Clothoff
2 hours ago
I was twenty-three, gym-built, the kind of face that gets you extra drinks and the kind of job that keeps you in other people’s houses late. I’d known Jake since we were fourteen. His mom, Diane, was forty-six, divorced two years, still wearing that tight-bodied look women get when they finally stop pretending they’re someone’s wife. Dark hair, that mouth, those hips that sat in her jeans like they were waiting for an argument. I didn’t “fall for her.” I noticed her. Then I started looking on purpose.
It started in the kitchen. She’d lean past me for a glass and her chest would brush my arm a second too long. She’d laugh at something dumb I said and hold the eye contact after Jake left the room. Once she hugged me goodbye and her hand stayed on my lower back like she was checking if I was solid. I started showing up to “help.” Fixed the leaking faucet. Carried boxes. Told her the new haircut made her look dangerous. She rolled her eyes and smiled like she’d already decided something.
The first real hint was a message at 1 a.m. She’d liked an old photo of me at the beach, then wrote: “You grew up mean.” I wrote back: “You noticed.” Three dots. Then: “Don’t start something you can’t finish in my house.” I didn’t answer. I showed up the next afternoon when Jake was at work.
We talked about nothing in the living room until the talking got thin. She sat closer. I put my hand on her thigh like I was testing the temperature of a stove. She didn’t move it. I kissed her and she kissed back like she’d been holding it in her teeth. Clothes came off without ceremony. Her body was soft in the places that matter and firm where she’d fought gravity. She looked at me while I went down on her and said, “You’re not supposed to be this good at that.” When I flipped her onto her stomach she reached back, grabbed my wrist, and said, “Not there yet. Wait.” Then, quieter: “Do it anyway.”
I used spit first, then the lube she pulled from the nightstand like she’d put it there that morning. I worked a finger in while I kept rubbing her clit so she wouldn’t lock up. She swore, then laughed, then swore again. When I pushed in she went still, breath punched out of her. “Fuck. Slow. No. Don’t you dare stop.” I went in inch by inch until my hips sat against her ass and she made a sound that wasn’t pretty. I stayed there until her shoulders dropped. Then I started moving.
She pushed back. Told me I was filling her up like a bastard. Told me not to come inside. Then begged me to. Her voice cracked. She came once with her face in the pillow and once with her hand slapping the mattress like she was trying to get someone’s attention. I came in her ass because she reached back, dug her nails in, and said, “Do it. I want to feel it leak.” The smell of her, the heat, the way her hole clenched when she finished: I remember that more than her face.
After, she sat on the edge of the bed with a cigarette she didn’t usually smoke and stared at the wall. I sat behind her. She said, “That was ugly.” Then: “Come back Thursday when he’s at his dad’s.” She kissed me once, hard, like she was sealing a box. I left through the side door. On the walk home I kept thinking about how wet the lube was on my dick and how I was going to look Jake in the eye on Saturday.
We met Tuesdays and Thursdays. She texted from the grocery store. I parked two streets over. Jake never asked why I suddenly knew where the extra towels were. Nobody else knew. We didn’t talk about him. That was the rule she made and I kept.
It lasted four months. She ended it the night she said she could still feel me when she sat down at dinner with her son. We stopped. I still see her at holidays. She pours me a drink and her fingers linger on the glass. I take it. I don’t go upstairs. I don’t regret it. I’d do it again in the same house, same bed, same lie.
Was it worth it? Yes. I still think about the way she said “leak.” That’s the part that doesn’t leave.
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