Enrico, being married, could only see me on the sly, which suited me.
Enrico worked all over Silicon Valley, fixing equipment. He told me who was hiring and paying more. I left Nortec and flipped companies with a raise.
Before cell phones, we tried CB radio communication. My handle was Cobra and his Supini. The problem with CB was it broadcast to the crowd. We set up a meeting at a coffee shop by CB and a few more males than Enrico showed up. If we’d had CB broadcast a meeting at a motel, it would be a crowd. Our arrangement settled.
He called my home at noon and I only called his work number. Both paranoid, we briefly mentioned an alignment machine number, 314 needing repair and when he could fix it, the number being the room at the Holiday Inn. Our relationship devolved into a weekly noontime tryst and on occasion, after my swing shift, our rendezvous there, not much different than "F and F". Enrico once suggested sex in his car. My reply was, "No hotel, no honey."
After a few motel meetings, Enrico wanted sex, sans condom.
“Why aren’t you on the pill like other women? My wife’s on the pill. What makes you special? I don’t like rubbers.”
"Let's screw without. I 'm sure your wife will be pleased you’re going to have another bambino."
"Why don't you just take the pill?"
"Why don't you just get fixed, like my husband? You need to be snipped. Perhaps I should suggest it to your wife so she doesn’t need to take the pill."
Thereafter, he complained but rolled it on.
We went to the Holiday Inn in separate cars. To enhance daytime trysts above “F and F” I typically brought food to eat after sex. Occasionally we met for lunch at a Lyons restaurant but his nervousness made it unpleasant. In public, he lost his alpha veneer, nervous someone might see us, think we were having an affair and tell his wife. My original suspicion he had been caught before was verified when I asked him.
He didn’t drift randomly into my mind even though Vixen enjoyed his company. I did tell my husband an engineer was flirting with me. With tryst times limited and my routine normal, he only worried an engineer was interested in me, not I in him.
I also told him the engineer was reported to have an eight-inch penis. When he asked how I knew, I told him the girls at work told me and had nicked named him "Super 8". If we passed a Super 8 Motel I would say.
"Look another Super 8!"
I figured the best camouflage was being an open joke.
He pestered about who Enrico was, evidence he hadn’t forgotten the confessed two words I regretted saying.
I told him he was Italian, true, his name was, Enrico Supini, true in a way and he lacked polish, also true. He checked every phone book in Silicon Valley looking for a "Mr. Supini", even pestering me about its spelling. I told him I didn’t know the spelling and he was married with kids, to ease his suspicions.
Enrico was smug with wife and three kids safely tucked away on his home turf while he raided another’s. He took his wife as guaranteed safe from invasion and was the type who would fall apart if a male invaded his domestic domain.
I never talked about family with him. He, in contrast, bragged about his, especially the kids. From what he said his wife was a good mother but a messy housekeeper and a lousy cook who thought the grocery food aisles were frozen, canned, dairy and cereal. She never cooked from scratch. His requests for Italian food were met with microwaved, frozen ravioli and boiled spaghetti with canned sauce.
His expensive clothes weren’t poorly ironed, they weren’t ironed and he looked scruffy unless he had them dry cleaned. She was, however, blond, attractive and thin from the picture in his wallet I stole a glance at while he showered. What was most important, she worshipped him.
The banter from which our affair began eventually turned into acrimonious personality spats. Enrico was a cheapskate, never left a tip for the hotel maid, bought his wife nothing, tipped the minimum at restaurants and grumbled about how much our affair cost.
After our third hotel encounter, I upped the maid tip to two dollars. He thought to leave a tip for the maid was inane. I never told him about my mother. He, of course, could not bring home the left-over soap or shampoo and snickered about a maid's fate when I opened the unused ones for the maid to take home.
While loving the food I prepared and complaining about his wife's cooking, food was a source of conflict between us. I love cooking, which provided the strongest bond with my father. In thirty minutes, I can make Asian dishes others marvel at. In Mountain View, a childless, elderly, Italian woman across the street adopted me when I was an eighteen-year-old pregnant bride. She taught me Italian cooking. The Mexican women next door grew corn, ground it and made tortillas. From her, I learned to cook the "real enchilada". I befriended older women and learned their recipes and got good advice about men.
Food and drink influence happiness, health and appearance. Unfortunately, many in America have surrendered their palate to "heat and serve", "shake and bake" or microwave. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," is trite but true. A rendezvous while centered on sex preferably includes food and drink either at a restaurant or a meal I prepare.
Enrico never took me to an upscale restaurant, gulped down food I prepared and failed to see food and drink as art in life. While educated with a degree in engineering, his deportment suggested a lack of “proper” education, a geek knowing one thing and nothing else. Once I brought lasagna to room 314 with a small bottle of ice wine and a bottle of his favorite, cheap beer. Deflated after our quickie, he got up naked, piled the lasagna, still warm from my oven, on a plate and was back in bed gobbling it down with his beer chaser instead of waiting for me while I re-dressed.
