God his hands are sexy. They are long and slender,
creating art with every movement. They are perfect, save for one blemish on
his left ring finger, a single golden band wrapped around his finger like a
tiny handcuff. I skip over that part as I stare at his fingers and move on to
his lips, made of pure poetry, until finally our eyes meet. We are in public
and act distantly civil to each other, but our sordid history palpitates
beneath the surface of our gaze and seeps out of the crevices of our conversation
until the air is bursting with nameless desire.
It is the first day of class. I notice him walk in the door;
he is tall with dark hair and sensual lips. He sits at the seat across from
mine and I breathe in his clean scent. I begin my evaluation at his feet and
move up his mile-long legs until I notice his hands lying casually on top of
his desk. I start at his right pinky finger and move left. Each artistic finger
sends thrills to my toes as I imagine the way they would feel on me, moving up
my thigh, further and further, in and around. I get to his left middle finger
and hold my breath. Finally I force myself to look, and there I see his
imprisonment emblazoned in gold around his finger. My heart sinks and I look
up. He is gazing at me with his large, dark eyes and he forms a smile
punctuated with deep dimples. I hesitate for a second before I smile back. I
didn’t know it, but my life was about to change forever.
That day was only a year ago, but it seems like a whole lifetime
ago since we met. I can’t remember life before him, or imagine life after him. All
that seems real now is life with him, about him, and of him. I think about his
wife. I at once pity her and envy her. My stomach turns and I think of throwing
up. What we are doing is wrong, I know that, but I can’t stop; I have lost
control and can’t be trusted.
Now that we are alone in the hotel room, he smiles and runs
his fingers down my cheek. I forget everything but how badly I want him. Like
Dedalus, I want so badly to sin, to force him to sin with me, and to exult with
him in our sin. His long fingers slide down my stomach and effortlessly
unbutton my jeans. He takes me there in the dark hotel room and our limbs
entwine. The awful pleasure permeates my entire being and, as we spin senseless
into ecstasy, I touch God. The silent walls seem to pass judgment as we revel
in our joyous profanity. Out of the
squalid ashes of my conscience rises the phantasmal image of his wife. I wonder
at how she still couldn’t know, and marvel at how he could keep this from her.
Suddenly I turn to him and say quietly, “I can’t do this
anymore. You have to tell her.”
He rolls over and looks at me for what seems like eternity.
Finally he says, “I will, eventually, I just…can’t right now.”
“Then this has to end.”
“Please. Don’t. Just
give me time. I promise.”
I know I can’t look at him or I will give in, like so many
times before. I get dressed, fighting back tears and bile. Without another word
or breath, I walk out of the hotel room and forever away from my addiction.