Your Wife Waters Flowers

I'm not usually one for personal anecdotes. I'm not usually one for affairs either. There's a first time for everything. You could agree.

The idea of moving to Texas for my career sounded dreadful. I hated each wave of heat when it reached us in Colorado. I hated sand. I hated apple pie and conservatives and tornado warnings.

And now, I hate you too.

Fair men aren't usually my type. The first time I saw you, I thought it was odd that both your hair and eyes were a light brown. Maybe you lost the green in the pecan trees your grandfather used to harvest or left the blue in Corpus Christi that summer vacation your first year after college. You greeted your new neighbor from across the road. Your house was your grandfather's. My house was a fixer-upper.

You knew about woodwork and plumbing. Your father raised a man, after all. What started as tired waving after I came home from work turned into Sunday afternoon beers. We both lived alone, surrounded by the elderly. They were polite to us youngsters but rarely intrigued.

"What do you do?"

"I work in finance. You?"

You owned a restaurant twenty-five minutes away. After you won enough cook-offs, you realized cuisine was your calling. It was obvious your local celebrity status was fueled by your appearance: a strong, attractive man with a desire to succeed? There was practically a queue to apply as a waitress.

You caught me in my front yard a particular Saturday morning, kneeling on the grass I was trying to bring back to life. I had marigolds in one hand. You offered to help. I asked if you knew anything about gardening. You said you'd love more greenery around your home but didn't have a clue where to start.

Soon, my new cabinets were installed, and a new row of coneflowers adorned the walkway to your front door. To celebrate our new additions, you invited me to dinner in your home. We had each other for dessert.

I had caught some lingering stares and reciprocated them, too. I never wanted to make a move. Yes, you were friendly, kind, and inspiring, but the way you carried yourself had me assuming otherwise.

That was on me. I was corrected when I felt your tongue against my own.

You had me pushed against your dining room's wall, your hands trying to memorize every aspect of my outline. Your skin was rough from your work, and you smelled like smoke and leather. I ran my tongue down the side of your neck, relishing your flavor.

You admitted that you had never been with a man before. I stepped back, offering to take it slow and take your time, if necessary. I hadn't considered us an option, so I could benefit from some thinking as well.

The words that followed confirmed what the heaviness in your pants gave away: you wanted it. You needed it. Now.

I got on my knees before you and undid your Levi's, the belt I had complimented once or twice becoming my biggest hurdle. When I finally managed to pull you out of your briefs, I salivated. I questioned whether or not I'd be able to take most of your cock in my mouth without struggle, but the precum that gathered at the tip had me starving.

"Come on, whore," you ordered. "Suck my cock."

Your change of tone caught me by surprise, but it was welcomed. I wanted to please you, to intoxicate you, to make every other experience look dull. As I bobbed my head on your length, my tongue swirling and dragging my saliva onto all the surface it could encounter, I whined with my lips around you.

It was heavenly hearing your moans and feeling your hand on my hair, holding on for dear life and pushing further and further. Spit left the corners of my mouth with each movement, nearing your base as the minutes passed. The sound of my gagging filled the room. Your eyes fluttered. Your cock twitched inside my mouth.

"Are you going to be a good boy and swallow?"

I nodded without letting my sucking cease.

You couldn't possibly last any longer, so you took the back of my head and brought it down against you. I inhaled sharply when I felt your cock enter my throat. My eyes watered while I regulated my breathing.

My eyes rolled up to see you when the first spray of your hot seed hit the walls of my throat. The vibrations of my own moaning against you were guarantees of my own satisfaction. Burst after burst of your cum was the confirmation I was desperate for.

I finally lifted my head once you had emptied yourself, tears rolling down my red, smiling cheeks. You said I belonged to you now.

-

When you first met her, you had been fucking me at least three times a week for seven months.

You said you weren't ready to come out. I wanted to be kind, especially when you said you felt something for me, something new, something worth fighting for. No labels, no PDA, but at least we had each other where it mattered the most.

