Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (3 page)

If Diana was right, men share one characteristic: an insatiable sexual appetite. They need sex pretty much constantly, 24 hours a day. At least that was the case for the men Diana dated.

I remembered how, when we first got together, Paul had also wanted to have sex all the time. And I remembered how later, bit by bit, we started doing it less and less frequently. I never took the initiative myself. Gradually we worked out a certain mechanical order of movements, which we could use to fairly quickly come to a conclusion beneficial to both parties. “Quickly” was the key word here. We both had to get up early, we went to bed late, and we never got enough sleep, so we were always tired.

By this point, Paul was writing a new screenplay, about an athlete and his coach. The athlete works hard and overcomes various obstacles in his life, while the coach helps him out and, in the end, guides him to victory. The interactions between the young, inexperienced athlete laboring through all the difficulties and the coach, who has learned through experience and been hardened by life, were the central intrigue in the story. Paul had me read parts of his script. Generally I like the way Paul writes. His characters always come across as very real, lifelike, but at the same time I could almost physically sense that some very important element was missing.

Sometimes I wanted to tell Paul about Diana and her lovers, to add a certain dramatic flair to Paul’s story, but I had no idea what role Diana could possibly play in the story of the athlete and his coach. I decided to keep Diana’s revelations to myself, to avoid giving Paul any dangerous ideas. Still, after a lot of thought, I decided for myself that if Paul ever betrayed me with some other woman, someone like Diana, not for love but simply out of curiosity, I would be able to forgive him – because I was too attached to him, and I could never live without him. And really, when I compared my relationship with my husband to Diana’s relationships with her lovers, I had to conclude that, in my life with Paul, sex was nowhere near the top priority. Something much more meaningful and important than sex connected us.

One day Paul returned from the tennis club in a fantastic mood. Juan hadn’t been there, and Paul found himself paired up with a new member named John. John turned out to be Juan’s polar opposite. Paul spoke for so long, and in such great detail, about what it was like to play (and win!) with John, how great a tennis player John was, and how well he intuited Paul’s moves as his partner, that I wished I could meet this amazing John myself.

Soon, I had the chance. Paul and John were supposed to be playing doubles against some really good players, champions in one league or another, who had beat all the other doubles teams at the club. It was the mini-match of the century, more or less. I went to the club to cheer Paul on, and, of course, to offer support if, or when, he lost. I knew that I could help him out just by being there.

John immediately impressed me with his size. He wasn’t a whole lot taller than Paul, but his shoulders were much broader. He was maybe a touch over forty years old, with dark hair and dark eyes, tanned and muscular. He had long arms and legs, and triggered a feeling in me that was unfamiliar and incomprehensible. Before I knew it, I found myself wondering if his dick was longer than average, too. I blushed just thinking about it.

The most surprising thing of all was that John and Paul won their match. It took three sets and a tiebreaker, but they won. After the match I ran up to Paul to congratulate him and give him a hug. He led me right over to meet John. “This is my wife, Emmy,” he announced.

“Nice to meet you,” said John, extending one large hand to shake. He had the firm handshake of a strong, confident man. I looked him in the eye, and again felt that strange fluttering in my stomach. John released my hand, but he was still looking at me. I could feel his gaze physically, as if he were running a hand over my body.

Later, at school, during lunch, I tried to find out from Diana what it means if you feel that way when you meet someone new for the first time. Diana’s eyes lit up immediately, and she wanted to know who had gotten under my skin that way.

“You just wanted to sleep with him, because you liked him. And he probably liked you too. Most likely you’d be absolutely
amazing
together. But who was it? Do I know him?”

I disappointed Diana by telling her that she didn’t know him, and that in fact I didn’t, either. He was just a random guy standing behind me in line for coffee. I lied, and I didn’t even blush. There was no way I could discuss something with Diana that I was afraid to tell Paul about. I tell him everything... But actually, lately, there hadn’t been that much to tell.

