Sailing with William was limited due to our schedules and sailing weather requirements. While we sailed again, there was no more boat sex, it was just too complicated.
William knew the Puget Sound and enjoyed showing its nuances as Edward once did with the San Francisco Bay Area. We made two long overnight sailing trips, first to Port Townsend and then La Conner, sailing out of from Bremerton. Each required a husband's extended business trip and proper sailing conditions.
At night we stayed at inns to assuage my boat sleeping quarters claustrophobia and landlubber bed preference. The next morning, we sailed back to Bremerton and then I drove home. William was a good captain but sailing required his full attention as he tacked about in the Sound.
I simply sat back, enjoyed the silence of no motor’s whine and listened to the whispers of waves and wind as we skimmed along. With only occasional minor sailing duties, my interest waned, as William rushed to tack and steer but the trips changed my image of Puget Sound from seen by land, just as a flyover changes one's impression from ground level. Once we saw a pod of orcas. They were exciting, beautiful but to me, scary, too big and wild to be seen up close while on the water.
Port Townsend is noted for its Victorian houses due to a boom that went bust. The town is nicknamed the "City of Dreams" because of the early expectations it would be the largest harbor in the Pacific Northwest once a rail line was extended to it. The rail line, however, when it finally came, ended at Seattle and turned Port Townsend’s dream into an economic, overbuilt nightmare.
The 1890s boom resulted in numerous Victorian mansions which became ghost remnants of the lost dream. Finally, eighty years late, during the 1970s, it became a tourist and retirement community with a redeveloped waterfront retail and restaurant district.
I’d never been there due to its isolation by road. William delighted in being able to show a newbie this hidden gem. After our long sail up, he secured the boat in the harbor and we walked up the hill and spent a night at a bread and breakfast Victorian mansion.
The elderly innkeeper assumed we were married. She fussed over us and asked about our children while William diverted her with sailing stories.
Settled in, we walked to a quaint restaurant and with dinner and a few drinks wobbled back up the endless, spiral staircase. In our room, we enjoyed alcohol enfeebled sex until at last William was capable to perform a small completion while I enjoyed the view of the harbor.
With a sober saddle horn in the morn, we had a tryst on the Victorian canopied bed after room service tea. Afterward, we trooped down to the breakfast nook, holding hands, to the approval of the innkeeper and ate a hearty breakfast with eggs, bacon and hash brown in which she was kind enough to add fried onions.
For our second sailing voyage, we went to La Conner on Swinomish Channel between Padilla and Skagit Bays. We walked the enchanting rustic waterfront esplanade before it was revitalized to stainless steel, fiberglass and tourist emblems for retired couples to stroll along.
At night, we stayed at the Plantation Hotel, a historic two-story building on South First Street, just off the water. Our second-floor room faced the street and we watched tourists stroll below while drinking a nightcap in the evening and again while drinking coffee in the morning. The hotel reminded me of the rendezvous pad Elliot and I once shared.
In the evening we dined at Palmer Lighthouse with its great bar looking out at the channel, sad to say now gone with revitalization. The bartender had the ability to make a decent Singapore Sling. Our Plantation bed had down blankets. After drinks, lobster dinner, a B & B nightcap, and our sex romp, I disappeared into the covers and didn’t wake until nudged to rise in the late morning. We had our morning glory and then a fish and chips brunch at the La Conner Pub, a classic family restaurant with excellent Alaskan codfish.
We boarded the boat and sailed back to Bremerton on a neap tide. At Bremerton, I debarked and drove home with hours to spare before hubby’s return.
It was as if we were middle-aged lovers but they were only two-timer dates, once at night and then a morning sunrise. William was a lightweight bed contender with a modest libido. He followed a sexual ritual, a kiss, a touch of oral, me atop, a little doggy and his missionary finish, all completed with little if anything said. He kept a lot to himself. I suspected his divorce had permanently marred him from trusting women. He did teach me the pleasure of a mustache brushed against my clitoris and never rushed his sex ritual.
One benefit of my libidinousness was discovering new places with a lover and then introducing hubby to them, with faithfulness adjustments. I justified these on the basis we would never have discovered them on our own. Afterward, I took hubby to La Conner with a night booked at the Plantation Hotel, on the other second-floor room facing the street, opposite the corridor from the one spent with William. We dined at the same restaurants but at different tables and spent the morning leisurely shopping before driving home instead of sailing. I also took him to Port Townsend but to a different bed and breakfast.
In hindsight, these were double betrayals, no matter the faithfulness adjustments.
My final sailing adventure was to be a trip to Friday Harbor in the San Juan Islands. As we sailed past Port Townsend and entered the open waters of Puget Sound, however, the waves picked up and the boat heaved and rocked. Soon I was seasick. It was a long trip back and once in William's slip in Gig Harbor I was a mess.
I didn't care what I looked like. I only wanted off the boat. Those who do not get seasick don't understand. I used a washcloth to clean my face and hair of the obvious, got in the car and rushed home. At home, in the shower, I vowed never to go to sea again. It’s a vow kept except for Puget Sound ferries and a Mediterranean Greek cruise ship with hubby.
My secret puppet shadow was easy to conceal once sailing was nixed. It became a part-time, once a week dalliance. I called his office Monday, confirmed our usual Tuesday noontime tryst, left the next day before noon, drove over, enjoyed our bout and drove back. It was without fuss or muss, simple as that.
