WHAT MARRIED MEN TASTE LIKE

I’d like to pretend that I don’t know how it happens, but I do.  There’s a subtlety to letting them know you’re open to that kind of thing. 

It’s not hard to pick the right one out.  You start as friends, usually at work.  You linger by the desk and ask him about his weekend or to further explain a report he emailed. You get comfortable with the photos on his desk.  His new son with their family dog.  Aww. 

We begin talking more frequently; I let him in to my world a little.  I tell him what went wrong in my marriage over casual business lunches, usually up to three times a week by now.  He sees me as the character he plays in his own home.  What a relief to have someone to talk to about how HE’s feeling! 

His wife just doesn’t want to have sex with him anymore now that the baby is here.  I tell him I can’t understand that since I had my daughter, my sex drive went up.  But, then again I remind him I am almost ten years younger than her and I am at the beginning of my sexual peak. I tell him maybe there’s something wrong with his wife.  Any woman who doesn’t like sex has something wrong with her.  I suggest she go and see a doctor.  It’s not fair on him; after all he has needs too. I tell him that I am sure it’s got nothing to do with him.  Some women are just frigid.

We pause and talk about our kids, seeing where the boundaries really are. Our food comes over a dinner that really isn’t business related. I tell him he’s very attractive and really good at what he does.  I tell him I respect him professionally and I would never jeopardize his marriage. I tell him I am sure it’s hard being the man responsible providing for his new family, his hefty new mortgage south of town.

He nods in agreement, but tells me how hungry he is for passion in his life.  Of course he loves his children, but there’s that certain something he’s missing.  He says he’s lonely.  I tell him that a man like him should never be so.

One glass of wine turns in to two bottles and I say I shouldn’t say this, because we’re drunk, but you feel the connection between us, don’t you?  He says of course and I let my eyes stay locked with his for just a moment longer than I would normally. 

He wants to taste my lips and see what hides beneath my blouse.  He wants to feel my legs wrapped around him. I knew this would happen before I even got in the shower today.  I shaved my legs, put on the prettiest little black lace bra I had, skipped the panties as I knew he’s be lifting up my skirt and for one moment, he’s the man that he was before he married her.  When they met, the sex was great, he says.  She told him she loved him first. I nod as if that happened to me as well.  I pretend that really understand him.  I play empathetic friend role. He tells me that things have been rocky for a while, but he hangs in there because of the kids. He said it’s just so nice to be understood.  He hasn’t been able to talk to anyone about this. 

He says he wishes he was single sometimes and when he fucks his wife, he confesses he thinks of me.   I smile, but put my head down.  I don’t blush.  He understands now that I have all the power.  Did he cross a line?  Did he misread my signals?  How could it be that a girl like me is hot for a suburban, married, father of two who has no hope of moving up out of middle management?  When I look back up at him, I clear my throat.

He asks again about my failed marriage.  I tell him it was loveless and my husband just didn’t understand me.  I told him how important sex is to a relationship. I tell him it was like having a roommate.  I give him the old “love him, but not in love” speech.

I pretend it was an accident when I touched his leg with my foot while crossing my legs underneath the table.  He gets excited, coughs, and folds his napkin on his lap.  He pours what’s left of the wine in to my glass.  He DID read the signs right.  He still has it! For a moment, he’s not the husband that gets pushed to take out the trash, mow the lawn or occasionally gets a blowjob on his birthday.  He’s fucking hot and the girl that he’s been mind-fucking for months now is sitting across the table ready for him.  His confidence has been reborn.  He feels twenty-five again.  He’s getting hard, and he knows that I know it.  He feels like a man.

We go back to my place, where I know I’ll be sleeping alone later.  I let him take me right away.  He bends me over the side of the couch.  It’s over faster than it started, but the show I put on for him was fantastic.  I moaned, I groaned and I let him believe that I wanted him, or needed him as much as he wanted or needed me. I bite his arm, but not enough to leave a mark.  Marks are for amateurs.

After he’s done, I offer up my shower to him explaining that it’s best he just rinses off, but not use soap.  He looks at me puzzled.  Dumb fuck.  I remind him that women have the smell thing down and the soap is a dead giveaway.  He laughs, takes my chin in his hands, kisses me and tells me how beautiful I am.  I barely acknowledge the compliment on my way to the refrigerator for a beer. I feel ill.

They’re all the same.  The dinner/sex game lasts for six months or so.  Then, they all get sentimental and think about leaving their wives.  Silly fools.  They’ll text, send emails, or call when occasionally allowed a Saturday night out with the boys.  I give in to one of them at least once a week.  The fact is, it’s nice to fuck someone who you don’t have to tell to take out the trash, mow the lawn or who whines that he just doesn’t get head anymore and to please come on, baby.

Inevitably, the love word comes up.  I love you!  Don’t you want to give this a try?  What we have is something special, it’s passionate.  No it’s not, you fucking imbecile. 

I have one girlfriend who I confess my adventures too.  One afternoon after coffee, she asked me if I was ever afraid to get caught.  I asked her why I would be afraid?  I haven’t done anything wrong. I am not married.  I took no vows. I think of myself at service to women everywhere.   They need to know what kind of man they’re married to.

She asks me if it’s exciting.  I tell her it is the first time, but it pretty much turns in to the same thing over and over again.  Men are predictable.  They are creatures of habit.  They fall in love with the idea of me. I pretend to be what they need. She asks me if I’ve ever fallen in love. I said, once with my husband.  I tell her the story behind our divorce.  The real story.

She pauses, and asks me if that experience left a bitter taste in my mouth. I told her no more bitter than what a married man tastes like.

Jennifer Smythe is from Los Angeles and now lives in Nashville, Tennessee. She is constantly trying to find the balance between good girl and bad.