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I wanted easy sex and a story to tell. I got one of those.
By Andrew Bryan Smith — Written on Jun 22, 2017
You don't know whether you've got game until you have sex with a stranger — a woman you've never seen, who's never seen you, about whom you know nothing about.
Denise, the girl I was dating, had just broken it off with me after what I thought were a few promising dates. Suddenly, my phone rang. Thinking it was Denise, I answered.
"I was just thinking about you," I told her. "And I can't say my thoughts are entirely approved by the FDA."
She laughed a little.
"Wait," she said. "Is this Patrick?"
"No, it's Andy," I said. "Oh. You're not Denise, are you?"
"I'm Susan!" she said. "I must have dialed the wrong number. Well, that's embarrassing. I almost started talking dirty to you."
"I should've kept my mouth shut, then."
She laughed and we talked a little more, mostly about how easy it was to talk to me. I said we should meet over drinks later that week. After I hung up, I realized that I wasn't doing anything at the moment. She wasn't doing anything at the moment. I called her back and suggested drinks that same night.
"I can't tonight," she said. "But you can come over."
As I was getting dressed, I called my friend Lee and told him her name, number, and address, in case she murdered me and stacked me in the freezer with the veal cutlets.
On my way over, I thought: Don't be an assh*le. You know you're going over there to have sex. She knows it and you know it. But if you walk in all grab-assy, tongue down her throat, you might freak her out. She might change her mind, and it would be, above all things, uncool. Even a sure thing doesn't like to be treated like a sure thing.
When I got to Susan's house, she was sitting in the dark with a couple of candles. We talked. We established — loosely, I admit — that neither of us was a knife-wielding maniac, although I did carry an old-fashioned Boy Scout number I used for opening boxes and such.
What you want to know, of course, is what did she look like? Well, she was beautiful.
Any woman willing to have sex with me, let alone have sex with a stranger, possesses a generosity of spirit that transcends all other material considerations. She was Catherine the Great, the Queen of Sheba, and Jo from Facts of Life rolled into one.
Not enough? Okay, perv, here's one detail from this sex story: Her lips were pink and luscious, rolling curves of warm and kissable wetness, rosy ripcurls that pulled me under and dragged me out to sea. Oh, and she was separated with a child. A baby, in fact.
As we talked, she confessed she wasn't even separated yet. She was still married and he was out that night — not at a honky-tonk with thoughts of strayin' on his mind; he was working to put food on the table.
I'm not breaking any vows, I told myself. That's her deal, not mine. We're consenting adults. I'm not violating any contract. That's what I told myself.
The first time that night, the sex was slow, playful. We savored the newness of another person's body. The second time was rougher. I sensed she wanted me to take control. I made some moves in that direction and she responded with pleasure and willingness. I was more dominant, dirtier.
Was that what was missing in her life? Her husband's continued recognition of a new mom as a sexual being? Was that any of my business? Could I manage a third time? (Yes to that last one, for a little while. Pride and vanity are natural aphrodisiacs.)
I saw her a few more times after that. Once, we went to a cheap motel, like in the movies — probably because we saw it in the movies. I felt guilty because I'm supposed to feel guilty.
Why was she doing this? A wrong number cheats for the same reason anybody cheats: she wants to. She was looking for a narrative based on her own imprints to justify her, vilify me, maybe vice-versa, maybe either for both of us.
She was bored; she was a ho; she was desperate; she found a flowering expression of her truest feminine self. I'm a heel; I'm a player; I'm a placeholder; I want to help her; I want some skin and sweat until it goes sour, and then I'm gone like the receipt for a box of condoms; I want to save her; I want our f*cking to eclipse her loneliness.
It's all of that; it's none of that. My sharing with you what she shared with me in that short time wouldn't even be the tip of the iceberg. It'd be a chip off the tip of the iceberg. Snow melt, gray drizzle. And it wouldn't be true, anyway. It'd be the parts of it that you choose to believe.
I wanted easy sex and one of the hottest sex stories to tell. I got one of those.
Eventually, I grew tired of our late-night booty calls and not being able to plan ahead. Contemplating the dread I might be sitting alone one evening, I ended up jerking off. Then my phone rang with the all-clear of "Come over," and I didn't have enough "gas in the tank" to cross the bedroom finish line.
I was constantly on alert, always on the move, showering, getting dressed, driving there and back, having to wake up the next morning and function like someone who's definitely, definitely not an assh*le.
One night she called and told me her husband was going duck-hunting at 6 AM on Saturday, and she wanted me to come over. I did the math. I'd have to set my alarm for four in the morning. I was hoping to sleep in. And that early? Was sex with a stranger something I really wanted the Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy blowing reveille for?
"Whoa, duck hunting?" I said.
"Yeah, he goes every once in a while."
"So, he's leaving the house and then walking back into the house... with, if bad luck would have it, me still in the house with, literally, a loaded gun in his hands?"
And that was that. Check, please, and hand the valet my ticket. I was done.
I had a wonderful time with her, I told her, and she's a wonderful person. Her husband didn't sound like a bad guy. She should tell him what she wants to give it a chance.
And as lousy as early motherhood feels sometimes, like everything else it gets better with a little time and a little more patience. I was convincing; I believed every word.
