I expected Elliot's interest to wane once he added me to his "seduced list" but the opposite occurred. He pestered to see me; said he’d never met anyone like me. I asked how many he’d "met”. He didn’t reply.
With the cherry blossom relationship setting to bear fruit, we needed a place to rendezvous. I didn’t want to become a Governor Hotel elevator mystery woman. My home turf and his buck seduction pad were out. For the affair to ripen, we needed a love nest. If he balked, it meant, "wham, bam, thank you, ma'am." Instead, he eagerly agreed and asked where.
I suggested downtown, near my office, a place with heavy pedestrian traffic and convenient but covert ingress and egress. A week later he gave an address. I parked near it and did a street inspection from the car.
It was an older, two-story, corner building, two blocks from the office. Retail outlets were on the first floor with offices above. The Mexican restaurant on one side and the corner French Bakery were popular and familiar to me. I parked and walked over for a closer inspection. On the secondary street was a courtyard with a hair salon, public restrooms, a metal staircase, and an ornate elevator. There was rear alley access to the courtyard and a second stairwell on the main thoroughfare to the offices above. It looked good, perhaps too good. At the office, I phoned Elliot and scheduled an 11 AM inspection.
I walked from the office, to get some pastries. We met at the corner. Without recognition, we entered the little courtyard and took the elevator up. On the second-floor landing, as if a real estate agent, he pointed out positive attributes. The corridor led to the second stairwell and it down to the main street. There were only two offices, one vacant. The corner area above the bakery was the sole apartment. It had a recessed nook for unobserved entry and exit from the corridor. The building was fire sprinkled. The set up was ideal, so ideal my initial thought was.
It’s his buck pad for discreet seductions.
Standing in the entry nook, he handed me the key. With the key inserted in the retro lock, the lock deadbolt turned and the door opened. The apartment was vacant. Vacancy assuaged my suspicion it was for his discreet married women harem. It was only for one, me.
The windows had retro, wide slat, Venetian blinds.
I did my client walkthrough, surveyed the small kitchen, the dining/living area and the bedroom and its bathroom. At a corner window, I bent a blind slat open and peered down at pedestrians. They were so close but couldn’t see me. An erotic purveyor sensation swept me.
He waited behind as if waiting for a client's agreement to sign a lease. I reached down into my purse, pulled out the pillbox and handed it to him. As he fumbled about, I lifted my skirt, pulled my panty down, gripped the window sill and bent down. He was hard, very hard as he entered. I guided his hands to my hips and as in the Governor Hotel, stuttered, "Hard, do it hard, again!"
He thrust in and out wildly. I experienced another shuddering vaginal orgasm while peering through an open slat of the blinds at men passing below. Once he was spent and withdrawn, we undressed, laid our clothes neatly on the recently shampooed carpet floor and lay naked on it.
We stared at the ceiling, said nothing until he recharged. Once ready again, he positioned himself between my spread legs, kept himself raised up, knees on the floor, his eyes staring into mine and ground in and out until we finished again. While he rode, I enjoyed the smell of bread baking below and imagined his breadstick in my oven.
Spent he rolled off with a bad case of knee rug burn.
"I assume you like the apartment."
"It needs a bed or you won’t be able to kneel at church. I love it like I do you."
The last sentence, spoken casually, regretted as soon as said, unable to be retracted or redacted. I got up and directed the conversation to furniture shopping while redressing then suggested a company name on the apartment entry door for additional ruse cover. It was all to diminish the tongue slip.
Redressed, I picked up my purse and turned my cheek for a quick parting peck kiss. Instead, he turned me toward him.
"Do you really love me?"
I broke free and fluttered down the metal spiral stairs without reply. In the bakery, I bought a dozen croissants by simply pointing, afraid my voice would crack. Safely back at the office mulling over my mistaken, “I love it like I do you,” I set the croissants on the lunchroom table. The employees quickly gathered to gobble them up but I salvaged one for hubby then went to the restroom to double-check my appearance.
Composed, I went back, heated and buttered the set-aside croissant and brought it to his office. He glanced up from his computer. I was sure he would notice something amiss and question my two-hour absence.
He took the plate, munched the croissant and thanked me between bites. Relieved he noticed and asked nothing, I walked out nervously checking my hair to feel if it was all in place. He commented I had a nice-looking butt. He didn’t know it was beet red from sex on a rug.
With Elliot in tow, we went to Seattle for furnishings. I selected a canopy bed, crystal chandelier and lace curtains for the capacious bedroom. I had a dimmer switch put in for the chandelier to adjust the night light mood. Elliot paid for the furnishings. I bought the utensils, dishes, linens, sheets and bed covers. We could observe those below from the bedroom window.
