Chapter One
Chloe
I understand how adultery happens. I know, your first thought is: Of course you understand — you’re a cheater. That’s not an absolute. All I’m saying is I understand how it happens. Again, I can hear your voice: That’s always what a cheater says, right?
You might be correct. But that’s not the whole story. We’re often too quick to judge, too quick to think we can step into another’s shoes and make better decisions than they could ever even possibly make. The outside appearance doesn’t show others what’s on the inside. If our neighbors truly saw the rawness of those around them, I’m not sure we could live in a civilized society anymore. We’re dark, ugly messes, and it takes all we have to cover this up, to suppress the urges within us that are screaming to escape.
I want to be a good person... but it takes all I have to achieve this... and I often fail. My dreams have evaporated in the past ten years. I want to blame my boyfriend, but that’s not fair. It takes more than one person to fail in a relationship.
Paul and I moved to Portland, Oregon so he could pursue his dreams. At one point, I honestly believed his dreams were also mine. I saw such potential in his work. I knew he’d make it big. And then we could live our dreams together. We could have a perfect home with two perfect children. I’d be the PTA president and he’d provide for us. We’d attend corporate events and I’d wear little black dresses and sexy heels. I’d eventually be the proud wife on his arm.
Then the two of us would run home, making mad, passionate love for hours on end. The world would want him, but I’d be the only one who got him, the only one he needed. I’d be his everything and he’d be mine. But it’s funny how dreams rarely live up to reality. I can lie in bed all I want and fantasize about the life I expected to have. It doesn’t matter, though, because it’s incredibly rare when fantasies become reality. Living in the city is expensive, and it certainly isn’t easy.
We live a simple life. And this means my dreams of getting married and having children have been put on hold. I tried college and realized I’d lost my love of learning. I quit and got a job, then another, and then another. I’m starting a new job tomorrow. This is probably my tenth since moving to Portland, but it’s for a large corporation with an amazing salary and incredible benefits. What’s even better is, they messaged me . I guess LinkedIn really does work. The dreamer in me has slowly died over the years. It’s time to grow up. It’s time for me to have a career of my own. It’s time for me to find a new dream.
After nine years with my boyfriend, he barely touches me anymore. We’ve had the obligatory monthly sex, but even that has begun to fizzle. I’m twenty-seven; he’s thirty-two. We should be doing it like bunnies, night and day, or at least a couple of times a week, to be realistic. But this hasn’t happened in at least three years.
It didn’t truly hit me until I was away for a couple of weeks. I came home, and we both fell asleep, me snuggling up against his back like we always sleep. But that’s all we do. We just... sleep. No big deal, you say? Wrong. It’s a very big deal.
That night I realized we had a real problem. Still, I pushed it from my mind. We’re okay, I thought. I had a long trip. He was busy at home. It was all going to be okay. But the next night we didn’t have sex, or the night after that. Neither of us even tried.
Finally, a few days later, he came into the bedroom and began rubbing my back while I lay naked on top of the covers. Mmm, here it is. See. We’re fine. It’s all going to be perfect. As he rubbed my back, I felt that old familiar ache begin in my stomach, just a stirring, not the fireworks that used to erupt when we were first together, but that was okay. It was slow and steady, and I could still have a great orgasm. I could still be close to the man I loved.
His hands traveled down my back, getting lower with each pass. He rubbed the curve of my butt, and I felt moisture in my core. My insides swelled, and better yet, tingles heated me. He stretched over me, and I felt his arousal pressing against the crack of my ass. This was good. It felt good — not great — but good.
Ah, finally he pushed inside of me while his hands gripped my hips. Paul doesn’t normally last very long, so since we hadn’t had sex in a long while, I figured a few strokes and he was going to explode. That was okay because he’s a master at oral sex. He never leaves me hanging... when we finally do have sex.
Unlike a lot of men, he’s always made sure I’m satisfied even after he’s done. I wanted him penetrating me. I wanted to feel his hardness stroking the walls of my core, hitting deep inside me. We’re a perfect fit — or so I always believed.
When a minute went by and he was still moving at a steady pace, I was impressed, yet a little confused. It had been a solid month since we’d last had sex, and he should’ve been exploding with the first stroke. I stopped thinking about that — why bitch about a good thing?
When five minutes went by and he was still going strong, I began to worry. Even in the best of times after we’ve had sex for a few days in a row, he doesn’t last a full five minutes. I’ve been with the man for nine years. I know the kind of lover he is.
He pushed me flat against the bed and gripped my hips, pushing me together, making the area tighter. I’ve always hated when he does this as it makes me feel like he can’t get off anymore without help. Several more minutes went by, and he finally shook on top of me, let out a groan of pleasure, and collapsed against my back.
I was so worried about why it was taking him so long that I lost all of those tingly sensations, and I was no longer in the mood to come. He offered, but I told him I wasn’t feeling well. He was kind and understanding, and he lay down so I could snuggle up against him and go to sleep.
I was restless all night and woke up several times. Around two in the morning, I awoke and he wasn’t in bed. I got up to use the bathroom and found him masturbating in the shower, his head hung down, his fist pumping fast and hard while he groaned.
Now there was no way for me to deny there was a real problem. I used the bathroom, and that’s when I figured out he hadn’t even come with me. He’d faked it. We all hear of women faking, but my boyfriend was a master faker. The fact that there was no evidence of his orgasm in me proved he hadn’t come. Even if most had flowed back out, there was always some left. I knew he didn’t come. I knew we were in trouble.
So again, I say to you, I understand why people cheat. Do you still think I’m a horrible person for saying this? That’s okay, there are many people in the real world who are far more like me than like you. We’re all very good at hiding our dark secrets behind closed doors. We’re all very good at only showing the best side of ourselves and the best part of our lives. We’re all very good at lying.
I’m well aware of how far a person can fall. But by falling, we may accidentally discover we are now able to soar. I’m ready to fly. I just have to let go of my old life in order to do that. I haven’t cheated... I’m only saying I understand why it happens.
Are we stuck? Are we happy? Are we — are we who we’re meant to be? I guess that’s what we have to find out. That’s the point of this story.