"I cannot have sex with you," she pants, coming up for air amidst a heavy five-minute make-out session. Her words echo through the house, which is decorated with an almost conspicuous number of pictures of her husband and children. I hear the dog yawning in his bed by the sofa.

It’s fine. I can practically set my watch by these obligatory protestations. She doesn’t do this, after all. It’s not a line; she really doesn’t. I know.

I fix my gaze into her deep, dark eyes and run my fingers through her soft hair. My mouth curves into a gentle smile. My eyes twinkle and burn that knowing look deep into her consciousness. 

"Hey, this is enough for me," I lie soothingly. “Just being here with you. It’s everything to me right now.”

And that’s the truth. The chase is almost as satisfying as the catch. Almost. And this chase has been epically rewarding. But I know how close I am. I feel it in my bones as I close in slowly. Carefully touching my lips to hers. So delicately that it wouldn’t wake a baby. Our eyes close. 

She doesn’t do this. Maybe that one time in college, with the guy so different from her high school sweetheart. Grant her that. It happened fast, and she still feels bad about it. She’s never told anyone, but I know without even asking. Not the specifics, mind you. Specifics don’t really matter.

I know the curious, compulsive darkness of her because it matches my own. Those black, hot places in your mind you try to pretend away. The feelings you convince yourself you aren’t feeling as your partner slumbers inches away. I smell it from the other side of the room. I saw it behind her eyes almost immediately. Darkness recognizes darkness.

She extends the tip of her tongue against the interior of my top lip and pushes it further. I encircle her tongue with mine and commence kissing her passionately as we slowly become horizontal once again. Her breathing accelerates. Her cute little moans return.

My closed eyes shut tighter as the fire rages within. My mind cries out for light. Light upon her bare nipples as my hands maneuver her top. I break our kiss to cover her breasts with my lips and fingers. I imagine the way her husband covets her and takes her for granted at the same time. It isn’t really about that for me, but I can’t deny how fucking hot it is. Stroking her, pleasuring her. It’s the caveat that flips an already sexy situation into mindblowing fantasy.

Her sounds and movements become deeper, hungrier. This is a woman who’s been kept clean and boring for so long that she’s almost forgotten how intoxicating this can feel. Almost. She needs transgressions the way a hangover needs water. 

Her hands wander across my back and down to my ass, squeezing it firmly. I flex and thrust accordingly. I know my musculature is different from what she’s used to, and I want her to feel that difference. I am as hard as a diamond, and I push my erection into her heat with a careful, learned precision. Once I get my fingers down there, it will be all over but the cumming.

My whole life, people have asked me if I have a type, and I’ve always said no. I don’t know if extreme heterosexuality is a thing, but it feels apt. I fucking love women. Virtually all women. Show me a woman, and I’ll find something irresistible about her. Though I do tend to gravitate to the “good girls” (greater challenge/greater payoff). But, looking back, it’s all too clear to me now. I absolutely have a type, and it is married. It isn’t as crass and wrong as it sounds. More of a simple, logistical evolution, really. Put another way: I have spent the majority of my life in relationships and, thus, I’ve spent the majority of my life seeking fun with those who can respect that.

My sexual number isn’t anything crazy for a guy my age and stature, though I’ve long since lost exact count. More than 30-40, sure, but less than 100. And, of that number, the vast majority have been women in committed relationships. So don’t tell me I’m the weird one. I’ve had sex with more wives than most polygamists, and they all had the same thing in common: they all wanted it exactly as much as I did. This is why I speak to the “spoken for” and am taken with taking the “taken.”

Her hand gropes its way around my hip and attaches to the bulge I’m thrusting against her. This is the sign I've been waiting for. I turn my attention away from her breasts and return to the magnetic kissing that first lit the spark. My eyes open as I crave the light that’s coming. Light upon her naked skin. Light upon these shared desires we’ve kept inside the darkest chambers of our thoughts. My right hand slides stealthily inside her panties and immediately finds her clitoris. Fingers, do thy work! She's so doing this. 

Sure, I’ve had affairs with single women, but the chemistry is generally inherently wrong. The angles are harsher, the dangers more precarious. How can I expect a mutually beneficial outcome when she’s sleeping alone every night? The risks, the expectations, the price of admission - these are all more palatable when they are shared values. Call them family values if you like. I call it equilibrium. Equanimity. Balance. 

Within a minute and a half, we are both naked and well into phase two. The script in my mind had me going down on her first, but the intensity with which she attacks my cock and balls is a thing to behold. So, I do. I kick back for a beat and take in the experience of her touching me, flesh on flesh, for the first time. These are the moments I cherish most. The head she is giving is god-awful, but this is an immaculate creature. Face like an angel, body of a goddess. Execution and skill don't stand a chance against pure erotic imagery. Just the sight of her plump, little lips popping my dick in and out with boundless enthusiasm makes up for the lack of technique. One breast is still exposed (as it always should be in such situations) and I can't help but wonder how long it's been since she's taken her husband into her mouth. It's incredibly childish, sure, but I can't pretend that isn't part of the attraction. I know it. She knows it. Fuck, the dog probably knows it. 

"Give me some light," my mind screams as I rise to my feet, remove myself from her mouth, and gather her into my arms. Her enormous wedding ring sends patterns dancing across the ceiling and walls as I lay her across the nearby kitchen table. How iconic. I look down upon this, perhaps the most classically beautiful woman I will ever fuck, with the appreciative eye of a poet.

Two people, naked before each other in the light, just prior to insertion: this is still the image that stays clearest in my mind of that day. The one that I would jump back to countless times had I only the ability to travel through time. Hearts pumping, hormones exploding, and adrenaline flowing at maximum delivery. This is the juice! 

See, that's the thing that people don't get about cheating. In its potency and euphoric mystery, it stands apart from drugs and any other vices or devices. The effects of a shared secret intimacy are as individual and unique as sensuous little snowflakes. It's not about the relationship being violated, and it's not about the relationship being formed...it's not even about the sex. It is the deep, profound, and insatiable desire to give and get that connection. That is the shit that cannot be articulated or explained to the uninitiated.

Hey, everyone is different. And I respect and honor diversity like a damn religion. But I have lived in darkness, and I have lived in light. Let there be light for me.