Over the next month, Paul got to play several more matches with John. After one of them, they stopped for a drink and got to talking, and it turned out that John was a fairly big-time film producer. Paul couldn’t believe his luck. He was still slaving away on his screenplay about the athlete and the coach, and here, right under his nose, was a producer who might be able to provide Paul with some valuable insights and some good advice. Strangely enough, John agreed to help. And he invited both of us to his place for dinner. Paul must be a pretty good tennis player after all!

As we pulled up to John’s house, I suddenly felt shy. I had never expected such an enormous, fancy home, even though Paul had warned me that he was a producer, and a successful one. 

John opened the door for us himself. Again, just like the first time we met, his shoulders caught my eye first. No man’s shoulders had ever had such an effect on me before. They were so broad, and so muscular. It also occurred to me how great it would be to draw John naked. All his muscles would be visible… There I go again. Why do I start undressing him in my mind as soon as I catch sight of him? Honestly, this has never happened to me before.

As we walked inside, the aroma of food reached out to meet us. I could smell freshly baked bread, something sweet and spicy, and fish. The scents were emanating from the kitchen, where John’s wife, Rachel, was running the show. She moved gracefully between the oven, the fridge and the sink, not rushing too much, and simultaneously she issued orders to John. “Offer our guests something to drink! Show them the house! Let these two have a seat! Why are they standing there, poor things?”

Seeing the house was a simple matter. The whole first floor was an enormous living room with windows looking out over the ocean, plus the kitchen and dining room. There were no walls dividing them, so the whole space was visible from anywhere, and we could gaze out over the ocean, sip the wine that John quickly suggested we try, and watch how easily and confidently Rachel moved about the kitchen.

As I watched her, it occurred to me that she was the kind of woman I wanted to be when I grew up. I was seized by admiration – the pure kind, without any jealousy mixed in. Rachel was tall, almost as tall as John, with a nice figure, thin waist and endless legs. Her long, thick, auburn hair was drawn back in a tight bun at the back of her neck. Rachel’s face was dazzling. Enormous brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a heart-shaped mouth. I didn’t know whether the shape of her lips was the work of some unknown virtuoso plastic surgeon or if they were an inheritance left to Rachel by her parents, but in any case, those lips, a little puffy as if they had just been kissed, immediately drew the gaze, and made her face unusually sensuous.

Rachel made us paella. I had never eaten anything like it before. I really don’t care much about food. I eat when I have to, and sometimes I even forget to eat, when I’m working. And I can’t really cook. I can boil noodles, I guess, or warm up a pizza in the microwave. Paul is no gourmet, either. But when we found ourselves in that house, in that kitchen, it was as if we had both grown some kind of new, sixth sense, or maybe a seventh sense. I have no idea what Rachel put in her food, but I had never eaten anything so delicious. It wasn’t just dinner, it was a sensuous feast. Everything on my plate was so unbelievably beautiful that it was hard to tear my eyes away. The colors seemed brighter. The interplay between light and shadows – Rachel had lit some candles – gave off more contrast. The music – John plugged in an iPod for some jazz – was sweeter on the ears.  

At first we talked about tennis. Paul and John told funny stories about their matches together. I added that the match I had seen at the club had been unforgettable.

“Do you play tennis, Emmy?” Rachel asked.

“No, I don’t play anything. But I really like watching tennis. What about you?” I asked in turn.

“I do yoga, and I love it. It’s good for your body, and also for your head. It helps me clean out my brain.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, when you’re bent into a pretzel and standing on one leg, it’s hard to keep your balance unless you can focus on just what is happening in that very moment, and banish all other thoughts from your brain. Believe me, banishing unnecessary thoughts from your brain is a wonderful, wonderful thing,” Rachel smiles.

“Oh, I believe you! I’d love to try it.”

“Then why not? Shall we go together Monday evening? Seven o’clock?”

