Eric opened his eyes and saw her then. To her everlasting surprise and shame, he looked at her without shock or embarrassment, or even anger at the interruption. No, he simply smiled at her and asked if she wanted to join the party. She looked away from his leering face, down at her husband, who was only just then realizing that she had come into the room, and she saw something even more horrible. Paul’s pants were down around his ankles and he had his hand curled around his long, beautiful cock – her cock, as she liked to think of it – and from the angry, inflamed look of it, he was obviously close to coming himself.
She barely made it out of the office and into the restroom before she threw up.
He followed her home and she spent that night, the worst night of her life, desperately trying to rid herself of the image that had been seared into her brain: The sight of her husband on his knees sucking another man’s cock. She railed at him. Haven’t she been a good wife? Given him enough sex? Been inventive enough for him in bed? Without meeting her eyes, he assured her that she had been all of those things and more.
Then what? There had to be something, she knew. Unless blow jobs had become fashionable at work these days. Unless getting the key to the executive washroom also meant fellating the man who’d given it to you. Unless earning a quarterly bonus depended upon the amount of semen you swal—
Paul cried out in such agony that she stopped, startled by his outburst. It’s not you, he said finally. It’s me. It’s just…the way I am. What are you, she demanded. Gay? He shook his head. Bi? He shrugged. What then? I don’t know, he admitted. But I’ve been that way as long as I can remember. She stared at him, the man she had known intimately for almost a decade, the man she had sworn to grow old with, and was stunned by the realization that she hardly knew him at all. She said one last thing to him before leaving their home forever.
You should get help.
Melanie writhed on the sofa, unable to stop the flood of memories or the flow of tears that streamed down her face. I was so cruel, she thought. So wickedly cruel. And I hated myself for doing it – for saying those things – but I couldn’t stop myself, either. Because every time I stopped, I saw them again. My Paul. On his knees, mouthing Eric’s penis, wearing a look of lust such as I’d never seen on him before. Had he ever looked like that when he’d gone down on me? She couldn’t remember.
A knock at the door interrupted her.
“Yes?” she called out.
“Miss Nichols, it’s Jonathon, the bellboy. I’ve got your luggage.”
“Just a minute.” She wiped her face and did a quick inspection in the mirror. Oh, Christ! I can’t let anyone see me like this. She dug a five-dollar bill out of her wallet and placed it on the bar. “Look, I’m just getting in the shower. Why don’t you leave the bags by the sofa and I’ll put them away later. There’s a tip for you on the counter.” With that, she disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door.