While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  ‘You’re a cheap date, love,’ she said, and pinched my bum. I flinched. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to try and seduce you.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were.’

  Angie shrugged and looked away, but I caught the sorrow in her eyes.

  And so, after falsely cheerful goodnights, we made our various ways to bed. Alex in his room, Nicky in hers, Angie and I sharing the bed for the first time in months, and the last time ever.

  And downstairs in the living room, like the troll in a fairy story, the monster in the cave, was Paul.

  I was still, listening to the creaks and noises of the house, the gurgling of the pipes. I don’t think Angie slept either; her breathing was too shallow, too quiet. I could not forget the last time I had sex in this bed—with that French guy, the black one. What was his name? I could remember the feel of his skin, the passion with which he kissed me, even the details of his cock and arse, but I couldn’t remember his name. I went through all the French names I could think of. Stephane, Guillame, Etienne, Yves—no, that was the guy by the pool at Nice, the one who gave me drugs, and I remembered the smell of pines, the murmur of the bees, and I fell asleep dreaming of sunshine and sand.

  Paul didn’t try anything stupid. He didn’t creep upstairs in the night or ambush me while I was having my morning shower. He and Nicky left after breakfast for a day of shopping and sightseeing, and then he was leaving town on an evening train. He said nothing of our previous conversation. Perhaps there was some shred of decency left in him, or at least guilt. Shame. Self-disgust. All the things I was feeling.

  The first text came the next day: thinking of you Paul xxx and a photograph of me, naked, asleep in his hotel bed.

  I deleted it and didn’t reply.

  Then: When can I see you? Next week? xxx

  They came every hour, then every half hour, and when I had enraged him by my silence, he wrote, How is Adrian by the way? Bet you haven’t told him about us.

  The realisation came, with a horrible inevitability, that he had gone through my phone while I was sleeping, he’d read texts and emails that I’d been too stupid to delete, and he’d doubtless taken note of numbers that might come in useful. My correspondence with Adrian was all there.

  The catastrophe, so long anticipated, had finally come. And it was not what I expected. It was not my wife or children finding out that I was sneaking off and fucking guys from the Internet. It was my almost son-in-law, my daughter’s boyfriend, my son’s new best friend, a devious, evil little cocksucker, who was threatening to expose me to a man I loved, a man whom I don’t deserve, a man with more decency in his little finger than the whole lot of us put together.

  After playing with fire for so long, I got burnt.

  I didn’t know what to do, and so I did nothing. I didn’t confront Paul; I sent him a couple of placatory texts and made a vague plan to see him later in the month. I didn’t tell Adrian anything; I’d just lie and see how far it got me.

  Our date was tomorrow.

  Work, gym, home, bed, no sleep.

  Our date is today. Tonight.

  Work, work, work. Our date is in an hour.

  I nearly cancelled, pleading some unforeseen crisis at the office, but Adrian called to confirm our meeting, so much joy and anticipation in his ridiculously accented voice, and I couldn’t do it. ‘Can’t wait to see you,’ I said. ‘I’ve waited so long for this.’

  ‘Me too.’ He sounded husky and very horny. ‘I’m nervous.’

  I wanted him, I wanted the life we were supposed to have, the future that could have been mine. But I knew I couldn’t have it. I didn’t deserve it. Happy endings don’t happen. Even if Paul is killed in a freak accident, something will still go wrong. I will have started another relationship by lying. I will be found out.

  ‘I’m nervous too.’ Oh, Adrian, you have no idea. I want to cry. I want to throw up. I want you to forgive me, or punish me, or just forget me.

  I picked him up from the gym and took him to a restaurant on the South Bank. It was a beautiful evening, and we had a table overlooking the river. The perfect setting for what was supposed to happen—something we’d remember and treasure forever.

  Adrian looked beautiful. He’d tried a little bit too hard to look smart, with a black shirt and a loosely knotted gold tie, and he ended up looking like a waiter, which made me weak at the knees. His hair glistened with some kind of product. His eyes were shining.

