The "True" Agony and Misery of Hot Affairs
This, my friends, says it all.
Who knows just how they really start. Hot, steamy, affairs with people not married to each other. Nights spent in fiery, sweaty, passion that soaks the sheets on the bed in an out-of-the-way, cheap motel whose night manager doesn' speak English, but loves to be paid in cash. Clothes strewn on the floor, a Florsheim here, a short skirt on a chair, a sexy high heel over there. Yes, there has been some kinda loving done here tonight. It doesn't take a Harvard graduate to figure this one out.
I can just go on the gray assumption that affairs usually begin accidentally. Unless the partners in this smoky motel met at a neighborhood cocktail party, and although married to other people, really "had it bad," for each other and planned this rendezvous. In this is fact a methodically-planned affair, then one of the partners, maybe the eager man, makes "the" call. The call to end all calls. It's to this vivacious, voluptuous brunette (with hair so full it cascades over her shoulders to her mid-back region) to just "get the ball rolling," so to speak.
She has eyes that can pierce the thickest steel made in Pittsburgh. And a body that Hugh Hefner, if he ever saw it, would first sign her up for a life-long contract, give her $265,000.00 for Playboy to shoot her for the cover of their next 24 issues. Then suddenly require a heart specialist to check him to see if his heart is still beating. This gal is "that" hot, ladies and gentlemen.
Other "magic" affairs start from an innocent accident. One grocery cart bumping the other one in the check-out line. The man, an unhappily married man who owns a chain of men's shoe stores, doesn't find his wife of 15 years "hot" anymore. And the girl whose grocery cart he accidentally-hit is in virtually the same boat. Her husband is married to his stable of purebred racing horses and loves them more than his lovely wife of 25. Oh, just for your information, he is 59.
"oh, excuse me, miss. I beg your pardon," "Phillip Carson," the man with the men's shoe stores says to the unhappy woman because she has to compete with horses for her husband's attention.
"(ha, ha,) that's okay. Happens all of the time," "Betty Colburn," the 25-year-old natural brunette says with a certain lilt in her voice that excites "Phillip."
"My name is "Phillip Carson," how do you do?" So formal. So organized.
"ohhh, my name's "Betty Colburn," pleased to meet you too," she coos like a dozen trained doves while her blue eyes tell him a story of, "oh, how I wish you would just take me, now. Here in front of the store manager and everyone," and "Phillip," reads her story so well because he loves stories with "this" type of risky excitement in them.
Then comes "the" moment. The moment of decision. The moment that "Phillip," has actually prayed for many times late at night when his wife, "Karla," is fast asleep. Should he capture "this" moment and make his primal intentions known to this lovely angel, "Betty?" He knows that "this" moment, if executed wisely, will change the course of his very life.
No. Mustn't do that in a public place. Someone from his exclusive country club, his Saturday morning golfing buddy, "Dave," might see him and ask questions. That's one thing "Phillip" doesn't need is questions from nosy people. And he knows that although "Dave," can be trusted, he is still liable to let "Phillip's" racy secret slip when he has had five cocktails or more.
"Betty," senses the awkwardness of "the" moment too, and says, "uhh, "Phillip," would you like to join me across the street at that Ruby Tuesday's for an afternoon cup of coffee?" Then her icy blue eyes do the rest of the work. Again. And biting her top lip like an anxious school girl doesn't hurt either.
"well, I do need to, uh, hmmm, a quandary here. Okay, well, okay. You lead the way, "Betty,"" he replies trying hard to hide his anxious demeanor--and keep the lump in his throat from looking like a gorder.
"Betty," and "Phillip," do in fact, have coffee. Just coffee. No drinks. No getting a little tipsy in the late afternoon. Only mild and calculated chit chat. Safe enough. Everyone drinks coffee in late afternoon without complicated talk, "Phillip," justifies this action to himself while gazing at "Betty's" tight behind as she sways back and forth walking to get herself a pack of cigarettes.
Can I deal with this health hazard, smoking? Why could it not have been a shopping addiction? "Phillip," mumbles to himself as "Betty" gets back to the table and slides in on her side. Not his.
"uhh, want me to sit on your side, Phil?" "Betty" whispers in a voice so sexy that "Phillip's" entire body is now rigid. Her voice is like those hot ladies on the "900" HOT SEX numbers he had seen advertised on television. Could she? Awww, what am I thinking? "Phillip" catches himself entertaining one glib thought after the other. Certainly she has money of her own, since her selfish husband does own a string of purebred racing horses after all, "Phillip" finally finds a just reason to stay instead of making an easy excuse and leave.
"uhh, well, "Betty," you see, uhh . . ."
"Betty" giggles as she interrupts "Phillip's" vocal stumblings.
"doll, I see you are uncomfortable with me sitting on the same side as you, so don't worry. I am very understanding. Why don't we just sit here for awhile and uhhh, well, just get to know one another, say, like new friends. Okay?" she says while "Phillip" gazes at her full, red lips.
