Adultery (16 page)

But mostly it will destroy you, whatever your choice.

TRAFFIC
is at a standstill. Today of all days!

Geneva, with fewer than two hundred thousand inhabitants, behaves as if it were the center of the world. And there are people who believe this and fly all the way from their own countries to host what they call “summits.” These meetings usually take place on the outskirts of town, and traffic is rarely affected. At most, we catch sight of a few helicopters flying over the city.

I don’t know what happened today, but they closed one of our main roads. I read today’s papers, but not the city sections with the local news. I know that major world powers send their representatives here to discuss the threat of nuclear-weapons proliferation, “on neutral ground.” And does this affect my life?

A lot. I can’t afford to be late. I should have used public transportation instead of taking this stupid car.

Every year, Europe spends approximately 74 million Swiss francs (more than 80 million U.S. dollars) on hiring private detectives who specialize in following, photographing, and providing evidence that a client’s spouse is cheating on them. While the rest of the continent is in crisis and companies are going bankrupt and laying off workers, the infidelity market has seen tremendous growth.

And it’s not only the detectives who profit. Developers have created smartphone apps like SOS Alibi. The way it works is simple: at a set time it sends your partner a sweet message as though you were still at your office. So while you’re between the sheets drinking glasses of champagne, a text pops
up on the partner’s phone letting them know you’ll be late leaving work because of an unexpected meeting. Another app, Excuse Machine, offers a series of excuses in French, German, and Italian—and you can choose whichever is most convenient that day.

But besides detectives and programmers, hotels have really come out the winner. With the one in seven Swiss adults who are having an extramarital affair, according to official statistics, and considering the number of married people in the country, we’re talking about four hundred fifty thousand individuals looking for a discreet room where they can meet. To attract customers, the manager of one luxury hotel once said, “We have a system that enables credit-card charges to appear as lunch in our restaurant.” The establishment has become a favorite among those willing to cough up 600 Swiss francs for one afternoon. That is precisely where I’m headed.

After a stressful half an hour, I leave my car with the valet and run up to the room. Thanks to their e-mail service, I know exactly where to go without asking anything at the front desk.

From the café on the French border to where I am now, nothing more was needed—no explanations, no vows of love, not even another meeting—for us to be sure that this was what we really wanted. We were both afraid to think too much and back down, so the decision was made without questions or answers.

IT IS
no longer autumn, it is spring. I am sixteen again, and he’s fifteen. I’ve mysteriously regained my soul’s virginity (since my body’s is lost forever). We kiss. My God, I’d forgotten what this is like, I think. I’ve just been living in search of what I wanted—what and how to do it, when to stop—and accepting the same from my husband. It was all wrong. We were no longer completely surrendering to each other.

Maybe he’ll stop now. We hardly ever went beyond kissing before. They were long and delicious, exchanged in a hidden corner of the school, although I wanted everyone to see and envy me.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue tastes bitter, like a mixture of cigarettes and vodka. I’m embarrassed and tense; I need to smoke a cigarette and have a vodka for us to be on equal footing, I think. I push him away gently, go to the minibar, and down a small bottle of gin in one gulp. The alcohol burns my throat. I ask for a cigarette.

He gives me one, but not before reminding me it’s a nonsmoking room. It feels so lovely to break the rules, even stupid ones like that! I take a drag and feel ill. I don’t know if it’s the gin or the smoking, but I go to the bathroom and toss the cigarette into the toilet, to be safe. He comes after me, grabs me from behind, and kisses the nape of my neck and my ears. His body is pressed against mine, and I feel his erection on my back.

Where are my morals? What will happen after I leave here and resume my normal life?

He pulls me back into the room. I turn around and kiss his mouth and tongue that taste like tobacco, saliva, and vodka. I
bite his lips and he touches my breasts for the first time since high school. I take off my dress and throw it in the corner. For a split second, I feel a little ashamed of my body—I’m no longer the girl from that spring at school. We remain standing. The curtains are open and Lake Léman is the only barrier between us and the people in the buildings on the far shore.