  When we were seated and the drinks were ordered, he reached across the table and took my hand.

  ‘I’ve waited so long for this.’

  ‘Me too.’ I wanted to run.

  ‘I know it was ridiculous, all the rules and stuff. We should have just . . . you know. Dived in.’

  Oh, Adrian, why didn’t we? And then I would have been safe, and none of this would have happened. Paul would never have happened. But it’s too late. ‘Yeah, that would have been nice. But,’ I shrugged and stroked his thumb. Tears were forming in my eyes. He took them for tears of joy.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK. Don’t start. You’ll set me off.’

  Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake. You’ve come this far. Brazen it out. Lie, as only you know how. Play the part.

  ‘Sorry. I’m not usually like this. Thank you for waiting for me.’

  ‘It’s OK. And, you know, I had stuff to sort out as well.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Unfinished business.’ He stared out of the window. The Thames was at its most beautiful, a huge, slow gray snake winding past towers and trees, under bridges.

  We didn’t speak for a while. Drinks arrived. We said cheers. The mood had turned. No longer joyful. Tense. Electric. He’s about to tell me. Someone called Paul rang me.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you, Joe.’

  Over before it’s even begun. Well done, Joe. You really fucked this up, and you won’t get another chance. Stupid fucking idiot.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I broke one of my own rules.’ He was still looking out the window, not at me.

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘I saw my ex. I had to sort a few things out with him about money and stuff, and . . . ’ Something caught in his throat, and he had to take a drink. ‘We ended up in bed.’

  ‘I see.’ A light was dawning—an insane hope that I was somehow off the hook. I could play this up—make him feel really bad—blow it up so big that it matched the scale of my little indiscretion with Paul. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t say no. I’d had a couple of drinks. It just . . . happened. I’m so sorry.’

  I didn’t say anything for a while. Not because, as Adrian no doubt thought, I was furious or upset, but because I couldn’t trust myself to keep the note of triumph from my voice.

  ‘Well, Adrian,’ I said, reaching for his hand again, ‘nobody’s perfect. Not even you.’ He looked at me at last, blue eyes pleading. ‘Not even me,’ I added.

  We held hands in silence.

  ‘I . . . ’ I fucked my daughter’s boyfriend, over and over again. ‘I may have made a little slip-up as well.’

  Adrian laughed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was stupid.’ What do I tell him? Inspiration! ‘I ran into a really old friend at a family wedding. He was my best mate when we were young, and I haven’t seen him for years and years. We got drunk, and we got talking, and he told me about himself, and I told him about myself, and we ended up in his hotel room, very pissed, and we went to bed and kind of . . . fooled around.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘We’re here now, with all our mistakes and our imperfections. But we’re together. Right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more to say.’

  The waiter brought the food. Perfect timing. I could have kissed him. It was very good food and nice wine, and the sunset was lovely, and Adrian was everything I could ever have dreamed of, funny and intelligent and sexy as hell. We talked about our chi
ldhoods, our families, jobs, everything. There were no awkward silences and a lot of laughter. I forgot, in the euphoria of the moment, that Paul could destroy everything with a single text.

  Disaster could be coming through the airwaves right now. Adrian’s phone would buzz, and then . . .

  But not yet. We finished and paid and went back to Adrian’s flat. It was nothing special—a two-bedroom place above a dry cleaners that he shared with a Slovakian girl who worked nights. It was neat and tidy and in need of redecorating. Given a couple of weeks, I could get the place looking really nice. Some replastering, a lick of paint, and a few pieces of decent furniture. See? I was already moving in.

  The bedrooms were at one end of the landing, separated by a tiny windowless bathroom; the kitchen and the living room were at the other.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or anything?’

  ‘No. I just want to take you to bed. Come here.’

  I took him in my arms and kissed him, at last, on the mouth. My hands ran over his back, feeling the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist. Our tongues thrust and parried, our lips slipped and sucked, as we pulled each other’s clothing aside, reaching in to touch warm skin, hair, muscle.