I feel like I’ve been given the best gift ever. Rachel has invited me to go to yoga with her! Yes, yes, of course I’d go to yoga. I would follow this woman to the ends of the earth if she asked me. Wow. I’ve never experienced anything like this before. She definitely had put something in the food.

“Where did you learn to cook this dish?” I ask. “It’s really delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.”

“In Spain. I learned from the mother of my boyfriend at the time.”

Rachel tells us how she spent several years in Europe, studying European art and doing all sorts of odd jobs.

“There’s nothing we won’t do, when we’re young, to feed ourselves. I even spent some time acting for porn films. It paid pretty well,” she added, serenely.

I choke on my paella, and Paul slowly blushes with his scarlet flush. I realize that he is imagining Rachel in a porno scene. I realize this because I had been imagining it, too, which is why I choked.

I abruptly rise from the table, ask where the bathroom is, and go. I clear my throat as best I can, and splash my face with cold water. I can feel my cheeks burning. When I leave the bathroom I’m in a hallway where the walls are decorated with black and white photographs. In them is a gorgeous naked woman, very close up. Only individual parts of her body are visible at a time, a narrow neck and loose lock of hair in one picture, a hand covering a breast in another. As I examine those pictures, my cheeks start burning again, and my head begins to spin a little.

“Everything all right?” John’s voice comes from behind me. “You disappeared, and I thought I should organize a search party.”

“Everything’s fine. I’m just looking at these photographs. They’re very beautiful, very unusual.” And erotic, I add mentally.

“Do you really like them? I took them. Rachel is the model. I have a friend who’s a cameraman, and he taught me how to use the camera. Rachel agreed to pose for me. I’m happy with how they turned out.”

“You really took these yourself? They’re great. Professional work,” I praise him, impressed.

“It’s twice as nice to hear that from you. Paul told us you’re an artist. If you like, I can photograph you sometime. You seem very photogenic to me.”

Slowly, slowly, I turn around to face John. He’s much taller than I am. And it turns out he is standing closer than I thought he was. I have to tilt up my head. John looks at me calmly and intently, and I feel something deep in my guts freeze.

I’m... photogenic? John was offering to take my picture. In the photographs on the wall in that hallway, Rachel wore no clothing. Was he offering to photograph me without my clothes on, too? Mingling with the smell of paella from the kitchen I get a distinct whiff of danger, and something else, something that would break the rules. And I feel drawn to it, to that danger and rule-breaking. What had happened to my eternal wariness and shyness? I think Rachel really had put something in our food. Something that was making me feel sexy, think sexy, and want sex.

John ran a finger over my cheekbone.

“You have very soft skin. And these freckles. And such mysterious, Oriental eyes.”

“My grandmother was Chinese. Real Chinese, from China,” I offer, lamely.

John’s touch again awakens in me those same strong feelings, unfamiliar and incomprehensible. Diana’s prediction that John and I would have amazing sex together springs into my head.

“You mean there’s such a thing as fake Chinese people?” The expression on John’s face remains almost unchanged, with just one corner of his mouth lifting a bit into a smile.

John turns me around to face in the direction of the living room, places a hand on my back, and gently propels me forward. I move as if in a dream.

On the way home, Paul and I speak only of John and Rachel. What a beauty she is, how well she cooks, how nicely everything smelled, and what an amazing home they have.

“It’s the house of my dreams!” I declare.

And we talk (well, Paul does) about what a great tennis player John is and what a generous friend, because he has agreed to help Paul with his screenplay.

Rachel’s revelation that she had been a porn actress, and my conversation with John and his offer to photograph me, we do not discuss. I can’t make up my mind to tell Paul what sort of impact John’s physical presence has on me. I don’t want to ruin their friendship. Paul wouldn’t be happy to know that his new friend gets me so worked up. I’m not happy about it myself. Well, no, to be more exact, I’m not used to it. It’s really not typical for me. It isn’t just that he physically arouses me. When he’s nearby, goosebumps start to creep over my skin from this feeling of approaching danger. He scares me and turns me on at the same time!