An Affair to Remember

Men and women tend to lie about their sexual histories, but the nature of the lies can be broken down by gender---men exaggerate the number of their sexual partners while women minimize it, when outright elimination is impossible. When Grace told me that I was her first lover during 13 years of marriage, I reserved judgment. After all, what would a self-described born-again Christian stay-at-home mother of 3 possibly be doing contacting strange men through the internet? Motion pictures, Christmas and affairs are more fun, however, when we suspend disbelief, and the sensation of violating long-held taboos can be an intoxicating aphrodisiac.

Our first tryst took place in a snow-bound hotel room in a dilapidated Indiana steel town. Our second took place in Chicago. Grace is 5'4", pert and extremely slender, with curly, light brown hair and brown eyes. She is pretty. There were no fireworks or butterflies with her husband but we each have our calculus for choosing a life partner---hers involved emotional stability, ownership of a good home and a superior ability to provide. It was only later that he started drinking.

I met her at the train station and we took a cab back to my apartment, where the clothes came off within two minutes. The sex was good.....conventional, but very good. The conventionality was, at first, a bit surprising to me as my experience with born-again Christians (Mormons too) has been that they are much more erotically adventurous than their tattooed and body-pierced counterparts. A paradox, but based entirely on my own experiences. As a married woman, however, the simple act of making her body available to another man may have transcended whatever adrenaline rush any other acts could have provided. She wanted romance, tenderness and affection from the act---sensations, I gathered, that were absent from her marriage. I stroked her face and looked directly into her eyes. I could see her moving farther and farther from the shore. "....David......I...love you.." she whispered. But only once.

At the French restaurant, I suggested a kir.

"What's a kir?" she asked.

"Trust me, you'll like it. Two kirs, please," I said to the waitress. "It has cassis, white wine, I forget what else. It's an aperitif---meant to be drunk before dinner. It's kinda sweet, but it won't overpower your palate."

Our drinks arrived.

"Oh...I like this. What's good here?"

"Well, the foie gras is excellent."

"What's foie gras?"

"Fattened liver. Usually goose, sometimes duck. It's illegal in Chicago, but restaurants serve it anyway. You hafta try it."

We went back to my place after dinner and made passionate love.The next morning, I left her sleeping while I headed to the gym. When I got back she was not in a good mood.

"I read your comments on myspace and it looks like you have a date next weekend. Someone named Lisa says next week is good and she'll join you for brunch."

I was silent.

"Yes, I feel very special now. I wish I hadn't read this. I wish I had been left to my imagination. Your new girlfriend. That makes me feel good."

I began to understand why her husband had developed a drinking problem.

"Grace, that was an invitation to brunch. Do you know what brunch is?"

"Yes," she said, "I know what brunch is. Brunch is the next morning...."

On that note, we went to brunch ourselves. I am a brunch regular at a funky Wicker Park hangout. The waitress is perky, tattooed girl named Naima who will probably be in graduate school at this time next year. I walked in with a loud boisterous hello. Grace carried herself in as if she were going to a church coffee social. I shouted out my order:

"......and 2 bloody marys!"

Grace perused the menu, finally ordering in the supercilious voice that suburban middle and upper middle class women affect with waitresses at the Village Inn:

"I, would, like, an, orange, juice.....please..."

I was silently mortified.

We went back to my place after brunch and made love. It took me awhile longer to get hard.

"I'm sorry I was jealous earlier, " Grace said, "It's none of my business. I'm really flattered that you like me...."

"What?"

"You're really hot, you're smart, you live in Chicago, you've got a great body and I'm flattered that you like me..."

She hugged me hard. And I found myself wishing that she had not said that.

On the way to the train station I told her about the Wal-Mart SS shirt scandal, which involved t-shirts bearing the SS death-head logo appearing on Wal-Mart shelves.

"What's the SS?" she asked.

"The SS was a fanatical nazi organization---Hitler's elite."

"So," she said, "...they were Soviets?"

"Germans."

Drinking Buddy once complimented me on my game. I told him that since my divorce I've been going through a midlife crisis. "I don't think so," he said. "I think you're just this way. I think that you tell yourself it's a midlife crises to rationalize your behavior." Drinking Buddy may be an alcoholic, but he is a very perceptive man. I sometimes wonder what I'm looking for. Have I become the victim of an out-of-control libido? Is it shallow validation seeking? Have I turned myself on auto-pilot? Or am I only attracted to neurotic or unavailable women?