Affairs

A man decides to ask his girlfriend of 8 months to marry him. She replies, "What about your wife?"


Trista stared back at me with those amazing blue eyes. The girl was beautiful in every way you could imagine; shallow, but beautiful. Soft auburn curls pressed against the bed fanned around her heart shaped face like a mane. I gazed down at her naked body, the perfectly contoured curves of a nineteen year old ex-cheerleader. I liked the way sweat pooled in her belly button when we were finished making love.

"You staying here tonight?" I asked, tracing a fingertip over her nipple.

"I have to work so I'll be late." She smiled up at me, that beautiful mouth.

"Marry me." It wasn't a question. The words were just out before I could think about them. And come to think of it, that little blue pill was kicking in like never before.

"What about your wife?" she asked, batting those lashes at me as she spoke. Trista never cared that I was married. I promised her I was leaving when the kids were older, and that was enough. Well, that and the credit card bills I paid for when she just had to have something. After all, I wanted her to look incredible when she visited.

"Michelle will be fine. I'll give her a big divorce settlement, then I can live here permenantly and you don't have sneak out when my wife calls and says she'll be by in a half hour to stock the fridge." I sat up in bed and pulled the sheet around me. At home with Michelle I didn't care what the hell she saw or thought of my naked body, but Trista was young and voluptuous. I was lucky she even gave me a second look let alone climbed into bed with me.

"I told you a long time ago I wasn't gonna be breaking up no marriage. Why can't we just bone and leave it at that?" She twirled a finger through her hair and sat up, her bare breasts still perky even without a bra. God, I loved that girl.

"I thought women wanted to get married?" I teased, kissing her spine as I resituated my boxers. Amazing how much energy I had when it wasn't Michelle glaring back at me with that sour look on her face, complaining that I don't spend enough time at home, or that I don't take the trash out, or I'm always too tired for her.

"You think I'd ever marry a man who cheated on his wife? I mean, I might be a mistress or something but I'm never gonna be that wife." She rolled her eyes and stood up from bed, sheet falling away from the lower half of her body. She was flawless. Irritating, but flawless.

"So you think we're just gonna screw each other's brains out three nights a week and you send me on home to the wifey?" I wanted to be angry, because she should want me. But this was really perfect, every man's fantasy. Oblivious wife at home with three kids, keeping up the facade of that perfect American dream, and Trista at my apartment, the no-strings sex goddess who could blow more than my mind at any given time.

"Either that or you can have this apartment all to yourself," she shimmied her skirt back up over her hips, pulled her tank top on and slid into sandals. She threw her panties at me, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door.

Without another word, she left me there, half aroused, half angry, and half on top of the world.