Mind Caviar Fiction

Joy James  has worked as a magazine editor, a newspaper reporter, an advertising copywriter, an image consultant -- as well as for an escort service. She lives in suburban Washington, DC.

E-mail Joy James.

Sweet Knowledge: An Adulteress' Apologia

Why is it considered obscene to talk explicitly about our own lust, but perfectly okay, sensitive and romantic, even wise, to comment upon the mating of other creatures, like lightning bugs? They were everywhere-- lightning bugs or (if you prefer) fireflies-- as Greg walked me from the restaurant to my car. He had driven separately and discretely to our rendezvous. It was ostensibly to have been a business meeting, our exquisite six-course dinner at this five-star country inn, over an hour's drive from the city.

Now it was late, very late on this longest day, the summer solistice. Greg never mentioned her, but I knew he was worried about his wife. 

In the trees, the lightning bugs looked like blinking Christmas lights. Overhead, they looked like stars until they winked; then they became pulsing planes approaching Dulles. In the valley they could be quivering bedroom lamps from the windows of cozy houses. Everywhere, though they, of course, didn't possess words for it, they were courting and coupling, looking for love and signaling potential mates. What I was about to do was fuck. Greg knew it. We both knew it. We didn't have to say the word "fuck". But I wanted to utter the unused word, in which lies such power, so much uncoiled energy just waiting to explode. I wanted to cry out: "Greg, fuck me, please."

I could feel Greg's arm around my waist, and I turned my head to look at him, so close now our lashes seemed to touch: I could swear I saw the twinkling stars (or were they pulsating lightning bugs?) reflected in his dark pupils. And I knew, as surely as I will ever know anything on this mother earth, that yes, Greg did indeed want to fuck me. This sure, sweet knowledge propelled my body closer, and my hand brushed his pants to feel the beating blood, like pulsating light, of the cock I wanted him to use to fuck me. I no longer cared, as I had when we held hands in the restaurant, if people-- even friends of Greg's wife-- were watching.

"Let's give them something to talk about," I started to say, as in that old Bonnie Raitt hit. Being in the advertising business, I could seldom resist lyrics, slogans, or jingles popping into my head. Words that become trite but remain true, certainly truer than what I felt compelled to say. "What are you doing to me, Greg?" And I pulled my body away. "We shouldn't be doing this, should we?" 

Then I laughed, seeking the distance of irony and the stars, as I opened my car's door and slide my body into the seat as if I were going to drive away. I didn't know where, anywhere. Greg didn't say anything, and I didn't need to put into words what I really wanted him to do. He walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and sat his body next to mine. I turned on the ignition, and the car seemed to take on a determination of its own, as it began the twisty, western ascent into the Blue Ridge Mountains, through what I would later learn was called Hedgeman's Gap.

"What are you doing to me?" I heard him say, as I pressed my freshly French-manicured nails against his bulging cock to feel what he was feeling. I wondered why I was driving. I wanted to lay my face in his lap, to unzip him, and put him in my mouth. White Chocolate Ice Cream Between Dark Silky Sheets of Hot Fudge. I could still taste the country inn's dessert.

"Ah...Oh, we're...ah...at the top...now...almost there." That's all that he said as we drove up the dark mountains into the silent night. Had he been driving, I would have sucked complete sentences out of him, reduced to grunts and groans, not words at all, as the car reached the crest of the Blue Ridge and turned into the Shenandoah National Park overlook on Skyline Drive.

I almost tripped when I stepped out of the car. Ferragamo platform heels weren't designed for Pre-Columbian pebbles. I wobbled to the stone wall separating the parking area from some white pine trees on what looked to be the top of a sheer granite cliff. The Piedmont valleys, through which the car had driven, spread out below, lights from the houses flickering as brightly as the stars. I imagined the people inside wanting each other, and mating, yes, like fireflies. 

And you can imagine what I wanted. I don't have to say the word again. I bent to rest my hands on the stone wall, as my eyes moved back and forth between the heavenly bodies (I think I spotted Virgo) and the bug-like bodies in the valley below. My butt, I knew, was thrust toward Greg, who would be walking from the car to join me.

