Secret Lives of Cheating Wives

by Curtis Bunn

  No one knows what it’s like to have to do right all the time. That’s a lot of pressure to be perfect, she thought. It was only a thought; she would not dare let anyone know what she really felt. No one.

  Her indiscretion with Brandon would be her dying secret. She pleaded with Brandon that he not tell a soul—not his pastor, counselor, closest friend, dying confidant—about their affair.

  “I’m giving you more than my body,” she told him. “I’m giving you my trust.”

  “It’s me and you, baby,” he said. “Whatever we do, it’s between us—it’s no one else’s business. You can trust me.”

  Ironically enough, her biggest concern was whether she could trust herself. She swore that one after-work rendezvous at the St. Regis would be it, no matter how liberating it was to be with Brandon without inhibitions. But Maurice, while he tried hard, did not meet her pleasure-principle standards.

  Juanita liked to get her wig rocked.

  She trained herself to put aside that passion in her DNA for the betterment of her life and family. Often, even before she reconnected with Brandon, Juanita cursed herself for holding back when she dated Maurice. After his comments, she should have let him know it was OK to be adventurous and sexual, that sex in a public place on occasion was fun and freeing, not an indictment on whom she was. Instead, she shut down what she called her “freak-nasty” to preserve the reputation Maurice had of her.

  “You’re the only one who knows about my ‘freak-nasty,” she told Brandon as they rested in bed after their intense sexual session.

  “Oh, ‘freak-nasty,’ huh?” he said. “I like that. And I’m honored. You can get freak-nasty with me any time you need to.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s true,” Juanita said. She caught herself sounding like some serial cheater, a floozy, and she did not like that. “Don’t think I’m your personal fun package,” she went on.

  “Come one, Nita, act like you know me,” he said. “Act like you know how we always rolled. Much respect. I would never put you out there like that. Nothing but love between us.”

  As they drove out to dinner one night when they were dating, she listened to her husband tell his friend Manny, “If she wanted you to hit it while y’all were in the park, then she’s telling you she’s a freak. And you can’t trust a freak.”

  That was more confirmation for her to believe she had to suppress her sexually adventurous nature to prevent judgment from Maurice. She had just purchased a vibrator, which she used in the bathroom after showers and before going to bed. She had to get her orgasms somehow. And while they did not meet the joy that came with enjoying a man’s body and his scent and his aggression, it served a purpose.

  What’s a freak, anyway? she wondered. I like sex; that doesn’t make me a “freak.” It makes me a woman confident enough to be how I am. My sexual freedom does not define me. My brain doesn’t define me. Neither does my career or my family or any one thing or combination of things. All of those elements together make me who I am. It’s sad that I feel like I have to hold back so I won’t be judged.

  When she slept, more than once she dreamed of how devastating her parents were to learn of her infidelity and how angry and humiliated Maurice was. She also dreamed of laughing with Brandon and having her body pained and pleased at the same time by him. She would wake up either relieved that she was dreaming or craving Brandon’s touch.

  Perhaps worse was that she had no one to share her thoughts, no one to solicit advice. There was no one to reel her in, no one for her to share in her excitement about Brandon. And there was no one to share her disappointment in herself. There were girlfriends who shared their darkest secrets with Juanita. Many sought her advice, support and encouragement. She was desperate they never know of her outside-the-marriage activities. So she suffered in silence, trapped in her own obsession with being perceived as perfect.

  All that, and she found it nearly impossible to pull away from Brandon. She tried, though. After that night of passion, the guilt kept her from answering his text messages or returning his calls for three days.

  In fact, when the weekend came, she had her sister keep her kids that Saturday night. Maurice had not shown any interest in sex—which was OK with Juanita because she could still feel Brandon all over her—but she believed intimacy with her husband would move her closer to him and farther away from Brandon.

  So, with the kids gone, she set up a night of passion with her husband by preparing a nice meal followed by champagne. She suggested they sit on the deck, where she had a candle burning and soft music playing on her iPod dock.

  Maurice resisted. He was so disconnected from his wife that he did not notice that she was trying to set a romantic mood. He was so into the routine that he said, “What’s the point of sitting out there? The TV is in here.”

  It took all her strength not to bellow like an opera star. “But we always sit in there in front of the TV,” Juanita reasoned. “Let’s do something different.”

  “Why fix what isn’t broken?” he responded.

  Growing angry more than disappointed, Juanita snapped.

  “Who said it isn’t broken?”

  “You didn’t hear me say it?”

  “I heard you, but you apparently didn’t hear me.”

  “I heard you.”

  “No, if you heard me you’d get the clear message that something is broken.”

  “What? What are you talking about? What’s broken, Juanita? What? We have two beautiful kids, a beautiful house, money in the bank. We don’t have any worries.”

  “You don’t take your wife saying something broke as something to worry about?”

  “Worry about what? We have the family you said you wanted? We have everything. Don’t we?”

  Juanita’s stomach turned because Maurice was not being flip or sarcastic. He was dead serious, which was a dead giveaway that he saw their marriage as fine when she was almost catatonic in it.

