If I were to see Radislaw again, which I most likely never will, I should like to fuck him.
This does not mean that it would necessarily be a particularly good idea, that it would be worth the cuckholding of my own husband, or that I assume Radislaw would necessarily be a good lover. Though, based on the delicious kiss he quite literally stole from my face, drunken at 7 am after a night of caviar, champagne and success before he drove off to Poland, scorned and blueballed (and married), he might well be quite good between the sheets. I laughed as I slid onto my own empty bed, scratching sheets, imagining through the cruel filter of my own lust and drunkenness, his terrible, frustrated drive. Desperation makes a good bedfellow at dawn, after a week or two in a tight single bed on the road, at any rate. Maybe. He rarely sees his wife. She does not understand him. He is certainly handsome enough. He was very kind. He was not the one upon which I chose to target my flirtations, my arts, but, seeing the photos now, I was the one he chose. This disturbed my sleep and I woke up only a few hours later, upset and craving the attentions of another man. Any man. I became ill.
I’ve been married some little time now. Long enough for the blush and newness of requited love to sober me, though it could be four months or four decades, as much as it has, in actuality, been four years. It’s been a series of weeks and years of expectations, unmet. He is older. He’s a fine man, I love him duly and very much. It is a good man that I married, very kind and from a good family. Some money is involved. I did not doubt that we should marry. But my fires are reflected in him as wet matchbooks. I strike and strike and strike, and there is simply no spark.
There was a spark. It was a potential. Any man with a libido and a large cock knows that here, with a slut as I am, eventually, one may reap great rewards. Great obedience. But a little fuck on the rooftop was too dangerous and obscene for him, later on. I was too prudent to reward him with my panties under the table at dinner, between the third and fourth course, early on. He was pretending, or playing. He thinks sex is fed with love. He does not know my innermost thoughts. Perhaps he guesses them, but he does not know for certain, at any rate, and I do not feel the threat of violation that I so crave. For all I know, its a world apart from his own sweet, obedient and kind love. Chivalrous love, gentle and still and soft. Hated and feminine and yielding.
I despise his kisses. I would throw them back at him if I could. I would gather them up in my skirts, if I wore them, work spells, and cast them out, turned to curses and fires. His kisses are death, are sickly domestication, and though now I simply turn my head, a new weapon, perhaps one day they will fill me with hate and bile and I will spit. I will never feel the delicious sick twist of conquest with him, his goodness and his sweet ways. My god, what was I thinking? I dream, I confess, of the men I thought, once, that I might marry. Deviants, bastards, scoundrels and addicts. My daydreams grow, they take over and transplant my waning reality, the incessant I-love-you’s and intolerable It’s-so-nice-to-be-with-you’s that torment me.
I was a lioness, a beast and a despicable person, the rotten half woman that all women hate, with good cause and little self esteem. I hid the fact that I stole boyfriends and husbands, only for moments! Moments are nothing, when they had all of time, and Chinese take-out in bed, and Thanksgiving, and beautiful weddings and beloved sisters-in-law who called long distance. I devoured the feeling of want and lust, and lived from these stolen memories and feelings. I was an idiot, I was weak with power, and I enjoyed everyone. These moments were not serious, I was not a serious person. I was promised a great deal which was never meant to be granted; nobody can take themselves seriously under those circumstances.
Now I reap my debts to women I barely knew. Trapped with a man who, with a little more temperament, would be wild with fury, trying to understand why his wife is always just a bit out of reach. But he knows his place, as I mine. We serve our sentences together; though I thought it was an escape, our wedding was, actually, a gift, meant to placate his own treason.
It has not been enough.