His house, a bachelor pad built after his divorce, was obviously designed for a man without a woman’s influence. It had a large lower level finished garage/shop, a middle level with a small kitchen, dining nook, living room, a half bath, a small bedroom which served as his office and another room to which the door was always locked but that was obviously not a door to a closet.
The master bedroom with full bath including Jacuzzi tub and adjoining open deck was on the upper level accessed via a spiral metal staircase. The upper level had panoramic views of the Puget Sound, the Narrows Bridge, and Vashon Island. It had a large, crow's nest ambiance.
From my first visit, I knew there was another woman. I could smell her presence. Although not living there, her visiting was evident by wastebasket discards William failed to clean up after. Snooping in them revealed, hairpins, tissues with lipstick or mascara smudges and once a discarded used lipstick tube. The feminine fragrance soap in the master bathroom indicated she was a Crow’s Nest regular. My being responsible for prophylactics meant she was on the pill or had her tubes tied.
He never opened the locked door to the room which he claimed was for storage. I knew if opened, I would find her stash for overnight visits. He was cheating on her with me and on me with her. He never let on there was someone else. Initially, I thought of spying to catch him red-handed or to confront him with wastebasket evidence but on reflection realized, it benefited us both to keep our relationship pretending there was no other. It was a version of, "don't ask don't tell."
No longer sailing, I avoided overnight rendezvouses. My adultery paradigm had shifted. I’d learned the value of time by and for myself if hubby was out of town. I was reluctant to then spend the night at William’s. The couple of times he broached my coming over for a night I replied hubby was home, to William’s apparent relief.
If I suggested a day meeting and he was evasive, I acted cluelessly. It became evident we both wanted a limited once a week, conjugal visit with a glass of wine, chit chat update, relaxed wham bam, all enhanced by a view of the Sound without relationship commitment. Tuesday noon times were soon settled on.
The drive from home or office to his crow’s nest bed was thirty to forty-minutes, the rendezvous two hours or less, total lap time, three-plus/minus hours, easily covered as shopping time. His fastidious sexual routine ritual was pleasant but domestic enough to be marital, a little too tame. Over two years there were about a hundred mock shopping trips, each a pleasant diversion, like having a pastry with coffee, forgotten soon after but enjoyed again and again.
I never had his house key. He knew when I was coming by my phone call, watched for my arrival from his midlevel living room bay window, pushed the garage door opener when he saw me pull into the gravel driveway, moved to the landing in the garage, pushed it closed as I entered the garage and greeted me at the top of the stairs. We kissed; his mustache cleansed of pipe ashtray scent due to my solicitation. He led me by the hand and we ascended the spiral staircase to his bedroom to enjoy our weekly romantic interlude.
After a glass of wine and hor's d' oeuvre, we were ready for sex and went into his stylistic action with the curtains open to enjoy the view. After sex, we showered or on occasion had a Jacuzzi tub soak. The only pause would be a show and tell during the catch-up chit chat, such as my showing a new dress, shoes, hairstyle or lingerie which he faked an interest in or his show and tell of gadgets for my faked interest. His portable mobile phone, a Motorola 3200, the first one seen up close, was the only gadget that perked my interest. I purchased one for hubby on my way back to the office after seeing it.
Occasionally we ate lunch after sex, the only times we talked in depth. We avoided our personal lives and talked about current events, sometimes his sailing which required my pretense of interest or about clothes requiring even greater pretense by him. It was simple, we enjoyed our trysts, he was cheating, I was cheating, it was tit for tat, no questions asked. It was the secret puppet shadow’s weekly exercise, her routine affair sex trot.
During August 1992, I came to see his deck remodel. He expanded the deck and installed a clear plastic canopy so it could be enjoyed on the frequent rainy days. The framer was hammering and sawing when I arrived. His pickup truck with ridiculous oversized tires had blocked my entry to the garage. He was, six-feet plus, big-boned, blond, with a wispy blond mustache and muscular biceps. His piercing blue eyes were friendly with a smile yet menacing without.
He was wearing Levi’s, a black T-shirt, was tanned from working outdoors and his blond hairs on his arms accented his sinewy muscles which flared up in bold relief when he flexed them working.
I sipped wine and made comments about the view to William while sneaking glances at the framer's biceps. The framer caught me right away. He smiled boldly which turned his eyes, friendly light blue. I pretended not to have noticed him. William left to get cheese from the kitchen below while the framer remained in my peripheral vision. The framer set his hammer down and approached.
"I'm Paul. I want you."
I like bold men but was taken aback, especially being at William's house and this young man working for him.
"Sorry, you can't have me. I'm taken."
"You want me too, I'll call."
“I’ll just hang up.”
“No, you’ll talk, cause, you want me too.”
He returned to his deck construction as William came back with cheese. William acted nervous. It was apparent my lingering presence was unnerving him. I assumed it was due to the framer’s presence but learned later it was my car in the driveway instead of the garage.
I nibbled the cheese, downed my wine, got up, kissed William goodbye to the framer’s smirk and left thinking about the framer.
It’s going to so enjoyable hanging up on you when you call, big bad boy!
That evening, on top and bottom with hubby, images of those golden fleeced biceps flexed before me.
