Secret Lives of Cheating Wives

by Curtis Bunn

  Whatever the case, after literally wiping her eyes, it was clear: it was Lorenzo, and he was walking right toward Rhonda.

  She was so stunned, she couldn’t even tell Olivia. She sat on that stool, like an overwhelmed schoolgirl, transfixed. She heard Olivia say something, but it was mere sound, not words. Lorenzo glanced at Rhonda as he got closer and then his eyes shifted to the left, where a server carried above her head a bottle of champagne with sparkles shooting out of it, as if it were the Fourth of July.

  Rhonda wanted to turn to Olivia, but couldn’t. Her heart pounded like Ricky Ricardo on the congas. In fact, that’s all she could hear. All the chatter from hundreds of people in the place and the thumping music went silent, as if someone pushed a mute button on her ears from the outside noise. All she could hear was her heartbeat.

  Finally, Lorenzo walked up to Rhonda, who stared into his eyes. His hand came forward and as she began to lift hers, she noticed he was not looking at her anymore. In fact, he reached across Rhonda and . . . tapped Olivia on the shoulder.

  “And what’s happening with you?” he said to her as she turned around.

  “Oh, my God, Lorenzo,” Olivia said, extending her arms and nearly knocking Rhonda over to receive his embrace.

  Suddenly, Rhonda’s hearing came back. She could hear all the noise again, but only really wanted to hear Olivia and Lorenzo.

  “Rhonda, this is my friend, Lorenzo—the gentleman I told you about.”

  “Huh? Who? When?”

  “From the bowling party at the Painted Pen. About three months ago.”

  “Oh. I remember that.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

  Olivia then took over, flirting with Lorenzo like Rhonda had never seen her. She crossed her legs, revealing more thigh. She touched him on his arm every time she laughed. Lorenzo, meanwhile, was more than Rhonda realized. He was taller than she thought and nicely filled out his clothes.

  But he clearly was attracted to Olivia—he never said another word to Rhonda after the introduction. She was disappointed that he did not recognize her from his walks.

  Again, she became angry with herself for her momentary lapse. This time, she was mad because she was jealous that this man she did not know was interested in her girlfriend. She thought: I am married. Get a grip.

  It wasn’t easy, but she gathered herself, recalibrated her thinking and turned her back to Olivia and Lorenzo. Rhonda ordered another cocktail and took her time sipping on it while she people-watched and enjoyed the music.

  Finally, Lorenz left.

  “Girl, I like him,” Olivia said. “We’ve had a few dates. But we made a date for tomorrow and next Friday. What did you think of him?”

  “He’s taller than I thought,” Rhonda said.

  “What do you mean? Why would you think about how tall he is?”

  Uh-oh. She had said too much. So she went into straight clean-up mode.

  “I should have said that he’s a taller man than I have seen you with.”

  “I don’t care about his height—unless he was some Andre the Giant type. It’s kinda nice to have a man you have to crane your neck up to look into his eyes.”

  “So, where do you think it’s going?” Rhonda asked. She remained curious.

  “It’ll go wherever I want it to go.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I will see how much I like him before I decide. But so far I like him.”

  Rhonda was conflicted. She was mad at herself for having an interest in Lorenzo and mad at Olivia for having one, too. Letting on she felt that way was not an option.

  “You’re divorced, single. . . you can do whatever you like. Women control men anyway,” Rhonda said.

  “And you know this,” Olivia said, slapping high-five with Rhonda.

  The rest of the night was a blur for Rhonda, though. She ordered another drink—her fourth—and tugged on the hookah so hard she almost choked. “Slow down, girl. I don’t want to have to drag you outta here.”

  “That wouldn’t be dignified. I’m already in here with this ugly-ass cast on. To be drunk too would be too extra.”

  They laughed and watched people for a while before leaving. “You don’t want to say bye to—what’s his name, Lorenzo?”

  “I’ll talk to him later.”

  Rhonda passed out on the way home. When she woke up, they were in her driveway.

  “Girl, those drinks hit me hard. Damn.”

  “Get your drunk ass in the house. Wake up your husband and give him some.”

  “Some what? Food? Girl, bye.”

  She made her way into the house and grew more disgusted by the step. There was a plate with remnants of food on it on the kitchen counter. The television was on in the family room, but Eric was in bed. And lights were on in the hallway, guest bedroom and second bathroom.

  Worse, when she got into the bedroom, Eric was on his back snoring, with the covers to the side, revealing his ample stomach that protruded under his tank top. A bag of potato chips was strewn on the floor.

  Rhonda shook her head and for the first time wondered what her future was with her husband. It was not a good place to be.

  E-LOVE

  CHAPTER THREE

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  STEPHANIE

  But is it really cheating if we haven’t done anything?” Stephanie wanted to know. Her sister, Toya, challenged her.

  “What do you think? What would you think if you saw text messages and e-mails back and forth between Willie and some woman? Sometimes it can be worse because you’re expressing feelings to each other. When men cheat, most time they can’t control themselves and it’s no emotion involved. No excuses for that dumb shit. But you and this guy are sharing feelings.”