I had the little table set up with plates, glasses, and napkins for eating with a loaf of ciabatta bread. As I was bent over strapping my shoes on, he said with his mouth full.
"This is great! You'd make a good wife."
I'd never be the doormat his wife was. I wouldn't put up with his put-down slurs. Staring at him sitting in bed, irate fire in my almond dark eyes, I said, "I’m a good wife! Better than what you have got!"
I grabbed my purse and walked out, leaving everything and was out of the parking lot before he could dress and chase after me, if he did. The next day I didn't answer the phone to ensure not taking his call. I knew he was calling as the phone would ring and ring and then repeat itself.
A day later I answered but was still smarting over his attempt to put me down like he did his wife. He kept wooing and apologizing. His ego couldn’t take the jab of being walked out on. If the relationship was going to end it had to be by him. After sweet-talking me, I agreed to meet him, if he stopped acting derogatory toward me. Once in the hotel room, I let him assuage my anger with sweet words and courteous deportment, great efforts for him.
When the romp was over he exclaimed.
"I am so happy you are no longer angry with me."
I acted indifferent. When pressed if I was happy, I replied.
"You think too highly of yourself. You’re just a misanthropic man who cheats on his wife. What else is there to say?"
I wanted my guppy to chase me, not I, him. I knew Enrico would put me in his safe category next to his wife if he felt I was enraptured with his ego and Mr. Supini. He would then make another conquest to replace me.
In the parking lot, he took the dishes out of his trunk I’d left from in my walkout, relieved he no longer had to hide them. He had left the bottle of wine in the room. I told him to replace it the next time we met and drove off.
Instead of worshipping him as a penchant he expected, I destabilized his ego. Even though he was older, I was the teacher, like Edward was to me. I stopped his swearing in my presence and improved his manners. Despite my efforts, he remained a cheap, beer drinker and uncouth. I told him he was unsophisticated but did upgrade him to drink his beer out of a glass. I even had to show him how to pour it down the side of the glass to keep down the foam. I made sure he always wore fresh clothes when meeting me and even once took him shopping to upgrade his style.
In public, with me, he was a Beta but in the motel room, he switched to Alpha. I asked him once if he was going to get a hair transplant when he got too Alpha cocky. To keep him off guard I would occasionally get upset and leave before sex. I never told him what was wrong and acted like he was an idiot if he didn't get it.
It was as if we were married which, of course, we were but not to each other.
When meeting Enrico, I wore Edward’s sapphire ring in addition to my wedding ring.
Eventually, he inquired about it.
“Where’d you get that blue stone ring?”
“It’s a sapphire, a trophy ring.”
“Trophy, for what sport, humping?”
“Close, it’s from a trophy lover.”
“Who?’
I smiled.
“You don’t want to know.”
He asked, "Am I a trophy lover?"
He assumed Mr. Supini automatically qualified him.
"Am I wearing your ring?"
"What do I need to do to be your trophy lover?"
"Start with a trophy ring."
This set him back and kept him quiet. Thereafter, I flashed Edward's ring more and would look at while we were talking and even during sex as if I had to think of another to enjoy his huffing and puffing.
Shortly after, at another rendezvous, he presented a little jewel box. Inside was a gold ring with a mounted pearl. I said nothing, smiled, told him to get undressed and on the bed. He assumed I was happy, undressed rapidly and sat on the bed edge with Mr. Supini alert.
I didn’t touch the ring, stayed dressed, went to the bathroom and dampened a towel for his pelvic wipe down but used cold water. I knelt before him, wiped him down while he complained about the cold towel, told him to hush, and massaged Mr. Supini.
Once he was fully aroused, I told him to lie on his back and shut his eyes. I got up holding the towel, got my purse next to the nightstand and was getting ready to start toward the door. He cheated and peeked. He assumed I was getting a condom and smiled. Instead, I put the purse strap over my shoulder and walked to the door. He sat up naked.
"What's wrong? What's the matter?"
I opened the door and yelled back, "You got half a date for half a trophy ring."
Piqued, I threw the wet towel at him but missed. It plopped against the wall next to him. He yelled, “Nay, you missed!”
I was in my car and gone before he could chase after me if he did, a repeat of the "good wife" tiff.
It took him a week of wooing before I agreed to meet him. He assured me if we met, I’d have a "full ounce" trophy ring. I gave him my ring size and told him I wanted a ruby.
A week later we met in room 314. There were roses but no Champagne. Instead next to the roses was a jewelry box. Inside was an eighteen-caret gold ring with modest but beautiful ruby stone and two diamonds. I could tell the stone was a natural from Burma.