I imagine someone sees us, and this arouses me even more than him kissing my breasts. I’m a slut, a whore hired by an executive to screw at a hotel, up for absolutely anything.

But this feeling doesn’t last long. Once again I am sixteen, when I masturbated several times a day to the thought of him. I pull his head to my chest and ask him to bite my nipple, hard, and I cry out a little from pain and pleasure.

He is still dressed, and I am completely naked. I push his head and ask him to go down on me. Instead, he throws me on the bed, takes off his clothes, and gets on top. His hands search for something on the nightstand. This makes us lose our balance and we fall to the ground. A sure sign of a beginner—but we are beginners and we aren’t ashamed of it.

He finds what he was looking for: a condom. He asks me to put it on with my mouth. I do, inexperienced and rather awkward. I don’t understand the need for it. I can’t believe that he thinks that I go around sleeping with everyone and might have something. But I respect his wish. I can still taste the unpleasant flavor of the lubricant covering the latex, but I’m determined to learn how to do it. I don’t let it come across that it’s the first time I’ve ever used one of those things.

When I finish, he flips me over and asks me to get on all fours. My God, it’s happening! And I’m happy.

But he starts to take me in the behind instead of my vagina. It frightens me. I ask what he’s doing, but he doesn’t answer, just takes something else from the nightstand and puts it on
my anus. I believe it’s Vaseline, or something similar. Then he asks me to masturbate and, very slowly, he enters me.

I follow his instructions, again feeling like a teenager for whom sex is taboo. It hurts. Oh my God, it hurts a lot. I’m unable to masturbate—I just grab on to the sheets and bite my lips to keep from screaming in pain.

“Tell me it hurts. Say you’ve never done this. Scream,” he orders.

Once again I obey him. It’s almost the truth—I’ve done it four or five times and never liked it.

His movements increase with intensity. He moans with pleasure. Me, with pain. He grabs me by the hair like an animal, a mare, and his pace grows faster. He withdraws in a single motion, rips off the condom, turns me over, and comes on my face.

He tries to contain the moans, but they are stronger than his self-control. He slowly lowers himself on top of me. I’m frightened and also fascinated by it all. He goes to the bathroom, throws the condom in the trash, and returns.

Lying down beside me, he lights another cigarette and uses the vodka glass as an ashtray, resting it on my belly. We spend a long time staring at the ceiling, saying nothing. He caresses me. He is no longer the violent man from a few moments ago, but the young romantic who used to talk to me about galaxies and astrology in school.

“We can’t leave any smell.”

His words are a brutal return to reality. Apparently, it’s not his first time. That explains the condom and the particulars that make sure everything stays as it was before we entered the room. I silently insult him and hate him, but I disguise it with a smile and ask if he has any tips for eliminating odors.

He says to take a shower when I get home before hugging
my husband. He also suggests that I throw away these panties, because the Vaseline will leave a mark.

“If he’s home, run in and say you’re dying to go to the bathroom.”

I feel disgusted. I waited so long to act like a tigress and ended up being used like a mare. But that’s life; reality never comes close to our teenage romantic fantasies.

Perfect, I’ll do that.

“I’d like to see you again.”

Right. All it took was this simple phrase to transform what seemed like hell, a mistake, a misstep, back into heaven. Yes, I would also like to see you again. I was nervous and shy, but next time will be better.

“Actually, it was great.”

Yes, it was great. I just now realize that. We know this story is doomed to end, but it doesn’t matter now.

I don’t say anything more. I just enjoy this moment by his side and wait for him to finish his cigarette before getting dressed and going downstairs ahead of him.

I’ll leave by the same door through which I entered.

I’ll take the same car and I’ll drive to the same place I return to every night. I’ll run in, saying I have indigestion and need to go to the bathroom. I’ll take a bath, removing what little of him remains on me.

And only then will I kiss my husband and my children.

WE DID
not have the same intentions in that hotel room.