The decor was a woman's seduction pad, with satin sheets and pillowcases, down blanket, lace bedspread, and candles on the dresser. The closet and dresser included his and hers sections. I kept racy lingerie for the apartment's intended use. Scented bars of soap and large fluffy towels filled the bathroom wall hangers and cabinet.
The kitchen and dining/living area retained their Venetian blinds but I added lace curtains. While kept sparse for maintenance ease, it could produce a decent meal with china set for two. The dinette table with lace table cloth was nestled at the corner windows for people watching. An upholstered little sofa and a rocker were available for love games
A stroll from my office, a wary entry, a sexual rendezvous, quick shower, redress, aftermath tidy up, discreet exit and waltz back to the office with pastry could be done in an hour’s lapse time, of efficient timing but unhurried movements.
More typical was a dawdled lunch after a romp with French bread from the bakery as we relaxed by the corner windows. When gone two hours my pat excuse was, "shopping". If hubby was out of town, we had an evening date with crystal chandelier and candles.
I taught Elliot things I’d learned from prior affairs. He contributed nothing new, the breadth of his sexual development was limited to seduction, not action. We did develop a new sex game. Elliot sat in the upholstered swivel rocking chair with his legs together. I straddled him on his lap, penis in, legs over the arms of the chair.
Nestled, we gently rocked, tension building but thrusting forbidden. The goal was to experience oozed climaxes. More often, however, one could no longer stand it and suddenly thrust to a quick finish to the exclamations of censure by the other.
Once, in a final forbidden thrust, the rocker was knocked over and broke as we tumbled entwined to the floor, fortunately at night with the bakery closed. Afterward, shopping for a new one, our innuendos and snickering at the furniture store perplexed the saleslady.
I wasn’t essential at work and could do my assignments on my schedule with the few times I had to be there. Hubby's business mistress, in contrast, was a demanding one and on his mind 24/7. It included travel. Without Elliot, I'd have been lonely. Instead, I was relationship cramped and time-stressed.
Elliot’s golf course hens knew something was wrong with their rooster. They scouted for and guessed who the guilty culprit was for his sudden lack of crowing. They never glanced at me with suspicion when I ate at the cottage restaurant with the golf ladies or my husband. I worried even with hubby’s business preoccupation that he thought something was up, but this was my guilty thinking. He paid little attention and rarely noticed new clothes I wore or asked how my day went. If suspicious, Elliot wouldn’t cross his mind as a suspect.
I never thought Elliot would be true to me but he swore he was while I was unfaithful to him with hubby. On our affair anniversary, we stayed and ate at Seattle’s Mayflower Park Hotel for a night of sex. From the hotel bathroom, I presented myself in a silky negligee purchased for the occasion and gave Elliot a gold rooster with diamonds comb tie pin.
He gave me a large sapphire ring and a dozen red roses. It was his second trophy ring, grander than all the others except my husband’s. I hid his rings as I had no explanation for them.
Things continued smoothly and soon almost another year of "apartment" bliss drifted past. Elliot and I grew closer while my husband and I drifted apart but I ensured he was serviced and was the initiator when his business preoccupation suppressed his libido. Hubby assumed all my sexual needs were filled and he was number one in my life. He was right on both.
Elliot never bought clothes, perfume or makeup like Edward and only on occasion flowers or jewelry. Our relationship soon settled into a domestic routine. He, like hubby, was testosterone milked two or three times weekly, our time together no longer needed heavy discourse. We chatted news but didn’t need to learn more about one another. It was comfortable to just be together, like being with your dog, so domestic I flirted with others for excitement.
Then it happened. It was on the second anniversary of the Governor Hotel window lipstick smear. In the morning, I took hubby to catch a flight out of town, put a small pot roast in the apartment’s little oven, set the temperature at 280 degrees, left and returned at 7 PM with a new apron to complete our anniversary dinner. Elliot soon arrived with a special bottle of wine.
He went into the bedroom, came out still holding the wine, fussed about, lifted out the cork, poured us each a glass but was nervous, his anniversary toast strained. He stared askance from me as the glasses clinked together. Something was up.
He's going to dump me. He's figuring how to broach the subject.
He walked about, restless, our conversation stilted, trite things said but odd, not fitting. In the kitchen, he started to slice the pot roast. I lit two candles then sauntered to the kitchen to bring the half-empty wine bottle to the table. As I passed, he stopped carving, took my hand, led me to the sofa and sat me down.
Don’t plead for the last word or claim to have known as Enrico did when dumped. Just say I understand. Act hurt, give him a tear. Placate his male ego. Let him think he’s being noble; they always want to be noble.
