CONTEMPLATION OF ADULTERY
BY R0Y L. PICKERING JR.
I am a happily married man.
Oh sure, it's tempting. I can't sit here and honestly say that if the
situation were to arise, I wouldn't even consider it. Take now for instance. The woman seated across the bar from me is
flat out gorgeous. It's hard not to
notice a thing like that. And she's been
checking me out. It's hard not to notice
a thing like that either. Every twenty
seconds or so she glances my way. I
could have this woman, I know I could. I
can feel it with every fiber of my being.
But like I said ...
Where the hell is James? He was supposed to meet me here at seven, and
it's already a quarter after. Big
shocker. In the eight years James and I
have been best friends, not once has he been on time. I usually show up about fifteen minutes early
for appointments, even when they’re with James.
You'd think in eight years I would have learned my lesson, but I arrived
here at exactly 6:45. So now there is
nothing for me to do but wait.
Not that I've particularly minded
today. The bartender here makes a great
margarita, the jukebox is the best in the city, and perhaps the most beautiful
woman I have ever seen is shamelessly flirting with me. A night with her would be incredible to say
the least.
But I have a devoted wife at home who
I promised in church before several dozen friends and relatives to love, honor,
and not screw around on. Plus, we have a
kid. He'll be three years old in a
couple of months. It won't be too long
before I can get Barry Jr. into little league.
My life is what you would call
comfortable. Comfortable and
normal. Conventional, that's the word
I'm looking for. I have a nine to five white
collar job which I hate, but it's too late to get out, so I'll just have to
move up. I live in a quiet suburban
neighborhood in a pleasant looking little house, paying an astronomical
mortgage for the privilege. Unless I'm
drafted by an NBA team in desperate need of a five foot nine point guard who
can't dribble, or else I happen to pick the right six numbers on a lottery
ticket, I'll be paying it off until I'm too old to chew my food. Sharon and I haven't made definite plans for
more children, but before her clock stops ticking we'll probably have 1.8
more. We do after all have the
proverbial Jones family to keep up with.
My hair continues to be gray-less, ever so
slightly receded, but bald patches have yet to appear. No stationwagon or mini-van inhabits my
garage, not that the vehicle I drive would ever be mistaken for a Ferrari. I’m still most comfortable in jeans and a tee
shirt, just like when I was a teenager. I continue to play pick up basketball games in the park when time allows, no matter that these days I'm almost always the slowest player on the court. Thanks to those games I'm relatively up to date in the slang terminology of the day, a source of pointless pride. In short, I'm not
a kid anymore, but nor have I quite turned into my parents.
If only there was some way I could think of
to quell this steadily increasing restlessness.
Maybe everybody my age feels like this.
No, James doesn't. Maybe everyone
my age with a wife, a kid, a mortgage, and a mind numbing job. That must be it. I'm carrying around all this adult baggage,
but I don't' remember wanting, or planning, or asking to become a
grown-up. It seems like only months ago when I would have been proofed to get into this place. But it was years ago. My God, it was a decade ago.
One thing I do know for certain is this.
All the adventure can not already be gone from life. Maybe I'm a little too
old for fraternity parties and spring break. I
could live without praying to the porcelain god every Friday night after
chugging one too many plastic cups of beer.
I’ve been around the block enough times to recognize with minimal angst
that my favorite dreams will not be coming to fruition. I'm never going to win a Cy Young award, save the word in an action movie, or perform in front of my adoring fans
at Madison Square Garden. And I'm okay with that. Still, there has to be more
in my future than a few promotions, a few kids, retirement, grandkids, and
death. There just has to be.
I should have been with more women. Perhaps that's what it comes down to. Too many wild oats burning a hole in my
shorts because I didn't sow them when I had the chance. I'm not a bad looking guy. I had a few casual flings back in my college
days. But no more than can be counted on
two hands with a few fingers left over.
If I had only been more aggressive, more confident, I'm sure I could
have at least doubled the number. But I
wasn't, so I didn't, and that's that. I
met Sharon a couple years after graduation.
We immediately committed to a monogamous relationship, and within two
years we were exchanging a matching set of "I do's". I don't remember
the name of the last woman I was with pre-Sharon. I vaguely recall what she
looked like, the fact that she was drunk as was I, and that a good time was had
by all in the extra large closet sized space I called my bachelor pad. The last fling I had, that I'll ever have. I
was just shy of 25 years old.
Maybe I'll flash a smile at this woman
across the bar from me. I have been told that it's my best feature. If she doesn't smile back, I won't give the
matter another thought. There's no commandment against smiling. A little flirting never harmed anyone. Married or not, it's good to know that at
least a few members of the opposite sex, spouse not included, find you
attractive. Mankind needs to feel
validated every now and then. Vanity is
what separates us from the beasts.