  We danced a clumsy waltz down the landing and toppled onto Adrian’s bed, me on top of him. Our groins were pressed together, both of us hard. I took in few details of the room—bare walls, a set of dumbbells in the corner, toiletries, a rack of clothes—heard the traffic outside on the main road, a siren approaching then passing, the voice of a drunk shouting across the street. This could be my future, this room, this man, this bed. I wanted it so badly that I held onto him with my arms, squeezing him tight, pressing into him as if I could stop him from slipping away.

  ‘Hey! Ease up a bit! I can’t breathe.’

  His face was red, veins standing out on his forehead and neck, but he was laughing. I rolled off, and threw my forearm over my eyes. ‘God, I’m sorry. It’s all been a bit too much, the last month. The anticipation. Now it’s actually here I feel . . . I don’t know.’ The truth was I was close to panic; disaster could strike at any moment, and this little vision of paradise would disappear like a puff of smoke.

  ‘Is it a disappointment?’

  ‘Christ, no.’ I rolled onto my side and looked into Adrian’s face. His beauty caused me pain. He was not a movie star or a model—I could imagine him working on a farm or in a garage—but he was the man for me. I knew then that I had feelings for him, not just desire. Perhaps it was because he’d been so hard to get; he’d been right to make me wait. But I think it was more than that. After all I’ve told you about my sex life, you may find it hard to believe that I actually believe in love. That I’m a romantic soul. ‘Oh yeah, you’re so romantic that you had sex with the delivery man, a couple of prostitutes in France, your daughter’s boyfriend, and every Tom, Dick, and Harry on Craigslist,’ you’re saying. But that was different. That was me finding out what to do with men. It was all preparation for this moment, when I fell in love.

  ‘I want to say something, Adrian.’

  ‘What?’ He was stroking my stomach, feeling the muscles under the skin, and his hand kept straying lower.

  ‘I don’t want to start with any misunderstandings between us.’

  ‘OK.’ His hand stopped. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’m a very nice person.’ What am I doing? Am I going to sabotage this before it’s even begun? ‘It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone that I really care for . . . I think I’ve forgotten how to do it.’

  ‘Come on. You’ll be OK.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can be honest anymore.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘What if there are things about me that you don’t like?’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect, Joe. Not you, and definitely not me.’

  ‘But you’re such a nice guy, Adrian. You’re happy and friendly and you’re just . . . you tell the truth. You’re a decent person.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I am.’

  He was silent for a while, thinking things over.

  ‘We’ll be together. That’s all that matters.’

  This was my chance to tell him everything. On the one hand, I’d have the moral satisfaction of doing the right thing. On the other hand, he’d probably throw me out and never see me again.

  ‘Thank you.’ I kissed his beautiful mouth. ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘Then try to.’

  That was enough talking for now; I’d almost fucked everything up by trying to be a Boy Scout, and now it was time to accept that I’d never live up to such high ideals, I’d just have to make the best of what I’ve got and face the consequences when they come. If Paul marches in like the bad fairy and destroys everything, so be it. I can’t stop him. I can just live in hope.

  We were making love again, our mouths locked together, our hands all over each other. Adrian pulled my shirt up and my trousers down. Soon it was getting so awkward that we had to undress properly.

  ‘Strip for me, Joe.’

  I did as I was told; I’d learned how to do that. Some of that experience was useful. I pulled my shirt over my head, and ran my hands over my chest and stomach. Then I pulled my trousers down, until all that was left was my pants. I told you I like nice underwear, and this pair was brand new, a sort of Burberry check. The front was stretched and slightly wet.

  ‘Turn around.’

  I turned slowly, letting him see every bit of me. His hand was down his pants, squeezing his cock.

  ‘Now come here.’

  I stood right in front of him, and he drew my cock out of the leg of my pants. It sprang up and nearly jabbed him in the eye. He held it and looked up at me.

  ‘At last, Joe.’

  ‘Yes. At last.’