Putting Edward’s sapphire ring in my purse, I slid on his ruby ring, opened the window curtain and let the sunlight play on it. It was beautiful. I pushed him on the bed, slipped off his shoes, pulled off his trousers, slid down the silk boxer underwear I bought him, skipped the towel and gave Mr. Supini a slow and long stimulation while looking at the ring on my right hand.
After sex, as good as our first date, I asked, “What did Mr. Supini do with the pearl ring?”
“I gave it to my wife.”
“What’d she, say?”
“She was elated. Kept asking, what’s the occasion?”
Saying she was elated was a bit of a comeback to my rejection of it but I let it pass and instead put her definitely in the safe wife category.
Despite high employment income, he was financially stressed due to house payments as a late arrival to the Silicon Valley housing market. Unlike Edward, Enrico and I sparred for control, he unused to a woman challenging him. While having an engineering degree he was culturally ignorant and didn’t read books. To him, great music was the oldie but goodie radio station. He lacked a sense of life's irony and his sense of humor was slapstick. He maintained his elevated ego superiority by projecting faults onto others.
Other than sex, he began to bore me and I started to torment him. I called him Mr. Schadenfreude.
“Schadenfreude, who’s he?”
“It’s a German you remind me of. I think you’re part German, not all Italian.”
Still not getting it, he replied, “No, no, I’m Italian.”
I enjoyed my little joke but it was true of his character. On one rendezvous, I intentionally didn’t wear his ring to keep him from assuming I was "safe". He noticed immediately.
"Where's your ring?"
"Ring, here's my wedding ring, where’s yours?"
As I flashed my left hand in front of him, I thought.
At least he didn't say, where’s my ring?
Then he did.
"Where's my ring?"
"I was in a rush. Just forgot to wear it."
He got excited and I learned he was still making secret payments for it. He accused me of implying he should buy another. I immediately left without a word. It was another week of his calling, apologizing and my forgiving.
We met for lunch at the Lyons restaurant he preferred, I, wearing “his” ring.
Sitting across from one another in the rear booth he always chose, both of us taciturn, I took off the ring. Breaking the silence, I said.
"Here, you can have it back. I didn’t know it was unpaid for. I don't care if we meet again."
"No, no! Please, put it back on. I can't sleep worrying about you. I want you to love me, not hate me. I want us to be happy. What can I do to make you happy with me?"
"Stop being a bore, stop putting others down and stop being a cheapskate."
He ordered cheesecake dessert as if to proclaim he was no longer a cheapskate. Our conversation was strained but I held the upper hand by not caring if we met again. As we left, he asked, "Can we meet at the Mall tomorrow?"
"I'm time stressed. We can have a quick lunch at noon."
Instead of lunch he insisted on shopping and asked if I would be upset if he purchased earrings for me as if saying he was submitting to my dominance, a new experience for both of us. I replied, “Don’t think you can buy me."
“No, no, I’m just trying to change. I do listen to what you say.”
At the jewelry store, I eased up and selected a modest priced gold pair and told him to buy a pair for his wife. He selected a pair of simple gold stud pearl earrings for her but I intervened and selected a pair with large dangling pearls to match the ring he gave her. They were more expensive than the pair I selected for me.
He had the clerk ring up the credit charge with the price of both on the wife's pair only. I wondered if she was so "safe" to not question the price for her earrings. Later, he said his wife was ecstatic again after he told her they cost so much because of the quality. I felt sorry for her, someone who I’d never met while cheating with her husband. There was a twinge of guilt over my husband too. I wore Enrico’s earrings only once.
After a year, I wanted to end the relationship. The more I knew him the less interesting he became. Despite his aroused size, he lacked depth as a lover and didn’t appreciate the irony of life. He was too wrapped into himself to be a lover. I consider myself kind and never mean spirited yet I was tormenting him. I’d become a bitch and would tease him with stories I made up.
"Enrico, a guy came up to me at the market yesterday, you know the Lucky Store near my house. He just walked up and asked my name. Weird, huh, what should I do when men do that? It's happened more than once."
"Just walk away, ignore them."
"In a grocery store, isn't that rude? He might start following me. He asked if I liked to cook. I told him I love to. He was kind of cute. I just gave him my nickname, not my real name and told him I was married and didn't give him my phone number. Do you tell women you're married?"
I bragged about my husband, teased his wife might be seeing another and flirted with men when in public with him. The rift between us increased. I wanted out.
Then at the start of 1979, my husband announced we were moving to the Pacific Northwest. He was tired of his job, traffic and the constant change of Silicon Valley. I agreed it was time to leave the world we grew up in which was no longer our world. Moving was our attempt to relocate to the world we did grow up in. Silicon Valley had morphed into an alien world. It was time to move on.