I was after a lost romance; he was driven by a hunter’s instinct.

I was looking for the boy from my adolescence; he wanted the attractive and bold woman who had gone to interview him before the elections.

I believed my life could take another direction; he just thought that afternoon would mean something other than the boring and endless discussions at the Council of States.

For him it was just a simple, but dangerous, distraction. For me it was something unforgivable and cruel, a display of narcissism mixed with selfishness.

Men cheat because it’s in their genetic code. A woman does it because she doesn’t have enough dignity; in addition to handing over her body, she always ends up handing over a bit of her heart. A true crime. A theft. It’s worse than robbing a bank, because if one day she is discovered (and she always is), she will cause irreparable damage to her family.

For men it is just a “stupid mistake.” For women, it feels like a spiritual crime against all those who surround her with affection and support her as a mother and wife.

As I’m lying next to my husband, I imagine Jacob lying next to Marianne. He has other worries on his mind: political meetings tomorrow, tasks to complete, his busy schedule. While I, the idiot, am staring at the ceiling and remembering each second I spent in that hotel, watching the same porn movie over and over, in which I had the leading role.

I remember the moment I looked out the window and wished someone were watching us with binoculars—perhaps
even masturbating while watching me be submissive, humiliated, taken from behind. Just the idea turned me on! It drove me crazy and led me to discover a side of myself of which I was altogether unaware.

I’m in my thirties. I’m not a child, and I thought there was nothing new about me left to discover. But there is. I am a mystery to myself; I opened the floodgates and I want to go further, try everything that I know exists—masochism, group sex, fetishes, everything.

I’m unable to say that I don’t want any more, that I don’t love him, or that it was just a fantasy created by my loneliness.

Maybe I don’t actually love him. But I love what he has awakened inside me. He treated me with zero respect, left me stripped of my dignity. Undeterred, he did exactly what he wanted, while I strived, once again, to try to please someone.

My mind travels to a secret and unfamiliar place. This time I’m the dominatrix. He’s naked, but now I’m the one giving orders. I tie up his hands and feet, and I sit on his face and force him to kiss my vagina until I can’t take any more orgasms. Then I turn him over and penetrate him with my fingers: first one, then two, three. He moans with pain and pleasure while I masturbate him with my free hand, feeling the hot liquid run down my fingers. I bring them up to my mouth and lick, one at a time, before wiping them on his face. He begs for more. I say that’s enough. I’m the one in charge!

Before I go to sleep, I masturbate and have two orgasms, one after the other.

IT’S THE
same scene today as it is every morning: my husband reads the daily news on his iPad; the children sit ready for school; the sun streams through the window; and I pretend to be worried when I’m actually scared to death one of them suspects something.

“You seem happier today.”

I seem happier, and I am, but I shouldn’t be. My experience yesterday was a risk for everyone, especially for me. Is there some underlying suspicion in his comment? I doubt it. He believes everything I tell him. Not because he’s a fool—far from it—but because he trusts me.

And that just makes me more upset. I’m not trustworthy.

Actually, yes, I am. I was led to that hotel on false pretenses. Is that a good excuse? No. It’s awful, because no one forced me to go there. I can always claim that I was feeling lonely and wasn’t getting the attention I needed, just understanding and tolerance. I can tell myself that I need to be defied, confronted, and questioned about what I do. I can claim that this happens to everyone, even if only in their dreams.

But deep down, what happened is very simple: I went to bed with a man because I was dying to do it. Nothing more. No intellectual or psychological justification. I wanted to screw. End of story.

I know people who married for security, status, and money. Love was the last thing on the list. But I married for love.

So why did I do what I did?

Because I feel lonely. Why?

“It’s so nice to see you happy,” he says.

I say that yes, I really am happy. The autumn morning is beautiful, the house is tidy, and I’m with the man I love.

He gets up and gives me a kiss. The children, even without quite understanding our conversation, smile.

“And I’m with the woman I love. But why are you telling me this now?”