  “But I would prefer Willie communicating with someone over having sex with her,” Stephanie reasoned.

  “You’re pissing me off,” Toya snapped. “You’ll say anything to make yourself feel good about this. I wish Mom were alive. I’d tell her and she’d smack the hell out of you. Then again, she shouldn’t see you like this. The only reason I’m not slapping you is because Mom told me not to hit you like when we were kids. But I have to be honest, Steph: I love you, but I’m really disappointed in you. And I want to smack the lipstick off you.”

  Stephanie looked away from her older sister by two years and pondered what she had been doing. She understood Toya, but she held on to the notion that “cheating” meant intercourse. Electronic flirting was harmless, she reasoned. She was too intrigued by Charles Richardson to see otherwise.

  “I’m disappointed you’re not supporting me on something that is important to me,” Stephanie said. “I haven’t told anyone about this. I told you because I thought you’d understand. But you haven’t had a man other than Terry in a while, so—”

  “So what? So I should be a married slut fantasizing about some guy who is only setting you up for sex? Girl, you’d better get a grip.”

  “See a slut, slap a slut,” Stephanie dared her sister.

  Toya resisted the urge to crash her open hand across Stephanie’s face. Instead, she got up and walked out of the coffee shop at Jack London Square in Oakland. She did not look back as she headed to Broadway, where she had found a parking space on the street.

  Stephanie finished her tea and walked over to the pier and looked out at the San Francisco Bay.

  Before she could think too much, her phone chimed. It was a text message from Charles, who lived in Los Angeles. They had met at an education conference in Sacramento a few weeks earlier. Stephanie was the only woman at the table during a luncheon. Charles sat next to her and they conversed and exchanged business cards.

  Two days after they returned, Charles e-mailed her:

  Hope you remember me. I’m the one who saved you from being bored at the luncheon a few days ago in Sac. Really enjoyed the conversation. Meeting you was one of the highlights of the conference. Let’s
keep in touch, if that’s OK with you.

  Stephanie did not think much of the e-mail at first. But she had eyes; Charles was not overly handsome, but his presence was strong. He was confident and well dressed, and she could smell his cologne over the roasted chicken that was served for lunch.

  She responded to his e-mail:

  Of course, I remember you. It was very nice to meet you, Charles. I’d love to keep in touch. I definitely want more information about the mentoring program you started at your school. It could be a guide for what I want to do here.

  That was the beginning. It was innocent . . . on the surface. But the reality was Charles slipped in his interest when he wrote that meeting her was a “highlight” of the conference for him. And Stephanie was subtle, but let it be known that he had made an impression by writing “Of course, I remember you” and “I’d love to keep in touch.” She threw in the mentoring program as a way of keeping it professional. But the fire had been lit. It was only a matter of when it would become an inferno.

  From that day, they exchanged emails daily. By the end of the week, Charles messaged her:

  I think there is a conference coming up down here on professional development that could be beneficial to you. If you come, I’ll be sure you get to see L.A. like you’ve never seen it.

  Stephanie then e-mailed Charles her personal e-mail address. She could sense their messages could become inappropriate for the workplace.

  She liked e-mail over texting because she could say more in less time at the computer than on the cell phone. Charles liked texting because it was immediate. They used both methods as their business meeting rapidly turned into a personal relationship—they hardly ever “chatted” about work.

  After twenty-one successive days of texting or e-mailing, Charles decided to make a stronger play.

  You never talk about your husband. He doesn’t seem to be around a lot, based on how much we communicate. I don’t see how he could let that happen.

  Stephanie played coy.

  What do you mean?

  I mean if you were mine, I’d make sure your attention would be on me.

  “Oh,” Stephanie said aloud, to herself. “I see. I knew it was coming.”

  Well, he’s a busy man, so I get to have some free time or some time to myself. Usually, I’m doing work. But since I met you, I seem to have time to communicate with you. I guess I’m inspired.

  #EquallyInspired, Charles wrote back.

  Stephanie smiled.

  What’s your story? Where’s your wife?

  Did I say I had a wife?

  You had on a wedding ring? #DeadGiveaway

  LOL. OK, you got me. That’s good that you are observant. Yes, I’ve been married eighteen years. My wife is actually away a lot. She’s a flight attendant. Could’ve been anything she wanted, but that’s what she chose.

  Somebody has to do it. You all have flight privileges. You should be seeing the world together.

  Stephanie waited with anticipation for a response. It took a few minutes before Charles wrote back.

  She travels so much for work, she doesn’t want to go much when she’s not. Do you like to travel?

  She did not completely buy the answer, but she accepted it.

  Of course. I travel a lot, but that’s still not enough.

  What’s your favorite place you’ve traveled?

  In the States, I’d say New York. I’m from Minneapolis, but I have always loved big cities. The bigger the city, the better. New York has all that energy. I just get consumed in it.

  Charles responded:

  And it can be a romantic city, too. Even with the taxis and hustle and bustle, there is romance there with the lights and rooftop bars and seductive restaurants. It’s a city, if you’re with the right person, that can seduce you.

  Charles was seducing Stephanie. She caught herself that day.

