The Other Woman
It was an infidelity of the most agonizing kind.
As he put her breast in his mouth, he thought of her.
She was nobody, really. She had little talent compared to all the other people he’d met in his life, some of whom he’d even slept with. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, he believed in her.
Tiffany. Did he just whisper this name? He wasn’t sure. His head would think of nothing else.
He tried to focus. He rolled his tongue around his partner’s nipple and let his other hand slide smoothly from her neck downwards— other breast, ribs, thigh, pussy. She was wet and moaning. He was still not focused.
Tiffany. She didn’t love him, no. Or did she? He wished she did, he wished she didn’t. Anything but this. If only it were so clear cut, love. Indecisiveness, he knew all too well, was much worse than a no. And hers was an indecisiveness that cuts like a knife.
They never had sex, he and Tiffany. Not even a kiss. Just hugs. A simple holding of the hands, maybe. Nothing more.
And yet he never doubted that it was love. Not once, through all these years. His love to her was as obvious as the light of day, as the red of roses on a bright summer’s day. She was the sun that his entire planetary system revolve around.
Tiffany didn’t want that. She never wanted love. She never wanted any of it, really. She said she wanted to reach her dreams, but did she want that, even? For time and time again she would strike him down. Or, rather, it was her unavailability, her cowardice, her carelessness. No! And down he would go, spiraling into days of crippling depression while she was busy being busy, questioning her own dreams, comfortable in her zone of discomfort. Busy basking in the warmth of that familiar pain, busy being too afraid to explore the roads less traveled by.
And so he faced rejection after rejection, not out of malice but out of cowardice. Those were the worst kind. For who is to blame for being afraid of the world, really? Who is to blame for being quote-unquote realistic?
All he ever wanted was to be her courage. That was too much to ask, yeah?
“Stop.” His partner grabbed his hands and yanked him back to reality. “Enough with the fingers.” she whispered. Her voice was beautiful, erotic. “Just put yours in.”
He knew this should have given him an unmistakeable erection. But no. He tried to concentrate — he had to. He looked at his partner’s face, at her breasts. He looked at this naked figure in front of him, legs sprawled open, nothing if not accepting. She was a beautiful sight.
And at least she was present. That, right now, was better than anything else.
After a few strokes, he got hard enough penetrate her, and she was moaning with pleasure within seconds. If only she knew what was inside his head. But right now what was more important was inside her body.
This. All the women he sleeps with. What are they if not a pathetic, desperate attempt to clear his mind from the shadows of Tiffany? His was an infidelity motivated only by the truest love. The sex of survivalists, done only to maintain his ego from completely crashing down, to convince himself that he is still his own person. It was an infidelity of the most agonizing kind.
Infidelity? What a funny word. What possible reason could there be for him to be faithful to Tiffany? And yet that was what it felt like to him. That was how he went about these sexcapades, going as far as keeping all this a secret from Tiffany herself, lying to himself — and occasionally believing it — that maybe, just maybe, Tiffany would be jealous if she knew. That his dishonesty was a way to protect her.
Pathetic. He shook his head to get rid of the thoughts, and tried once more to concentrate on his partner’s face, contorted with that mix of hurt and pleasure one has during times of intense sex. It was undoubtedly erotic.
No, he didn’t need to try to keep it in. He needed to keep it up, to not get limp along the way due to thoughts of Tiffany, and he’ll take whatever image can help him. This was how sex had always been for him ever since. For the only person on Earth he wanted to have sex with never really saw him that way.
He moved faster, and soon she was convulsing. Fortunately her convulsions were enough to bring him near a climax, and when she was done he pulled out and let himself ejaculate on her stomach.
Finally, he thought. A successful round. He felt like a burden has been lifted off his shoulders, and he realized this was more a chore for the ego than a recreation. She opened her mouth and he let her take his penis inside her mouth. It felt good, but he didn’t care all that much.
She said something afterwards. Or maybe she didn’t. His head was too fuzzy, he couldn’t really remember. After a while, they fell asleep next to each other, naked.
At six in the morning he wakes up. She is still fast asleep under the sheets. He checks his emails and scrolls around a bit on Twitter. Enters Tiffany’s name into the search box and pull-refreshes her account. Because of course.
He gets up, washes himself, takes the bus home, sends Tiffany a good morning text, and swipes right on some Tinder profiles. The bus is mostly empty.
It was a familiar kind of emptiness.
This has been a short story by Bonni Rambatan, with photography by Iris Laurencio. For more stories like this, please follow Pleasure & Pain, our Medium fiction publication that explore the complex intricacies of love, sex, and relationships. To write for us, simply tweet the editor at @bonni07.
If you like discussions on storytelling, check out Narrative Design, a podcast on art, literature, and critical theory hosted by the editor of this collection.
