Homewrecker

I woke up Tuesday morning and looked under the bed. Yep, the frame is shot. All night, my body had gravitated to the middle of my now sagging bed.

Bad timing, as I had another orgy that night, featuring the regular biweekly gathering of boys and girls, replete with the usual suspects of bed breakers.

This was also only the beginning of my birthday gift to myself: a week of wall-to-wall sex.

Next up: auditioning my role as the other woman.

I had answered an ad posted by a gay man involved in a monogamous relationship, four years strong.

Have you heard this joke? There’s a magazine called Gay Monogamy. You can get it in month-by-month subscriptions.

It’s a stereotype, sure, but my fellow was pretty committed in a way that defies the stereotype. Four years, no affairs and a house in the suburbs at age thirty.

And now I was poised to become the homewrecker.

I agreed to meet him at lunch on Tuesday. We met at my place.

He was Latino, slight and handsome. As we talked, it was pretty clear that the physical attraction was there. He liked that I was blonde and masculine.

(I thought, you have to be pretty femme to think that I’m masculine. But maybe that is part of my charm—gay men assume I am straight, straight women assume I am gay. I disrupt everyone’s gaydar.)

In his quest, he had met with two men, both married. He had met each for coffee, and it didn’t work out. They had nowhere to fuck, the chemistry wasn’t there, whatever.

But he liked me.

So get naked, I suggested.

He climbed on me and kissed me.

Naked, I said.

He stripped. He had a nice gym body, very smooth. He undressed me. We went to my bed.

I sat back as he sucked me. His preferred mode was deep throat, and very wet. He drooled all over my pubes.

“Don’t cum,” he entreated. In the words of the poet Bugs Bunny: she don’t know me very well, do she?

“Just suck me,” I instructed. “I’ll take care of that.”

After a while, I pushed him back and went to work on his tits. He was nicely worked out, and very sensitive. He liked my hands on his skin. I tugged and bit his flesh—leaving no marks, of course.

He’s a married man. I am the other woman.

He wanted to ride my cock. He put a condom on me and climbed on top. His lithe body rode me as I held his thighs aloft. My tongue found his tits.

I flipped him and fucked. Don’t cum, he moaned. I want more, I want more . . .

He came in moments.

Wow, he said. I’m used to my boyfriend cumming so fast.

I’m not your boyfriend, I said. You want to suck me off, or watch me jerk off?

Please, he said, the latter.

I sat back and jerked. He was still covered in his own cum.

I was very hard. I jerked and gave myself over to his eyes. My body lurched and twitched. I jerked harder. My legs were shaking. I was going to cum.

I stopped.

I felt my heart race. I felt the waves of pleasure rush through me. I was breathless.

But no money shot.

He caressed my legs, my feet.

I brought myself to the edge again. And again,

“Three times,” he said. “You came but you didn’t cum?”

Yeah, I said, out of breath. Shooting is hot. But man, this is great: getting myself to that point and letting go—it’s like cumming so many times.

He was fascinated to watch.

Four times was enough. We talked. I told him he needed to leave, and he got dressed.

He sent me a sweet note.

I’m going to pass.

I broke his record. He’s cheated with me, so goal accomplished. I don’t think I want to be his other woman.