Reason... Pt.4: Swim Good

Reasons... Pt.4: Swim Good
L.A. Lutara


I struggled for an answer. I knew what I wanted to say but to say that would be even more heartless than what I was already doing.
But what was the greater evil, I asked myself, sparing her feelings, if only a little bit, by denying myself the peace of mind that being honest would bring or to laying it all out on the table and praying to God that there would be someone nearby to pick up the pieces?
Using honesty as a guise for selfishness, I steeled myself and decided to tell it how it was.
“I don't love you anymore...” I said almost wistfully. “If I ever loved you at all.” I added almost as an after thought. An unnecessary after thought, I thought afterwards. A mean after thought. A cold and callous after thought...but an after thought none the less.
Sharon said nothing. She had never been the teary type but I could see the tears begin to well up in the corner of her eyes.
Oddly, I felt the familiar sting in the corner of my eyes as well. It was like I could hear the hairline cracks in her heart begin to crag their way across its surface and as unbelievable as it may seem, I empathized with her. Knowing that I was literally breaking her heart made my heart break. But not as much as what she said next.
“But you asked me to marry you. You bought me a ring. You bought you a ring. You're wearing it right now. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”
It did. Or it had. At the time. I was horny and you weren't going to let me hit that unless I promised to marry you. Yeah, you were that type of girl. And so in the heat of the moment, with my balls on fire and my penis pressing all hard against my jeans, I said that I would marry you. And the thing is, I've never been that type of guy before but that night, with our bodies pressed together on the very carpet that I'm rubbing my stockinged feet against right now, you turned me into that type of guy. And so after that I was forced to lie. Everyday. And I thought that if I lied long enough that maybe, just maybe that it would become real. And for a while it did. But you can only lie to yourself for so long...
But I wasn't going to say that. That would be too much. That would have destroyed her. That would have made her hate me. And so I said nothing.
“Was there someone else?”
I had been avoiding her gaze. She was too painful to look at. But when she asked this I looked up. My eyes said everything that she needed to know.
“Was it Samantha?”
I Swallowed. Gulped. My eye brows involuntarily kneading themselves into an expression of consternation.
It had been Samantha. I had never gotten over her. Sharon had known about her even when we had started dating. Had known that Samantha had been to me 'the one who got away'. Had even been willing to give me the time and space to deal with whatever I felt I had to deal with. But instead of dealing with it, I had simply cheated on her.
I nodded. But she had already known this. What she didn't know was,
“When did it start?”
I looked her up and down. She looked as if she was on the verge of breaking. Like the slightest tap would smash her into a million tiny pieces.
I know I had decided to lay all the cards out on the table but this? This was not what I had expected.
“It's not important.” I said softly. “It doesn't matter.”
“Well it does to me!”
Sharon's voice was shrill. A near shout. Coarse. Damn near hysterical. Taking a deep breath she swallowed, taking a moment to get herself back under control.
“It does to me...now, when did it start?”
She wasn't going to let up. She would keep on asking until I told her.
I let out a resigned sigh.
“Her birthday. Two months ago.”
Sharon let out a bark of a laugh.
“Did you at least fuck her right?”
I stared. I had never heard Sharon actually say the word 'fuck' before.
“Did you make her come?”
I was starting to worry.
“Did she wet the bed?”
Something was really wrong.
“Or did you fuck her on the couch like the first time you fucked me? After you said you would marry me.”
Sharon...didn't...talk like...this...
I heard the sound of couch leather rubbing against nylon. Sharon was moving closer to me on the couch. She ran a hand up my thigh. Down then up again.
“Did she do this?”
She got her other hand and started doing the same to my other thigh.
“Does that feel good baby?” Her voice was becoming huskier, she was lending it a seductive lilt I had never heard her use before. She reached for my zipper.
My hands shooting out, I grabbed her wrists. Hard.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Isn't that what you want baby? To be treated like a porn star?”
I would be lying to you if I said that I wasn't turned on.
Somehow managing to wriggle her wrists free from my grip she again went for my zipper. And this time, as much as I hated myself for it even then, I let her...
When it was all over (after both times) we lay on the carpet of her living room; sweaty, out of breath and without a condom or wrapper in sight.