His tongue felt like a heavy, wet slug in my mouth.
I used to love his kiss: his hard, insistent, passionate kiss. But in the darkness of his master bedroom, so very late that night, I was disinterested in fucking. I kept turning my head away so he couldn’t put that fat tongue into my mouth anymore. I wondered, Is he even noticing that I’m not turned on? He knew me so well after 26 yrs of being his lover that most times my “No” usually meant “Eh, Maybe;” he’d persist and we’d end up spent, satisfied. He could arouse me quickly any number of ways.
This particular night, though, I was both bored and bone dry. He rolled off me once he realized this night’s “No” really meant “No,” and strangely he didn’t try to change my mind nor mood. He retreated to his side of the bed, and me to mine. It was very unlike B. to give up so easily. I suspected something was up — another woman perhaps? HIM? Nah! — but I didn’t learn what it was until some time later.
It would be our last night together. The fun and fantasy of the affair was gone for me and all that remained was the drudgery of his life: the seemingly endless talk about his separation and divorce, the obligations to his kids that put our trysts on hold, the preparations necessary to permanently move from his rental home to the family’s heretofore weekend getaway house in Michigan. I was exhausted by propping him up emotionally, tired of all the drama. I simply needed a break, a little time to re-charge my batteries and to think if I wanted to continue at all. We’d endured stops and starts over the 2+ decades we’d been together. Maybe this would be another hiatus?
We talked. We agreed. B. said he felt like I had been “pulling back [from him] a bit.” He was so right: I’d probably left him emotionally and sexually months earlier.
The next day, when it came time to part company, I climbed into my car with some sense of relief, looking forward to the long drive home alone. B. motioned for me to roll down my window, then slid his arm around my shoulder and pressed my face to his. He said — and these words still ring in my head — “You are such a great girl and you will always be special to me.” With one of his loving kisses still wet on my lips, I steered my car down his long gravel driveway and set off for home. When I learned weeks later he’d already left me for another woman when he obligingly rolled off me that night, I realized that last kiss was, in fact, his kiss-off.
And just as R&B singer Betty Everett warned in her 1964 pop hit (and, later, Cher, in 1990), the Truth was right there: it was in his kiss.
A former mistress (26 years, on-and-off) describes the good, the bad, and the ugly of her long-term affair. Conclusion: Affairs aren't necessarily destructive if kept in the correct perspective. Our experience enhanced BOTH our marriages.
That is, until his marriage ended and we began to love each other. When the affair morphed into a relationship, well, that's when it stopped being fun for me. We have now irrevocably split.
Lately I've been writing about the man who took his place in the "off" years of that 26-year-long affair. He was a dynamic sexual partner but we, too, now have irrevocably split.
These are our stories.