As the Enrico relationship sputtered, I set an end date. For a change, I reserved room 314 and told him to meet me at noon the next day. He asked why I was getting the room but I suspect he was pleased to avoid the expense and he gobbled up the excuse it was my turn.
I’d bought him a suit for Christmas and a gold bracelet on his birthday so spending something for him was not unusual but he still suspected something was up which it was but something down for him. There’d be no going away present.
Previously I went straight to the room with him waiting for my tap on the door. Desk clerks occasionally smiled at me as I walked to the elevator but I never took any recognition from them. I don’t know if they associated me with Enrico and room 314 but after a year, I suspected they did. Initially, I exited from a rear door, off the stairwell, to avoid the lobby stare but after a while stopped caring what desk clerks thought, used the elevator and boldly strolled out the lobby front door.
I knew the maids knew when room 314 was used a short time with me and Enrico the guests. They knew I waltzed in and out shortly after Enrico came and he left shortly after I exited. They gave me a confident smile if I happened to pass their cleaning cart in the corridor. They were allies due to the small tips left. To ensure they knew the tips were mind not Enrico’s I lipstick kissed the dollars left.
When getting the room, I had to use my credit card and real name to check-in but brought cash to pay for an advanced check out to avoid the charge showing up in my statement. After registering, I handed the clerk money for checkout charges, including room tax.
The desk clerk stared at my driver's license and credit card for a long time as I requested room 314. He kept them until I paid cast then handed them back with a smirk with my change after calculating what the final charge was.
I asked for the manager. When she arrived, I told her the clerk was imprudent, nosy and insulting me with his demeanor then went to my car. I brought up a dozen yellow roses in a vase, a small bottle of red wine, two bottles of Enrico's favorite beer, lasagna in Tupperware, paper plates, butter, French bread, and cheap silverware but no card. I also brought the dress and shoes he'd bought for our first liaison and put them in the closet and wore for the first time the earnings he bought. It required two trips and on the second I was pleased to see the clerk look down when I walked past.
When Enrico arrived, I had the blankets pulled off the bed. He gave a puzzled look with an expression of "what's up". I smiled, led him to the table, we sat, ate and drank to small talk. I explained we were eating first for a change as the lasagna was getting cold. We talked mostly about people we knew from work as he waited to figure out what I was up to and behaved to avoid a potential argument. Meek was not in his character. Instead, he was a "good boy" but ready to spar.
Once the food, wine, and beer were gone I got up, stripped and lay on the bed. He was relieved there was not going to be a spat and he was going to get it. Without foreplay or ceremony, I motioned him to enter me. Mr. Supini still felt good.
I stared at the ceiling as I let him have his last go. I was no longer emotionally attached. Once Mr. Supini spewed in the condom and he pulled out, I got up, whipped down with a wet towel, partially dressed in my underwear and sat by the table with the roses. I looked over to the bed where he was recharging his testosterone and announced.
"It's over."
He jumped up and sat next to me.
"Why? Why What's wrong?"
"I no longer love you."
A lie, the truth was I never did. He pleaded and asked me to reconsider. It was just for more time so he could tell me it was over. I gave him a male ego sop; my husband suspected I was seeing him after discovering his phone number and gave me an ultimatum, including a threat to confront his wife. I told him I wanted to reconcile with my husband, didn’t want to have his wife find out and ruin her and my husband's lives and his and my marriages. I told him we were moving to the Pacific Northwest to save our marriage.
He snarfed it down especially the lie about his wife and said during sex he already knew it was over and was not surprised, his attempt to have the last word. In truth, he knew nothing, not even why I was dumping him. He bored me.
I finished re-dressing, told him there was something in the closet and left without a kiss goodbye. In the car, I turned on the radio. The station was playing Old Time Rock and Roll by Bob Seger. I laughed thinking it so appropriate for Enrico.
I resolved to get back to what my marriage had been originally. In addition to leaving the dress and shoes in the hotel closet, I discarded everything Enrico gave me except the ruby ring. I stopped using Shalimar perfume and gave the earrings to the older lady at Nortec who I still confided in. Afterward, I rarely wore his trophy ring or thought of him. A smile, however, crept up when I did, knowing he never forgot the woman he did not control.
He never knew where I lived, only knew my unlisted phone number. He called it a couple of times before we moved but I hung up when I heard his voice without responding, knowing his calls were attempts to say the last put down. I smiled imagining his frustrated frown as the phone clicked silent. Once we moved to the Pacific Northwest, he was only a dream memory.
Later in life, I realized I was unfair to him. He was not evil or cruel, just an unsophisticated cheap jerk. I pounced on these to justify being petty and mean, he the depository of my life’s frustrations. I didn’t win a battle of the sexes. It was was simply crude jerk meets mean bitch.
