The Man Who is Not My Husband

I kissed him at the bar. I hid behind a crowd and jumped out from behind some people to kiss him, this man who is not my husband. It was probably one of the most innocent, sensual kisses of my life.

It was romantic in its sweetness. He stiffened slightly, like he wanted to say no, but his body responded by relaxing into it. That kiss swallowed me. It shook me up. It made me quiver. The way his arms pulled me in, my arms around his neck. It was a kiss for the sake of a kiss and nothing more. There was no promise of sex, no promise of anything, except what was happening in that moment. It was a beautiful kiss, like our mouths were meant to fit together.

It made me sad that it was nicer than any kiss I’ve experienced with my husband. What does that say? I’m deeply unhappy that we don’t kiss passionately. I’m deeply unhappy that we hardly kiss at all.

Ever since that first kiss (well, there was a second and a third, but they were mostly blurred by the alcohol, and I prefer to focus on the first one) I can’t get him out of my head. His body is warm and comforting. His mind is open and stimulating. I want him to hold me in his arms and tell me that he can’t bear to be without me. I absolutely love the way he smells.

Sometimes when I come home, and he’s waiting here, talking with my husband, I can smell his smell as I enter the house and it makes my panties moisten. I want to kiss him deeply, I want to nibble and explore and enjoy him.

Last weekend he nibbled on my ear. I told him that it turned me on. He responded with, “of course it does, everything turns you on.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s actually a really big turn-on because there are tons of things I’d love to do to you, but I can’t.”

Because I’m married.

The crux of the entire situation. I’m married to a man I love deeply but with whom I’m becoming increasingly annoyed with.

This man who is not my husband has been occupying my thoughts and my dreams and it’s starting to drive me insane with desire. When I close my eyes all I can think about is thrusting my hands into his thick, curly hair and pulling his mouth to mine.

He’s terribly conflicted because he doesn’t want to be a home wrecker. How cute. He thinks he could come between what my husband and I have. If ever our family came apart, it wouldn’t be because of another person.

I yearn for him, though. I want him, his melancholy, his tragic upbringing, his entire tragic self. Part of me feels like we might be suffering together, our unlinked, unconnected childhood tragedies. Part of me feels like I’ve known him before. The other part of me is resentful that he won’t make a move.

He’s completely leading me on. It’s a little game we play. I told him I would break him. And I will. He claims he cannot be broken. But he gives in to temptation every so often. Every time he does I consider it a small win.

I have huge passions, and I usually get what I want. There is definitely an attraction between us, something happening, something shaking up the lovely little life I’ve set up for myself.

What is a mother of three children to do when she’s only ever been touched by one man for the last seven years? The body of a mother, the body of a woman. It strikes deep fear into the heart. Fear of  his loathing and revulsion, of being rejected. It’s terrifying. I want him so bad that he’s all I can see when I close my eyes. He’s all I dream about. I’m crawling out of my skin with desire.

I don’t even know how he feels. Do I occupy his thoughts, as he occupies mine? Can he smell me when he inhales? Does he get hard thinking about how wonderful that kiss was? I want him to be as insane for me as I am for him.

It’s going to happen eventually. I can feel it. Not because it’s strictly sexual in nature, but because I feel like there’s a little more to it than that. I actually really like him.

I love the sweet German terms of endearment he texts me before bed; ‘gute nacht, meine frau’ or ‘meine susse’ or ‘meine shatz’. My woman, my darling, my sweet.

I don’t know if he knows that I understand what they mean but it heartens me to know that he uses the possessive;  meine/mine. Somehow there’s a part of me that he considers his alone and it’s just between the two of us and I love it. It makes it more romantic. He’s incredibly good natured, for all that he would have the world believe that he’s an asshole.

I’m in big trouble. I want him. I want him so badly. But I’m terrified he might not feel the same way. I’m terrified that he might not like my naked self. I’m terrified that I’ve made it out to be so much more than it actually ever will be.

I’m terrified that we could fall in love and I would do nothing to stop it.


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