Vanity and credit cards.
Yep, I was right. She's definitely into to me. She returned my serve of a coy grin with a
hard volley of pearly whites. I'm at a
precipice. I can do nothing but sip my
drink, shoot the breeze for a couple of hours once James shows up, and then go
home to my wife and child. Or I can take
a step forward, a step towards this woman, knowing that once I do, there's no
turning back.
My body is serving as a battleground for
the war being fought between my hormones and Catholic guilt. This woman is devastating, and growing more
so with every sip I take. Her form
fitting dress is accentuating in remarkable detail every curve God blessed her
with. She doesn't have an ounce of fat
on her. I could have almost said that
about Sharon at one time, but her body never did bounce fully back after having
Derrick. Not that she's overweight or
out of shape. She just doesn't look quite like this Barbie proportioned she-devil.
I love Sharon dearly. That love has taken sides with the guilt
complex. The last thing I want to do is
betray her trust. I couldn't bear knowing
how hurt she would be if I were to have an affair. She would be destroyed, and she would never
forgive me, and the comfort, and warmth, and safety of my present existence
would be annihilated.
Nevertheless, I find myself feeling
sometimes that when I committed myself to Sharon, I gave up other things that
life may have been planning to offer.
And I wonder if those things would have turned out to be better than
what I settled for.
No, that's the wrong choice of word. Sharon is a wonderful woman. I consider myself lucky, blessed to have a
woman like her by my side. A woman who
swept an insecure young man off his feet and subsequently produced a son I
adore. I certainly did not settle. But still, I can't help wondering, and
longing. I know they say the grass is
always greener. James for example, with
his various girlfriends and casual liaisons, still envies me, or claims to
anyway. All in all I have a damn good
life, one which it would be very foolish of me to jeopardize. At this moment though, these potent facts are
being overwhelmed by a single primeval urge.
I want to climb that mythical fence and mow that sumptuous grass.
My mind is made up. I'm going to talk to her. My ability to speak comfortably to attractive
women has improved vastly from my stumbling, bumbling college days. But I've
had woefully few opportunities to display this hard earned talent, and only in
practice drills, no real emergencies.
When I'm done with the smooth talk we'll go to her place, or any place
with a mattress, and proceed to turn a fantasy into reality. I will live one last adventure, make the
final addition to my erotic memoir. It will be just this one time, but oh what a time it shall be.
As for Sharon, I'll have to rely on the old
adage. What she doesn't know can't and won't hurt
her. If the woman before me were any less than an
absolute goddess, I would certainly refrain.
But her exquisite perfection has flipped the switch on my
self-control. I have become a temporary
slave to my desire. Starting from
tomorrow I will be the model husband for the rest of my days. As for tonight ...
Man, I really thought I was bluffing
myself. As much as I had worked myself
up, I was in fact convinced that this woman would become nothing more than who
I visualize when I make love to my wife on the nights we manage to put aside for
extracurricular activity. But I am off the barstool and on my feet. I am walking towards her. I am taking action,
commanding my destiny, seizing the day, and all that other good stuff. Hey!
Some guy has cut in front of me.
He has gone right up to my woman as if I don’t even exist.
"Hey, stranger," he says.
"Hi, lover," she responds. I shake my head to unscramble the words I’m
hearing so they might make sense.
"Sorry it took me so long," the
man says smugly. When your girlfriend
looks like his does, everything out of your mouth is smug.
"Better late than never."
"You ready to go?" he asks. Despite the completeness of my heterosexual
nature, I cannot help but notice how annoyingly handsome the guy is. I truly hate him.
"Almost. Just let me finish my drink."
"I will if you give me some sugar
first."
I can't believe my eyes. After all this mental masturbation, I find
myself standing idly by as some GQ cover photo come to life rams his tongue down my dream
girl's throat. Ain't life something?
"Hey Barry, what's up? Sorry I'm late."
"Like hell you are, James." I return to my seat and down my drink in one
swig. "This round is on you. I'll have a margarita with a shot of tequila
on the side. Make that two shots."
"Sounds like you've had a rough
day."
"The roughest."
In the end I'm sure I would have walked
right past her, gone to the bathroom or thrown some money into the
jukebox. It's nice to daydream from time
to time, but priority number one is the reality of my life, not saloon
inspired wet dreams. A beautiful wife, a great kid, a job with some
potential if I work my ass off, which I'll have to if I intend to ever pay off
my mortgage. What I have is the envy of many. Don't I know it.
After all, I am a happily married man.
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