  “Mo, honey, we should talk,” Juanita said. It was bad enough her night to make amends—to herself—was derailed. It was worse that Maurice derailed things.

  “And turn off the TV.”

  “I’m trying to watch—”

  “I don’t give a damn what you want to watch,” Juanita yelled. “I told you we need to talk. That should have meant something to you.”

  “What is it, Juanita? What is it?”

  His tone was condescending and dismissive, making Juanita more livid.

  “Maurice, it’s not okay to mock this situation,” she started. “This is serious, goddammit.”

  That last word made her husband take notice. He turned off the television and tossed the remote control on the couch.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? You. Me. Us.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Everything seems fine to you?”

  “Yeah. Tell me what isn’t.”

  “We haven’t had sex in two weeks. You haven’t touched me. And I try to set up a romantic evening for us—get the kids out of the house—and you want to sit in here and watch sports?”

  “This is what we’ve always done.”

  “I don’t want what we’ve always done all the time. And you shouldn’t, either.”

  “Now we’re back to if it’s not broken, don’t fix it.”

  “You still don’t get it. Oh, my God. It is broken, Maurice. I’m not happy.”

  She was astonished she said the three magical words: I’m not happy. But she was relieved, too. Juanita wanted her marriage to work. But she was desperate for Maurice to do his part.

  “You’re not happy because of sex?” he asked.

  “Not because of it,” she answered. “Because of the lack of it.”

  “That’s kinda shallow to me,” he said. “We have all that we have, all we have built together, and that’s your focus?”

  “My focus is on feeling closer to you. All this stuff you seem to believe is so important is nothing if we don’t love each other a
nd show that we love each other.”

  “Oh, now you don’t love me?”

  “I love you very much—and making love is a way of showing it.”

  “The way you’re coming at me is not cool,” he said. “It’s kind of sad to me to pin our marriage on sex. It’s like sex makes the world go ’round.”

  “I think it can make the marriage go ’round for damn sure,” Juanita said. She was not going to back down.

  “I’m not getting any response from you that I hoped for,” she went on. “Let me try this: Are you still attracted to me?”

  “Of course, I am.”

  “Do you still enjoy sex with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “So why have we gone two weeks without being intimate? I’m no sex fiend. You know that. But I’m thirty-eight. I’m in the prime of my sexual life. I love my husband. It doesn’t make sense to me that you’d be okay going that long without making love to me.”

  “It’s not that, Juanita. I really didn’t think about it. I thought we were both working and kinda fell into this pattern of—”

  “I don’t want to fall into any pattern, Maurice. That’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?”

  “Yes, dangerous to a marriage. I know you don’t always get or even like Chris Rock, but he said something in a movie once. It was something like ‘the most dangerous time in a marriage is when the couple accepts that they’re not having sex.’ I would agree with him. We can’t do that. It would make everything stale. We promised we wouldn’t let that happen.”

  Finally, Maurice seemed to get it. “I know the movie you’re talking about. It was called, I Think I Love My Wife. You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s easy and comfortable to get into a routine and let things go. I could sense it, but I thought you were okay with it. I’m sorry.”

  Juanita was relieved. Maurice hugged her and she kissed him on his face. He took a deep breath. “I love you, J.”

  She smiled and kissed his face again. “I love you, Mo.”

  He took her hand and led her to their bedroom. They stripped and met each other in the middle of the bed. He kissed his wife with all the passion he could muster. She closed her eyes and freed herself to let Maurice take command of her body.

  All the while, she thought of Brandon.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HOW LO’ CAN YOU GO?

  RHONDA

  Before Rhonda could express her disgust with Eric, he told her the next morning: “I’m sorry. I went in the living room and realize I left the house in a mess. I was so tired. After you left, I got on the treadmill. I walked for thirty minutes.”

  “You did?” she said, delighted. “I’m so happy you did, Eric.”

  “I did it for you.”

  “Thanks. But you should do it for yourself.”

  “If I did it for me, it would have been a thirty-second ride. So, even though I didn’t want to, I did it for you. It doesn’t seem right that you’re judging me by my weight. Underneath everything, I’m the same person.”

  “I don’t want to make this about vanity,” Rhonda said, “because I’m not vain. I accept you for who you are. I do. But let’s be honest. People like what they like, whether you like it or not or whether it’s vain or not. I like my husband to look like the strong man I met and fell in love with.

  “I used to look at you and see this really attractive physical specimen. And don’t think that’s what I fell for, because it’s not. I fell for the complete package. The physical and the mental—how you made me feel when I thought about you, when I looked at you. Everything is important in figuring out a life partner. I looked at everything. And I still do. You should, too. Whatever you’d like to see me improve, you should tell me.”

  “Oh, really. Okay, great. Well, improve on your need to complain. What you’re doing is complaining about your husband who is here every day, not out chasing women or wasting money at strip clubs or treating you bad. Our bills are paid. We don’t have any extreme worries. And yet you’re complaining.”