  He started sucking—he was very good—and my mind went blank, floating on the sensation. I kept having to remind myself that this was Adrian, the man I wanted to be with, the man I love, and not some random stranger, not . . . no, don’t think of him, don’t let him into your mind . . . not Paul. No, keep him out, he doesn’t belong here, you must not let the thought of him make you even harder in Adrian’s mouth.

  I pulled out, horrified by the idea that I was about to come with Paul’s face on my mind.

  ‘Lie back, Adrian. I want you.’

  ‘I’m yours.’

  I undressed him, slowly and carefully, revealing the wonders of his golden body, the pale fuzz on his torso and legs, the tattoos, his thick cock curving upward, landing on his belly. I started kissing him on the lips, down to the jawline, the neck, across the collar bone, the chest, until I reached his pink nipples. I sucked each in turn while gently wanking him. He moaned and squirmed.

  ‘Oh Joe . . . oh God, Joe, I want you inside me.’

  And of course I wanted to fuck him, I’d thought of nothing else for a month, for six months, ever since he first touched me, it was to this point that everything had been leading, the moment when we take possession of each other, when sex means something more than just friction and lubrication and release.

  I held him in my arms, rubbing my cock against his round arse, and if I could have pushed into him then and there, all might have been well.

  But of course there are always preparations that need to be made.

  He bounced over the mattress and dived down to one side, where he kept condoms in a shoebox. ‘There you go.’

  I tore open the packet with fumbling fingers and started rolling the rubber over my cock, which, for some reason, was going down like a punctured balloon. I wrestled with the condom, stretching the mouth of it open to bag the head, but nothing worked. My dick was soft. The blood had gone—where? To my head? My heart? I felt numb and slightly faint. This could not be happening.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Sorry . . . I can’t seem to get this on.’

  ‘Want me to try?’

  ‘Sure.’ Of course the touch of his hands would do the tr
ick, the idea of him preparing for his own penetration. It’s worked before. With all the men I’ve fucked, I’ve always loved that moment when they know they’re going to get it. And when I’ve been on the receiving end, it’s been the exquisite anticipation of pain and surrender. I’ve always been hard to the point of discomfort. When I fucked Paul I was a steel bar. When I fucked that boy by Graham’s pool, I stayed hard even though I was full of drugs. Christ, even the delivery man . . . none of them as beautiful and beloved as Adrian.

  He tried, I’ll give him that. But it was clear that nothing was going to work. My cock shrivelled up and went pale.

  ‘Are you OK, Joe?’

  I wanted to cry. ‘I’m fine. I don’t know what’s come over me. This has never happened before.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I’ve built this up into something more than it really is.’ He leaned back on the bed, one arm behind his head. ‘Look, I really don’t mind.’ His own cock was going down now, from disappointment I suppose. Shit, this was all wrong. I should have been inside him, making him mine, pledging myself to him with every thrust. Think about that, Joe. Think about your cock sliding in and out of Adrian’s beautiful arse, parting those golden cheeks, claiming him.

  ‘I do. I mind.’

  ‘There’s not much we can do about it. Sometimes these things just happen. Maybe we’re not . . . ’

  ‘Don’t say that. Whatever it is. We are meant to be together. We will be. I just . . . ’ Shit, my voice was wobbling, and I was close to tears. What was this? Fear? Remorse? Guilt? I have everything I could ever want right here; I don’t deserve it, but I’ve got it. I’ve come through the trials and tribulations, I’ve made my mistakes, God knows I nearly blew it all, but I won the prize. Now I just have to take it.

  ‘It’s OK, Joe. Really it is. It happens.’

  He reached up and stroked my back, trying to comfort me. Oh hell, why now? Why does fate keep tripping me up like this? I still didn’t trust myself to speak.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Adrian, ‘we can take a break. Let’s watch TV, or have a bath, or something. Or I could give you a massage. You liked it before, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I wanted to tell him everything that the massage had meant to me—what it had started—how I’d followed it up by letting some guy suck me off. And then another, and another, a long chain of consequences that led me back to Adrian. But I couldn’t speak.