Whispered Remnant

The scent of my last lover still lingers. Chanel No.5. Every married woman’s favorite. Someone once told me they sell a bottle every thirty seconds. I don’t doubt it. A smell so commonplace that my next partner probably won’t notice. Not that it would matter. I’m supposed to be married after all. A married guy looking for some fun.

People love to label nowadays. Sex addict would be mine.

I’m not.

I enjoy sex. Probably more than most people my age. Still, I’m not desperate. I would never pay for it. Those guys, the customers, they don’t know how easy it is. I’ve been with hundreds of women, barely remembering any of them, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

She is sitting alone at the bar with a glass of red wine in front of her. I’ve seen worse. In fact, she’s pretty average. Wearing what looks like her work outfit. White blouse, black skirt, and black leather pumps. It wouldn’t hurt her to lose a few pounds. But then again, you could say the same about me. You can’t be too good-looking playing this game. It might sound like an excuse, and maybe it is. What I have works; that’s what matters. A woman sitting alone at the bar, and especially in a hotel, immediately becomes the centrepiece. I observe three other guys staring, scheming, trying to drink up some courage. They lost the second I walked in. The bartender hands me a gin and tonic. Picking it up, I make sure to tap the glass with my wedding ring. From my position, at the bar slightly to the right of her, she’s sure to hear it. I remove the ring. No visible imprint, so I take out the rope I always carry and squeeze it around my finger. The thing is, when we’re both married, it’s as if we’re in it together. We’re both sinning. But wearing the ring has proven to be an obstacle. Showing up as a guy who obviously just removed his wedding ring is an invitation to play the game. I bring my drink and move over.

“Hi,” I say and raise my glass, making sure to show off my ring finger.

“Hi.” She smiles and raises her almost empty wineglass. Perfect, but no coincidence. People obsess over the perfect pick-up line, but like most things in life, timing is way more important. Timing, and a welcoming smile. I wave to the bartender. “Another one for the lady.” This is the make or break. If she refuses, you’re out. Move on to the next one.

“Thanks,” she says.

“John,” I say and offer my hand.

“Marie,” she takes it. I squeeze gently, she squeezes back. I have a feeling this will be easy.

In addition to being labeled a sex addict, some would also label me a home-wrecker.

I’m not.

I’m giving neglected women the night they so desperately need to keep their sanity afloat. The strength to keep on living their boxed in lives in dead marriages. If anything I’m saving relationships. And when we’re done, I’m out of their lives forever. No boombox or cue cards outside their house.

The pre-sex talk is usually just a chore, mostly revolving work, minor inconveniences, and vacations made fifteen years ago. This one is different. She’s interesting, she’s got confidence. And even though I know I should, there is no way I will be able to make myself walk away.

It doesn’t take long until we’re on our way to the elevator. She insists on going to my room instead of her’s, so I make sure to tell her that I have an early meeting tomorrow. We enter my room and make it to the bed. As a standard move, I make it awkward at first to ease her in. After all, I’m John, the married guy who didn’t think this would happen. I let her take charge for a bit, and when she’s comfortable enough I take charge. Soon, she will get to a point where she stops thinking, and I will let her have it. You see, I know what women want. Just like every other guy, right? But in my case, it’s actually true. My proficiency in the bedroom is the product of hard work and hundreds of hours honing my skills. Their shocked reactions, their sexual re-awakening. That’s what I’m after, that’s what drives me.

This one is different; she doesn’t allow it to turn awkward. Nor does she allow me to take over when the time comes. It should bother me, but it doesn’t. Every step follows naturally, as if it was pre-planned. A blueprint for maximum pleasure, perfectly executed by two people who just met.

I’m on my back, staring at the ceiling. A stupid grin on my face that I can’t shake. Marie gets up and scans the room looking for her clothes.

“You’re not really married, are you? I ask. Marie shows me her wedding ring; white gold, square diamond. The classic.

“Yeah, I’ve got one of those too,” I say. Marie buttons up her blouse without looking my way. It’s nothing new, women use me for sex just as much as I use them. Very few get upset when I walk out the door showing no intention of further contact.

Marie sits down on the bed and slips on her black pumps. Marie, who is now fully clothed, and yet I can still picture every detail of her naked body, including the tiny mole under her right breast. Marie, whose warm breath still lingers on my neck; whose playful laugh still echoes in my ears. Marie, who swings her hips in an exaggerated fashion as she leaves my room without saying a word.

Marie, who will stay in my mind forever.

I should have stayed away.

Afterword

OK, fine. I like to write about psychos. My life is boring, so it’s a way of exploring interesting worlds. Or maybe I too am just a psycho.

I came up with this idea of someone imprinting themselves to look like they usually wear a wedding ring. And I thought, a guy like that who sleeps with hundreds of women and doesn’t believe in love, what would be his biggest fear? Being proven wrong. Falling in love, or at least having a fond memory of someone. Knowing that there is a person out there that he would like to spend more time with than just that one night.