How to Have an Affair
I’m at my desk in the small office and Lynn is crouched under the desk sucking me off like a vacuum. The office is lit, so is the suite. Outside my locked door a few people pass by, with no idea what’s going on. It was Lynn’s idea, she didn’t think, just did it. She’d been sitting in the one chair I had, besides the one I sat in.
That one other chair was against a wall, just to the left of the office door. Some days she’d come in and sit, unzip her faded jeans, unbutton the top button and slouch slightly, letting the jeans slip so I could see her thick bush of red brown hair against her milky white belly, the bush so dark sprouting up against her pale flesh. I touched it. Again, the door locked, the lights on, sometimes passersby. I loved the moment her jeans slid and I saw the crest of her dark bush.
It all started in a night class I taught. There was a row of computers, Lynn at one. She’s writing a how to essay, how to have an affair.
We had night classes, and people were outside the building. I was out there talking with my girlfriend, who, like me, was taking a break from teaching a night class. Lynn came up by where we stood, outside the building, and made small talk. The only time we three were together. In weeks and months to follow she’d text: I don’t like your girl.
One Saturday afternoon I stepped back into the building, after a smoke break from grading essays, and saw Lynn at the other end of the long wide hall. She walked to where I was. I was startled that she was able to get in, because I thought the other doors to the building were locked. It was just her walking with a confident stride. I don’t recall what she wore. The two of us stood in my office. She asked about an assignment, maybe showed me some of an essay she was writing. She wasn’t there long, but I sensed something. I soon learned I was at the heart of her “how to have an affair.” She was married to a man with whom she shared two young children.
One Saturday afternoon we sat on a stone bench outside the public library, not on campus but in town. Gina, who taught in Cosmetology where I taught, walked by and we casually said hello. She didn’t know Lynn was my student. As Gina walked towards her SUV, Lynn said we should get a motel room, not right then but sometime soon. She’d pay for it. I thought it was too risky. I never got the chance to see her naked.
She stood about 5’7. She was slim but fairly large-boned. Her arms were not thin, not fleshy either, but fleshed out. Her hair, a shade lighter than her pubic hair, came to her shoulders and the ends were split. Giving her hair a chopped look. Her brown eyes, set in a face kind of wrinkly and pinched, seemed to squint, seemed slanted. She wore wire-rimmed reading glasses. She didn’t especially like to kiss. She liked to choke and be choked, in my office she talked about it, and put her hands on my throat. We never did that. She had small breasts, and though I got a glance, I never saw completely, only when she’d lift her t shirt. She often wore jeans with big slits in the knees and black t shirt. Sometimes no panties or bra.
One day I saw her in a very tight very short dress. In all my time of seeing students in classrooms and hallways, I can’t recall a dress tighter or shorter than the one Lynn wore that one day.
How to have an affair. From Lynn I learned arousal, foreplay, role-play. All so natural to her. I felt like a stud in her presence, most always. We messed around in the school library, in the public library, in the library of another school up the road from ours. One day in a small auditorium she sat up front with her husband and two children. When her name was called she stepped to the stage and I gave her an academic award. She went on to business school, then into accounting in Pennsylvania, where she and her family were from and moved back to.
In the three years we saw each other we messed around in my red pickup, in a graveyard and in bleachers on a track field. Also in classrooms empty of all but us. It was always good. She loved oral sex, and she liked risks. From her I learned sex starts the moment arousal starts, that arousal to be (for lack of a better word) healthy takes two. Audio arousal, visual, arousal of the long and the fingertip on the inner thigh. Sex starts with arousal, and can happen anywhere two lovers are in sync. Sex is play beside intercourse. Stimulation, satisfaction, more than just intercourse. My office was our bedroom, so was the library and the graveyard. And places for role-play such as Walmart and Target can be bedrooms. One night we messed around in a parking lot outside a bar.
Let’s go to a motel. I’ll pay for it, she said on that stone bench outside the public library. Lynn’s legs were long and slender. Not too long, or too shapely. She had that thick bush that started light and got dark toward the center. In my office, my index finger slid slowly into her cunt, with the door locked, and a few passersby, with no idea.