"Phillip" can only nod in agreement as the suttle scent of her perfume has his senses paralyzed in an "aroma paradise."
"you see, I very seldom do this, be this open with a total-stranger, and well, I guess we can just write this off as us being, say, kindred spirits," "Betty," explains while exhaling a drag of her Virginia Slims menthol into the air.
"Phillip," now back to himself, is aware that small droplets of sweat have formed on his forehead and on the back of his neck and are slowly trickling down his back under his Arrow shirt. He is silently-thankful that "Betty," cannot see the awful-looking wet spots now appearing on his nice shirt.
"uh, "Betty," don't get me wrong. I, uhhh, have never really did anything like this," "Phillip" confesses sipping his lukewarm coffee.
"what, drink coffee with a strange girl?" laughs "Betty," who knows that "Phillip," loves it when she verbally-abuses him, but in a good way.
An awkward silence seeps into the booth. "Phillip," quickly looks out the window as if he were paranoid about someone watching him. "Betty," notices this knee-jerk reaction and softly laughs.
"Phillip," doll, do you want to get outta here?" she asks looking intently into his lonely eyes.
"excuse me? Where do you want to go, "Betty?" "Phillip" nervously-asks, then spills the cold coffee on his Docker pleated slacks. "Betty," is now acting like a hungry hyena who has cornered the "weak" deer of the herd and just biding her time so she can "go in for the kill."
"what about my place? It's near here and we can relax there, "Phillip," and "just" talk. That's all. Talk. I promise you," "Betty" says while refreshing her makeup in her compact mirror. "Phillip," is once-again paralyzed when he sees her lick her full, red lips after she applies fresh red lipstick.
Yep. A hungry hyena would have shown more mercy than "Betty" is showing "Phillip" at this moment.
"Phillip" nods in agreement. They both walk to the cashier and "Phillip," gives the clerk a five-dollar bill and tells him to keep the change.
The clerk sneers at "Phillip," as he and "Betty," walk out and snarls, "big spender! That's right, sucker! I said big spender! The bill was $3.00 total and you only tipped $2.00???? Cheapskate. Don't wonder at our economy being in bad shape."
Okay. Enough of this dime-novel text. I will not leave you hanging. "Phillip," and "Betty," arrive at her modest, two-bedroom apartment that was just like "Betty" said, a block from the Ruby Tuesday and as they walk up the few steps to the front door, "Phillip," says, "Betty, uhhh, now, I am so scared. Ha, ha. I've never cheated on my wife, "Karla," and you see, uhhh, I feel kinda uneasy about . . .
"Betty" stops him in mid-excuse.
"doll, listen. You ain't committed no sin. Yet. We are just going to do like I said, talk. That's all. So please relax. We are just two good friends who have shared some coffee and now want to, well, 'get away from it all,' and talk," she says while letting her blue eyes look him up and down.
They enter her apartment and "Phillip" is almost-breathless at how luxurious this place really is. Better Homes and Gardens couldn't beat this, he thinks to himself.
"sit down, doll, and make yourself comfortable. Care for a drink, uh, oh, giggle, I forgot, "Karla," might not approve of liquor being on your breath, so would you care for some mineral water?" "Betty" says from the kitchen.
"mineral water will be okay, "Betty," hey, on second thought, I lost track of the time and well, I got a big staff meeting this evening with my store managers, and well, "Betty," gosh darn it, I just have to go, but can we do this again sometime?" "Phillip" asks with a slight tone of relief in his voice.
"sure, babe," "Betty" says as she walks into the living room with his mineral water in her hand. "sorry, but I had to be comfortable. That skirt and blouse was just too darn tight," she says so softly as she sits down near "Phillip," allowing the lace from her black negligee to brush against his arm.
Okay. Let's cut to the chase. You are smart enough to figure out what happens between "Phillip," the affair first-timer and "Betty," the sensuous, well-developed brunette that is married to a wealthy man with a stable of purebred racehorses.
But what about this business of her having her own place? Well, that's called "literary license," that I exercised to add some spice to their affair which is typical of how many affairs start. Innocent, unplanned and yet so-thrilling.
Oh yes, "Phillip," became a real "natural," in a short time. He was well-fitted for the telling of "sweet lies," to his wife, "Dianne," who never bothered to check-out his outrageous alibili's for being two-days late for dinner. She naturally-assumed that being the owner of a large chain of men's clothing stores that this was part of his duties.
And "Betty," well, talk about her stories to her racehorse-loving husband, her lies "fit like a glove," as many times she would visit her husband, "Charles," in his favorite hang-out, his horse stables, just to have a few minutes of his attention.
"Betty," wasn't that hard to please when it came to having a man. "Charles," although 59, was an avid physical-fitness freak. He worked-out seven days a week--rising at 5 a.m. everyday, running six miles, not on a NordicTrac, but the circle drive in front of their 15-room, two-story mansion.
