembered and our hands rejoiced. His coat was abandoned to the floor and his boots kicked off, all without our mouths separating. I guided him and he pushed forward, a hand on my 38 D breast reclaiming me. I gasped and tossed my head back as we hit the wall. He pulled down my shirt collar and two buttons popped. I gasped again as his mouth returned to where it all began.
I had a trouser-clad calf up and was wrapping it around his legs, pulling him in, welcoming the burning hardness of his youthful erection. My vagina was bubbling like a hot spring.
Then he surprised me with a sudden pull back from almost reaching my welcoming nipple. He was breathless and showed genuine concern. “Are you, are you sh-sure?”
I smiled with the most love I could muster. “Absolument, Cherie. We can talk afterwards. Please make love to me.” I turned and took him by the hand to the nearby guest room. I didn’t want to have sex on my former married bed, for obvious reasons, and this was where we first had intercourse. It felt right: as right as having sex with a newly minted eighteen-year-old could be for his twenty-nine-year-old teacher.
There was no seduction nor aggression. We stripped each other, kissing, revealing skin, and stroking arousal points. I fell on the bed, and he dropped on top of me, his mouth latching onto my left breast, my hands spread wide on his back and rear.
Eyes closed, I shook my hair out. “Oh my god, Baby! Your skin – I missed it so much.” He nursed and I moaned. He sucked and I arched. He bit and I squealed.
Charlie was gone. Oliver was mine.
Electric lust flowed unencumbered and I suddenly felt alive with a man for the first time. Truly feeling like a woman who has been waiting to be cued for her entrance, I called out with ecstatic joy. “Yes, so good!” It was revelatory and astonishing.
As he suckled, he moaned and mumbled, “Too long, So good, Love your body.” His hands were kneading my bust and I was arching up into him. I reached between us and nearly shouted when my palm contacted the heat of his hardness. I was so happy to have it back in my hands.
“Maintennant, Olivier. (Now, Oliver) Put this inside me!” He needed permission more than instruction. His face was serious, loving and commanding all at once. We guided him together and he found his way back home.
Of all of the men I have had sex with in my life, Charlie, past boyfriends, and even Oliver himself all fell short of this gorgeous man. I nearly blacked out as he entered me, my folds yielding without any challenge.
The shaft had a natural upcurve and it slithered past special points and ridges inside me. The completeness of our coupling signaled when his hair ground into my vulva. I locked my legs around him and dug my fingers into his firm, hairless buttocks. I locked him in place.
There are defining moments in every relationship, memories you will hold onto and use for touchstones. There are seconds that sear into our brains and never seem to lose their clarity. This was one of those.
He was on his elbows, his chest compressing the objects of his maternal desire. My nipples were hard and happy to be crushed. His hair hung down, reckless and bold. His breath was full and open-mouthed, asking for direction. His eyes, green and wide, aching for something, moved back and forth searching mine.
I did my best to just let my face be free, to let go, to let him know that we were where we were supposed to be. We were right.
The moment could have lasted several minutes had our joined parts not insisted we carry on. His large manhood flexed and pulsed. My needy passage wept and gripped. I smiled lustfully; perversions be damned.
I whispered with gravity and purpose. “Baise-moi! baise-moi, baise ton prof! Oui! Fuck your teacher, young man. Make her proud!”
His responding smile was more primal, conquering in its masculinity. “Oui, Madame!”
What followed was nothing short of majestic. It was a ballet, a battle, and a collision all wrapped in a promise. His hips moved with athletic grace, claiming and rhythmic. The head of his erection was hitting new places in shocking ways. Perhaps the freedom I was feeling of my marriage being over was allowing the full array of my sexuality…