"I love your ass." I could hear his breath and words behind me. "I love your ass and pussy." Normally I hated men who got their kicks talking dirty, but this, the longest day was anything but normal, starting with my chance encounter with Greg at the health club this morning. It had been the first time he had seen me in anything but a business suit. Instead, he had ogled me in my new pink tights and black thong-back leotard. And that was how I envisioned Greg seeing me now, feeling his desire, as the words from the ad copy for the leotard flowed through my mind:

Get your butt moving, and the rest of you-- your metabolism, heart, lungs, bones, pancreas-- will follow. If you can dream it, you can do it. Your vision is what you will become. The fabulous new Venus Envy collection is just what you need to put the power of the Goddess into your wardrobe and climb to your Olympus. Everyone should be a Goddess of Beauty, Love, and Desire.

Now my butt wiggled in Greg's face, and I soared. I am woman, the other woman, and I would roar, sewing a scarlet letter on my thong leotard (wouldn't that be fun?) I could see Venus (or was it Mars?) in the cusp of the moon and I could smell the pine needles. I thought of the perfume's "fragrance that dresses a dream" as I curved my body over the stone wall and gazed down the steep cliff and whispered, "Fuck me."

Greg Altman was going to have himself some ass, a piece of ass, I could hear him thinking. I could almost see what he was seeing as he played with my clothes, like a fumbling groom trying to unlock the mysterious layers of a bridal gown. 

Finally, he found my pussy beneath the hiked-up, tight, canine-colored Versace and the pulled-down black-as-starless-nights Wolford hose and black-on-black, real silk, lace-applique bikini from the Bali Lots of Luxury Collection. My white-as-the-moon bare butt was now exposed for Greg, who was going to fuck me now. My butt, my body. 

"Fuck me from behind," I say. Just the way animals do, all the animals whose eyes glowed in the deep, dark forest all around me, now thrusting my ass and pussy in the wilderness of this Shenandoah National Park scenic overlook called Hedgeman's Gap.

"Fuck me," I whispered. "Fuck me," I begged. "Fuck me!" I screamed to the ghost-like presence behind my perfectly, high-heeled-angled ass, as I got wet, wetter and wetter.

"All my best sexual fantasies have me in incredibly high, spiked heels," I remembered confiding in Greg at dinner, and I smiled. 

"Fuck me!" I said again and again. "Harder. Harder. Fuck me." He never said anything, but I knew what he was thinking: "I love your ass; I love your pussy."

Okay, call me a slut, if you must. But the show I put on in the Eastern woodlands on a solstice evening was not some kind of pornographic display so that I could brag about it later. It had as much to do with love as any wedding, I can assure you. Just because Greg was married to another, didn't mean I couldn't be Cinderella. Greg's wife, indeed all wives, are the evil stepsisters if they won't share. To be Cinderella, that's every girl's right, isn't it? To wish upon a star, to make all those dreamy words about hair, makeup, and fashion, creating a woman's sense of sexy self, come true. 

To be a sensual person means... To let your passion show? Or is it so much more? To not just be made up, but to be your own certain creation, the perfect expression of the woman within... Find yourself.
Find yourself fucking another woman's husband. Admit it, you'd like to do it, too, but you're afraid. So you use judgmental words like betrayal and sisterhood. Come on, don't be afraid of the ultimate feminism of choice and free will. I chose to be fucked by Greg. You know the words: "Fuck me!" Sing it, sisters: "Fuck me!" Sing it loud: "Fuck me!" Again.

"Fuck me, fuck me, please fuck me," I said to Greg. "Harder, harder." The stone wall was hard, so hard. 

"I want you to come," I chanted. "I want you to come inside me. Fuck me. Come!" And my dream came true, as my eyes swam the skies and followed the Little Dipper's handle to the North Star and thoughts of the Big Bang and creation: Greg's body had become mine in this moment on the wild mountaintop that would pulse into the heavens, well beyond any temporal marriage vows, light years forever.

Adulteress: that's the word, I know, that names me. And I love it so. Adulteress. I love the sheer sound of it and the terrible, sweet knowledge it confers. 

Copyright © 2001 Joy James. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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