cheating.

      I’ve been unhappy with Peter for so long now.  It’s over.  I’ve already checked out of the relationship.  That’s why this isn’t technically cheating.

      I know Eli from work.  We aren’t really friends; acquaintances perhaps, at the most.  It’s hard to describe.  I don’t know anything about him, to tell you the truth; I can’t say that we’ve spoken more than a couple times, about anything other than work.  But there is an elusive air of familiarity lately, as if he sees into me, or knows something something about me.  Or, as if we have a common understanding about some important matter, but haven’t yet discussed it out loud.  He’s almost been acting as if we’re old friends.  Still never conversing directly, he’ll put his arm around me while in a conversation with other colleagues, for example.  Not that’s it’s completely one-sided.  I flirt, but only because nothing will ever come of it.  He’s a safe choice. 

      I’ve actually had people approach me, and ask where I know Eli from.  Because it’s so obvious that we have a past; and not only that, but an interesting, and possibly life altering one.     

      Lately, perhaps to escape my marital unhappiness, I’ve been going out with the gang after work, for drinks.  As much as this is usually unlike me, as I’m actually quite anti-social, I’ve been showing up to work hungover, more and more frequently.  Eli has taken interest in this, and for perhaps the first time, questions me directly.  “Late night last night?”  He laughs.  I grunt, and he erupts again.  “I might actually join you guys tonight.”  As if I’m supposed to know that this is also uncharacteristic of him.  

      At the end of the shift, my coworkers having already gone to the bar, Eli says that he’ll lock up, if I want to get started.  Forgetting that I’m usually completely anal, especially concerning work matters, I casually give him my key, and call, “First round is on me!”  I don’t even know what he drinks.  

      When Eli arrives, I don’t even get up to greet him.  We remain at opposite ends of a long table, only crossing over to do round, after round of shots.  After each one, I quickly retreat back over to my side of the table.  The whole time, I watch him; not paying attention to the conversations happening around me.  It’s almost like I’m afraid of him.  At the end of the night, I say into the air, to no one in particular, “I’m so not ready to go home yet...”   A group of women are in front of me, crawling into a cab.  Eli appears out of nowhere.  
      “We could go to my place for a drink.”  I look to my right, and another cab pulls up.  
      “Sure,”  I say offhandedly, like it’s all just happening.  Like it’s all out of my control.            

      In the cab, he holds my hand.  I’m shocked by the warmth of it, the intimacy of it.  Like he’s assuming we’re already lovers.  Like he’s assuming I’m even actually attracted to him.  He kneads it methodically, like he’s trying to warm it up.  I keep my hand lifeless; unresponsive.

      He shares an apartment, and his roommate is still up, so we have to go into his room.  Now, I realize what this must look like.  What this potentially, is.  I get nervous about what’s going to happen, and drink more.  I sit on the bed, and he’s on top of me.  
      His tongue is warm, his body warm, and crushing.  He removes my blouse, kisses my neck, my breasts.  His mouth is so inviting, I want to crawl inside, but I don’t let myself.  I lay still, except for my spinning head.  He kisses a line down my stomach, unzips my fly, removes my pants from under me.  He lifts my legs onto this shoulders, almost like I’m a doll with moving parts, and he’s posing me.  He moves the crotch of my underwear to the side, and pushes his mouth and tongue into my pussy.  I feel how wet I am, but can’t imagine how I got that way.  He goes down on me for a long time, but I am not going to come.  
      “Don’t want to come, honey?”  He says, assuming now that we’re dating, apparently, with the pet name.  His familiarity makes me recoil further.  He removes my underwear, most of his own clothing, and crawls on top of me.  He licks my nipples, pushing his dick against me, through his underwear, while he does so.  I don’t want it.  I’ll tell Peter that he forced himself on me while I was drunk.  If I can just lie here, then I have nothing to feel bad about.  Soon, his warm body presses against me, and his cock finds it’s way in.  He lifts my legs again, and he thrusts in and out of me.  I feel numb; I can’t feel his cock.  All I can feel is his warmth on top on me, surrounding me, and I want it everywhere, I want to be completely enveloped, suffocated by it.  I suddenly feel the urge to cry, and a desperate need.  I flip him around, and hastily get on top.  I work myself over his cock, building myself up until I’m frothing; boiling.  I bounce myself on it, at the perfect rhythm; every time he interrupts, I slap his hand away, tell him to stop moving, don’t touch me.  “It’s coming, oh god, don’t move, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!!”  I scream.  Take a few breaths.  I take him out of me, and fall down on the bed beside him.  I want it to go away.  I want to sleep forever.  

      But I lie awake, here beside Eli, like I have so many nights beside Peter.  I never let myself reciprocate anything, never let myself really let go, really enjoy anything.  I won’t even remember most of it tomorrow, so there won’t be a whole lot to tell.

      I recall that time when Peter said he ‘made out’ with someone from his work while he was drunk, and I believed him, forgave him, never thought about it again, until now.  I picture Peter sleeping in our bed, at home.  I wonder if he told the whole truth about kissing that girl, and determine that he probably didn’t.

      Sooner or later, I fall asleep.