"Charles," sometimes "Betty" thought, could have other women if he wanted. And this eat-away at her when she was feeling a tad guilty from sleeping with "Phillip," now mostly every night of the week.
"Betty," had a gambling-streak. Not for poker, slots, or Black Jack, but to see how how much she could "push the envelope," in telling both lies and the truth. One time, just to torment "Phillip," during one of their insignificant "spats," she told him she was going to tell "Charles," all about their torrid affair. And she did.
She found "Charles," gazing in appreciation at his prize racehorses while sipping a Scotch and water. "Charles, dear," "Betty said, "I have something important to tell you."
"Charles" nodded in agreement.
"Betty," in-fact told "Charles" the cold, hard-truth of her hot affair with "Phillip." She named names, places, and sexual-positions. Motel names, credit card charges, and "Phillip's" choices of wardrobes for her to wear while sleeping with him. She just knew that telling him that "Phillip," loved to see her prance around in a Super-Girl costume, would surely grab his attention. But it didn't. "Charles" just got went deeper into his fascination for his racehorses.
Okay. Now so far with this story about "The True Agony and Misery of Hot Affairs," what do you suppose is the "agony," and what is the "misery"?
This hot affair between "Betty" and "Phillip," raged-on. And on. Like an old-time locomotive with a rookie engineer who loved to see how much wood the old engine could take. (sorry for the bad metaphor.) Weeks swiftly turned into months. And "Phillip's" passion was not showing any sign of decline.
One year passed. More late-night lies, strong liquor, cigarettes, and higher credit card charges for new wardrobes for "Betty" to wear for "Phillip." Neither, "Karla," "Phillip's" wife, or "Charles," "Betty's" "horse-crazy" husband, ever detected a hint of the passion between her husband and his wife.
Then, like a sudden-summer thunderstorm, it happened.
"Phillip," was busy going over sales figures for his chain of men's clothing stores and he heard the pager on his office phone buzz.
Upon seeing on the caller I.D., it was "Betty," he hesitated. And just let it buzz. Then it hit him like a lemon cream pie in the face. This is the very-first time this has happened. Me not answering "her" call. What is wrong with me? "Phillip," thought to himself as he found sudden-joy in the mundane sales figures.
There was a time about a year ago that I would wade through Hades on my knees to get to hear her voice, "Phillip" thought again to himself. And this time his stomach knotted-up like a cheap rubber band.
"I am really tired of this," he said to himself. "every night, the same thing. Sex, sex and more sex. And with the same girl," he sighed. "I am really bored-stiff with this girl and I want out. Now," he said to his DELL PC screen.
On the other end of the phone call, "Betty," is fixing herself up for "Phillip," to come by her apartment and ravish her like he did the night before. "that guy, for an amateur rounder, is some man in bed," she sighed smoothing down her white skirt.
Suddenly, as if lightning and struck her in the chest, she looked in the full-length mirror and burst into tears, "I am so sick of 'Phillip,' that I could vomit at smelling his AXE cologne! I hate his 25 various sexual positions! Why did I ever get hooked-up with this jerk?" "Betty" screamed at the top of her lungs into a soft pillow.
You see? It happened. Boredom. "Stuck in a rut." Bedroom fun with the same guy and girl. Night after night. And even their slick lies were not fun to tell their spouses anymore.
And the tipping-point was the phone call that "Betty," made this very afternoon to "Phillip's" office and he didn't answer. This was misery at its finest. Agony wrapped in misery dipped in resentment. Talk about a ticking time bomb. The least little bit of friction. One small spark. And this affair would be "up in smoke."
So "Phillip," over dinner with "Karla," that night, plotted to himself how to do two things: one, how to get-out of his affair with "Betty," the easiest and least-messy way, and two, how to intentionally-start a fuss with her to give him an excuse for breaking-up and going on with his life.
A week or so passed. "Phillip" tried to call "Betty." And visa verse. No luck for either. Now the resentment, plus jealousy and mistrust were beginning to "marry" in their thoughts. "Yes, he is seeing another slut. Yep. After "I" taught him so much about what easy women like," "Betty" complained while trying to go to sleep in her own bed in her own home she shared with "Charles," who now had installed a king-size bed in the stable so he could be near his precious racehorses.
"I will bet that that "Betty," is laying with another 'victim,' like me. Yeah, that make sense. I remember one time she screamed 'Charles,' when she climaxed. "Charles," what a dippy name!" "Phillip" raged as he was going home the long way as to not be spotted by "Betty," whom he was convinced was following him.
And all of this because of a simple bump by a grocery cart. The mental anguish. The pure, hellish-misery of just seeing one another. The dreaded sex knowing just how it will turn out. And those asinine telephone calls to each other's secret phone numbers. What a drag.
All because two people agreed to have a cup of coffee and "talk" at a nearby Ruby Tuesday's.
Oh, if having hot affairs were this easy
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