Soft Kisses & Brutal Thrusts

For nearly three years, I clung to the idea of being “loyal” to my husband. Why? I couldn’t tell you. But I can say that every one of those years, my mind wandered to other men, my body ached for other men, my fingers danced almost daily to fantasies of other men. Under a secret pen name, I poured out stories — wild, imagined tales where I surrendered to two, three, five men at once, where they claimed me, devoured me, where I became the untamed woman I hid inside, strutting bare and reveling in endless desires…

Then, almost by chance, I met the first lover of my second marriage: Caleb, a young marketing assistant at a firm I visited biweekly for consulting, traveling to his coastal city. We were lovers for five months, the same span I’ve been entangled with Noah, in oddly similar circumstances. The parallels are striking, but it’s the contrasts I want to unravel.

With Caleb, it began in June 2012, meeting every two weeks in his city until November, when my contract there wrapped up, just as he got engaged to his girlfriend. He was broad-shouldered but not bulky, with a boyish face, sun-kissed skin, and soft hazel eyes, his smooth chest bare of hair, his voice low and teasing, with a charm that was effortlessly masculine. I was twelve years his senior, seasoned by life, when I drew him in on my third visit — or rather, through flirty texts after catching his lingering stares during a team dinner hosted by the company’s mid-level suits.

On my next trip, after we’d planned it through messages — this was my second-to-last lover — he met me at the airport and drove me to a dimly lit jazz bar, where a sultry saxophone filled the air, paired with a bottle of merlot and delicate appetizers.

Then he kissed me like I was a treasure, because it was clear he was in awe, floored that a young guy, barely established, driving a dented old sedan, from a modest background, was locking lips with the “renowned strategist” hired to elevate his company. Me, with my fair skin and tailored dresses — not as refined as he imagined — a poised, worldly woman in his eyes… but really, a woman tangled in insecurities, craving someone to cherish her, to trail kisses down her wrists, her collarbone, to rest a hand on her hip, and later that night, to peel away her clothes with reverence.

In the quiet of his small apartment, he undressed me with deliberate care, each button and zipper undone like a ritual, his own body visibly straining with need yet patient. His lips grazed my skin, a featherlight kiss against my most sensitive place, chaste yet electric, before he traced a path back to my stomach. Then he yielded, letting me guide him, easing him onto the bed. I straddled him, moving with agonizing slowness, my lips finding his again and again, each kiss deepening. His hands roamed my back, steady but gentle, as I rocked above him, drawing out every sensation — his warmth, his pulse, the way he filled me completely. Our rhythm built, unhurried, until waves of pleasure crashed over me, my breath hitching as he followed, his release a shared, trembling surrender that left us tangled in sheets, hearts racing.

Strangely, Noah is nearly the same age Caleb was then and, I assume, also sees me as his prize. But his worship is of a different breed, as you’ll see. Because of him, I went six days without journaling: I was with him in a far-off city, not his or mine… and I feel partly consumed, a little raw, a touch more reckless than usual, a bit more unleashed after that whirlwind weekend, while my husband held down the fort, picturing me buried in work… if he only knew how deeply I was immersed.

I started sleeping with Noah — or rather, he started claiming me — in September, during a trip to Ashton’s city. This was just our sixth encounter, always in different cities, but this time I covered his train ticket, the rideshares, the meals, the beers (thankfully, he’s not a heavy drinker). If my husband found out — Lord, if he knew half of it!

I met him late Saturday night, nearly 3 a.m. Sunday, because he’d barely scraped together enough for the trip and was penniless. I was buzzed and restless, having spent the evening with two friends in that city. After a grueling day of meetings, we ended up at a women’s lounge.

My bold friends hired some dancers, and I indulged, running my hands over their sculpted arms, teasing until their interest was obvious. My top slipped low, and for the first time — at a seasoned 43 — I considered taking one home… I’d already dropped $400 on their cocktails and my own, but no, Noah was on his way, and it had been weeks since I’d felt his touch, his weight.

He’d come straight from his warehouse job to the station, with nothing — not even spare clothes. I bought him a few things, feeling like some cliché, a desperate older woman. But Noah, unlike Caleb, is no soft-eyed dreamer, and he’s five years older. A lean, tattooed guy in scuffed boots, sandy hair, and calloused hands, he took me the second we stumbled into the hotel, my body already primed, and I’d stoked his fire in the car.