Now, you also had her.

You stopped inviting me over for beers to have coffee with her on your porch. You'd arrive home late at night and go straight for the passenger seat to get her door inside of my home. Some nights, if I hated myself enough, I would look out when my sleep was cut short and see the silhouettes of the two of you screwing by your bedroom window.

She didn't know you would fuck me the night prior or the one to come. You would have me lying face down on your bed, your hands grabbing onto the sides of my torso, shoving your cock into me desperately. You'd slap my ass until your handprint was marked. You'd ask to fill me. I'd beg for it.

She didn't know that the body scrub in your first-floor bathroom was one I had left a month ago. I guess we both liked the smell of lavender. You especially loved it when you had watched me scrub your thighs in your shower before I took your balls in my mouth, the delicious pressure of my lips and tongue making your sight more hazy than the steam of the water.

She didn't know that your restaurant wasn't only the place where you two had your first kiss. You had invited me over one evening when you closed. She had gotten a lovely version: a romantic, private dinner where you held hands and exchanged hopes. Instead, you lay back on your desk and played with my length while I rode you.

I wished I hated her. I wished she was actually a horrible person. At least then, I'd feel a little less like one myself.

-

Every time I saw you, I was livid. I wanted to be able to be with someone better. I wanted to forget you and your cruel intentions. I felt conflicted: it was my fault, too. I wanted to stay. I couldn't go too long without you.

I realized how cocooned I had become. I was a ghost of myself. I stayed home in the hopes that you'd ask me over. I had my phone on silent during work hours, with your contact being the exception. I sent pictures at your command, begging the universe that perhaps this one would be nice enough for you to choose me.

Your whore wants your attention.

Your slut needs your cock.

Please give me your cum.

Please use me, sir.

I couldn't stop. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror.

You'd reply, of course, handing me enough hope to continue. She had just moved in, so I adapted. Her night out with friends was our night. No more dinner, no more romance: only tossing me on the couch and cleaning up with the towels I would bring. The time she went to visit her mother, you wanted to fuck my throat. The time she fell asleep with the flu in the middle of the afternoon, you had snuck me in and bent me over the staircase, your hand over my mouth.

The smell of your skin was starting to grow nauseating.

-

I don't like that it took meeting him to realize how starved I was for reciprocation. He met me at my company. He never rushed anything. He didn't kiss me until the second date.

I hadn't realized how long it had been since I had a kiss that didn't end with a tongue testing my gag reflex.

You noticed the wave changing quickly. You had never double texted. You never peeked out your window. You avoided me in her presence. She just thought I was a distanced neighbor, making her that much more surprised when you showed up at my door one evening.

He was with me. We were baking. You were angry. "You need to cut this shit out."

"Are you drunk?" You weren't.

"If you think this jealousy bit is going to work, well, it's not."

"Why would I try to make someone who doesn't want me jealous?"

"I do want you!"

I looked over your shoulder. Your darling fiancé was at your doorframe, confused as to why you were banging at my door in your pajamas. He hovered behind me. He knew I had stopped engaging. He put a hand on my lower back.

It was the last time I saw you, willingly at least. You sent texts. You called. You even wrote letters. I never opened them. My ego made me tempted to see what was going on--I wanted you to hurt like I had. I wanted you to remember me every time you realized she wasn't for you. That no woman would ever be for you. That she deserved better, and I deserved what was coming for me. She didn't choose to be lied to.

He and I didn't end up working out, but he brought me back to myself. The last I heard, he found a new partner, and he's happy. I'm happy for them.

Last you heard, I left Texas. I sold that stupid house, brushed off that stiff sand, but learned to love apple pie. I got a better job in Colorado. I can look at myself again.

The last I heard, you still live in the house with the dead coneflowers. Your wife gave up trying to bring them back to life. It's not the only thing she's giving up on.