  Agreed, she wrote back. Unfortunately, I have to go. I have my kid visiting from L.A. and a dog. I have to feed them. But you’ll hear from me soon.

  The idea of experiencing New York with Charles entered her imagination and excited her. She had enjoyed their back-and-forth, but when she physically could feel her interest rising, she tried to back away.

  For a minute.

  By the time he texted her when she stood at the pier, they were deep into their electronic courtship. In one sense, it was a tease; they had made no plans to actually see each other. They had not even spoken on the phone. Not once. In another sense, it was a setup: their interest in connecting heightened by the day. The first text after her sister walked out on her at the coffee shop was revealing.

  I’m visualizing you right now on the beach with your dress blowing in the wind, revealing your shapely legs, all the way up to your waist. And I didn’t see any panties.

  How do you know I don’t wear panties? I didn’t tell you that.

  My instincts tell me you’re a sexual person who likes to feel sexy.

  If you didn’t see any panties, what did you see?

  I saw the light. LOL

  LMAO. You’re funny. When I’m out like I am today, by the water relaxing, I like to feel the wind rise between my legs.

  A smile creased Charles’ face. He had been wondering when they would kick up their messages to sex talk. This was it.

  You know what makes you sexy? The way you think. Not to say you don’t look good. But, honestly, a lot of women look good. But only a few women have a sexy mind.

  Well, thank you. But I don’t try to be sexy. I’m just me.

  And that’s the best thing about it. You’re not trying. I’ve seen and know women who go out of their way with what they wear and their body language who are seeking attention and want people to consider them sexy. It’s just in you. That’s pretty cool.

  Stephanie: I don’t believe everything you tell me. I’m not calling you a liar. I promise I’m not. But I’m not naïve. I’m not so flattered that I don’t understand men—well, as much as a woman can understand a man.

  The smile on Charles’ face disappeared.

  Where is this coming from?

  I’m not trying to kill the mood. I’m just letting you know I have my eye on you, mister. You write all these nice things about me, but you’re married. I’m married. My point is: Why have you been communicating with me all this time? What do you want from me? When you start telling me I’m sexy, that question comes to mind first instead of being flattered.

  Well, that’s good. I’m not trying to fool you or even seduce you (yet). I thought we were communicating because we like each other and enjoy hearing from each other. For me, it’s good to have a woman I can open up to, get to know. That’s it. No pressure. And no need for me to lie or mislead you on anything. But if you’d like me to stop the flirtations, I certainly respect that.

  As much as she wanted to tell Charles she wanted the flirtations to stop, she could not pull herself to do so. She enjoyed the attention. She looked forward to it. And, scarily, she had come to need it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PUSHING THE ENVELOPE

  JUANITA

  After her evening with Brandon, Juanita found it increasingly more difficult to sleep at night. Guilt dominated. She loved her husband, Maurice. She loved her family. It meant everything to her. And yet, she looked forward to her next encounter with her lover.

  Her actions and thoughts were contradictions to the woman and wife she had been. At the same time, doing something unexpected and out of character gave her a charge that she could not get in the life she lived and the image she created. She was the epitome of Miss Goody Two-Shoes, a position she coveted but one that limited her.

  Juanita loved and hated that image. It was an accurate depiction, but it was not all her. It was the part of her that she wanted everyone to know. But it also prevented her from unleashing that wild side of her, which included a free sexual identity that made her feel complete. Maurice, who was conservative and ineffectual in bed, would be taken aback if exposed to Juanita’
s desire for aggressive sex, perhaps public sex, rap and go-go music, bourbon and cigars.

  She knew this because he’d told her. “My brother told me about that woman right there,” he said when he and Juanita began dating. They were at his brother’s birthday party near Rock Creek Park. “After all he told me about her, I have no respect for her. She’s a wild girl. A freak.”

  “What do you mean?” Juanita needed clarification.

  “My brother told me she’s like a sex fiend. And he said once she started drinking and smoking, she’d do anything, even engage in sex in the car or in a restroom at a restaurant.”

  “And that makes her a freak? Maybe she likes a little fun,” Juanita said.

  “I know you’re not trying to defend that kind of behavior,” Maurice said. “You’re too much of a lady to be like that.”

  Juanita knew then she’d have to dial back her sexual proclivities. She liked to use a vibrator at times and certainly enjoyed more than basic sex. Maurice was so rigid that Juanita gave in to his preferences because she saw so much in him as a provider. He was stable and successful and she was convinced he would be a good father and loyal husband.

  She’d had her fill of irresponsible men whom she could see would not serve as an ideal long-term mate. Maurice was different. His personality assured her that she could have the life she desired—nice home, supportive husband and darling children. Stability. A storybook life.

  She was fine—or accepting of her life—until she reconnected with Brandon. Brandon reminded her of not only who she had been, but who she really was—and how much she missed having her body worked over, how sexually deprived she was. Above all, he reminded her of how important sex was to her.

  She missed the excitement of being erotic and feeling sexy and sexually free. She missed using profanity and blasting hip-hop and go-go music. She missed dancing while puffing on a cigar. To maintain the farce, she had to act as if she were perfectly content being basic Mrs. Wonderful. It was not easy.