"I sat you down because I have something to say."
He must think I'm going to faint. Perhaps I should swain to enhance my act?
Instead of saying it, he went to the bedroom.
Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s something I’ve done, just a spat.
He came back, something concealed in his right hand.
Perhaps it's something I brought here which upsets him. What did I bring to the bedroom? What’s in his paw?
He stretched open his hand and revealed a small jewelry box. My suppressed mirth over being so concerned changed to anxiety due to his grave demeanor as he handed it to me. I turned aside and slowly opened it.
Inside was a diamond engagement ring. A tear welled up. I was stunned, in a quandary of remorse, guilt. He finally said what he’d suppressed saying.
"Will you marry me?"
Saying nothing, I jumped up and ran to the bathroom, without the ring. On the toilet, I tried to compose myself. After a while, he tapped on the door but I could only croak out the word.
"Wait."
Sitting there, I thought about family, husband, children, how much I loved them, how I couldn’t hurt them, how I betrayed them being in the apartment, how much they were my life and how I needed them.
I don’t love Elliot. I only blurted that once due to the excitement of seeing the apartment. I’ve used him, to placate loneliness, for intrigue, to ensure self-esteem, for excitement, for sex but most of all because I enjoyed taming the rooster.
To love someone, you must admire them. Elliot, what’s to admire? What’s he done? Played golf, dissipated his life on a golf course, “professor golf” that sums him up. He’s never accomplished anything other than seducing women yet I turned the tables and seduced him. Now he wants me but I don’t want him, he bores me.
The latter thought summed it up. I re-entered the living room, still wearing my apron, our dinner cold and abandoned. He hadn’t moved, was looking down at the ring in its box. I sat next to him. I prepared for a rejection confrontation but instead, he knelt and put his head on my lap. I ran my fingers through his rooster hair, its pomade to hold up his comb greased my fingers.
Not picking up the ring and putting it on said it all. I just needed to let him save face. Tears, honest ones, not the ones I was preparing for his dumping, streamed down my face, tears for my truth.
“I never thought you were serious. I’ll never leave my husband. You need to find a good woman, get married, have children, children you can teach to play golf. I’ve used you, selfishly. I’m not the person you think. I’m no good for you.”
I told him the truth but then lied.
“Yes, I do love you but it’s an impossible love, a forbidden love.”
He got up, our anniversary dinner forgotten and abandoned.
“I understand.”
He didn’t.
Thank God, he swallowed it, he believes me.
Just like that, it was over. I sat in silence and waited in case he wanted to take me one last time. He made no advance. It was my turn to be awkward. I got up, took off my apron, picked up my purse, kissed him on the forehead, put on my coat and left with only.
"I'm sorry."
I cried as I drove home but again for me, not Elliot. Safely in bed, relief swept me, pleased it was over, my life simplified again. It occurred to me maybe I loved no one, only myself. It didn’t matter. Sleep took me. In the morning, I awoke refreshed to start anew the rest of my life, pleased its first day included picking up hubby at the airport, a man I did admire.
Elliot called only once, to ask if he should bring by my things from the apartment or if I wanted to get them. I told him to give them to the Salvation Army. We kept no contact but once afterward, at my husband's request, I dined at the cottage restaurant. The hens were happy and clucked and cooed while taking our orders.
Elliot observed us from afar during our meal. When the bill came the waitress handed me an inflated Salvation Army deposit receipt for $1,000. Hubby asked what it was about as he picked up the bill. I told him it was for the golf clubs I’d donated to the Salvation Army when I gave up golf. I never filed it with IRS.
I never went back but my ears perked up whenever others talked about him. Passing the apartment, I always looked up. One day the corner room window Venetian blinds and lace curtains were gone. They were replaced by pull-down shades. I wondered who pulled them down and accepted my secret place for people watching was gone.
Is someone eying me from there?
I quickly turned around and strode out of window sight.
Years later, my daughter-in-law went to the golf course with a girlfriend. Afterward, they told me about an old guy who wanted to give them golf lessons, a guy who got too close, who told them how to hold the club, a space invader. He'd never married. He kept his privileged life of professor golf seducer to the end, his life one of dissipation, repeated laps on a golf course.
I’m sure many trophies were added to his upstairs buck's pad but mine’s not there. I also suspect, despite his seduction expertise, none of his trophies wanted to marry him. They saw him as I did, a lonely person who was important and a legend only in their own mind, professor golf.
A couple of times we met by accident. We pretended not to see one another. The last time I saw him, two years ago, I was shocked how old he appeared and expect he was shocked seeing me too.