  “Because I have the right to complain. I don’t take what you said for granted. We have a comfortable life. But is comfortable good enough for you? It’s not for me.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “I want everything. I want to feel like my husband cares enough about himself that he works out and eats right too, and first and foremost, make sure he’s healthy. Don’t make it about me. It’s about you. This isn’t that hard. I didn’t ask you to replace a transmission in your car or build a computer. Or to wash dishes, for that matter. I’m asking you to take care of yourself. That would take care of a lot of things.”

  It was not like Eric did not understand Rhonda’s issues with him. He understood completely. What she didn’t understand was that Eric did not have the requisite willpower necessary to reshape his body. He loved to eat, and eating made him sleepy. So, that’s what he did: eat and sleep. He also gained weight.

  “Okay, honey, let’s not make this a big deal,” Eric said. “I’m going to do better. Eat better, get some exercise and see what happens.”

  “Oh, I love you for saying that,” Rhonda said. “So, we should get a scale so you can weigh yourself and set goals. When you write down goals, you’re more likely to accomplish them. I read that somewhere. I can walk with you sometimes. And I can make some meals that are more friendly to your body and—”

  “Hold up. Wait a minute,” Eric said. “I’m not looking to you to be my trainer or my healthy-eating adviser. I will figure this out the way I want to figure it out. But I appreciate your willingness to help.”

  “See, that what I’m talking about,” she said. “That flip-ass mouth of yours is gonna get you in serious trouble one day.”

  “To prevent that from coming today, I’m going to stuff it with pizza, some beer and a little pound cake. My mouth can’t get me in trouble if it’s full of food, can it?”

  “That’s not funny, Eric,” Rhonda snapped. “You should be eating salads only. And drinking water.”

  “I’m done arguing with you,” he said. “You need to love me for me and not what I eat.”

  “You are what you eat. Ever hear of that?”

  “I don’t want to hear anything else out of your mouth right now.”

  The day that started off with so much promise turned indifferent. Rhonda knew she had been too pushy. Eric knew he had been unnecessarily resistant. And yet, neither relented.

  When lunchtime came, which was usually when Rhonda made a meal or provided something from a nearby restaurant, she did neither.

  “You gonna make lunch?” Eric asked her. He found her in the guest bedroom— reading.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “And I’m not enabling you. If you want a salad, I’ll make it. If not, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  Eric stood in the doorway for a few seconds before storming off. He changed shirts, grabbed his keys and left the house. Rhonda fumed.

  All the rest of that Saturday and all of Sunday, they did not speak. Monday morning, when Eric left for work, he didn’t bother to tell Rhonda goodbye. She was disappointed; inasmuch as she wanted to stand on her principles, she did not like or want to remain at odds with Eric.

  All in all, they had a good marriage. They did not have children to distract them, so they were one-on-one their entire time together. Rhonda called Eric on his way to work.

  “Um, why didn’t you say bye before you left?”

  “We haven’t spoken a word to each other for about two days. I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”

  “So you’re going to let this silent treatment go on forever?”

  “I figured you would end it when you got tired of it.”

  “You know what? We need to go to counseling because this isn’t going to work. So by the time you come home, you’d better be ready to talk about counseling or talk about leaving. Your choice.”

  And then she hung up. Rhonda was proud that he took a strong stand. She made her way from
her bed to the kitchen, where she poured two painkillers out of a bottle and washed them down with water. Since she had been home following foot surgery, Rhonda had started her day when Eric left around eight o’clock. But she instead got back in bed and pondered her life. Before long, she drifted off to sleep.

  It was not until her cell phone rang that she woke up. It was twelve minutes to noon. She was momentarily delirious.

  “Girl, what’s wrong with you?” Olivia said into the phone.

  “Damn. I’m so out of it. What time is it?”

  “Time to get your lazy ass up.”

  Rhonda yawned and ran her fingers through her hair—an attempt to get her bearings. “Shit. Is that right? It’s almost twelve o’clock? Damn.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still in bed.”

  “Me, either. I’ll call you later.”

  The lack of sleep over the previous few days had caught up with Rhonda. She usually felt guilty when she slept past nine o’clock. Sleeping all morning had her chaotic. . . for a minute. She realized she did not have anywhere to be and no responsibility that required her up in the morning—except to take care of her healing foot. And so, she relaxed.

  She showered, checked her e-mail on her laptop and made a cup of coffee. Finally, about ninety minutes after waking up, Rhonda dressed and made her way out of the house to grocery shop.

  She was somewhat dejected that Eric had not called or texted her, but also angry for the same reasons. When she entered the garage from the kitchen, she smelled the garbage that had sat there over the weekend. Eric usually took the trashcan to the corner on Monday mornings, but he had not.

  So, now irritated, Rhonda pulled the large plastic barrel toward the street—until she heard, “Can I help you with that?”

  To her astonishment, she turned around to see Lorenzo. Startled and happily surprised at the same time, she was not sure how to react. He seemed surprised to see Rhonda.

  “Oh! You scared me,” she said. She wanted to say more but could not come up with the words.

  “I’m sorry. Let me get that,” he said, grabbing the trashcan and toting it to the street. Rhonda used those few seconds to tease her hair and straighten her clothes.