I opened the drawer of my desk and for the umpteenth time glanced at the cut out ad from the Chicago Reader. The short personal ad had been burning my mind for weeks and I was almost certain that by now I would be too late responding to it. Not that I thought I had much chance in the first place. Ads like that probably got thousands of responses and to make a contact and be actually picked out of a pool of hot-blooded testosterone, well that would be almost like hitting a jackpot, wouldn't it?
I put the small piece of, by now crumpled and its ink smudged, newspaper in front of me. I tapped my fingers against it for a minute and sighed. Just thinking about trying my luck with the woman who was advertising sent my stomach in a spin of funny feelings. Butterflies, punches and hot coal-like sensations intertwined and made me lightheaded.
It wasn't just the fact that I had never done anything remotely similar in my life. There was also my wife, stunningly beautiful and impossibly greedy Danielle, who for a few years now had withheld any sort of sexual contact with me, save for the rare occasions when she wanted something. There would be an odd blow job – poorly performed, I might add – when she cast her eye on a particularly expensive piece of jewelry, or even a hurried fuck when she wanted to vacation in some remote and overpriced location, which just happened to be all the rave at the moment. Every time we had sex in the past five years, and I am embarrassed to admit that I could count those on the fingers of my two hands, she appeared bored, her eyes wide open, staring into the ceiling or out the window, no facial expression, no bodily response. She didn't even bother to lift her ass or put her arms around me. Kissing itself was completely out of the question. By now, I wasn't interested in any of it anyway.
I thought of leaving a thousand times, even talked to my best friend about it and, another embarrassing confession, tried the help of a therapist. Nothing ever helped. I would be torn between the guilt of not "seeing things through" as my mother had always put it, abandoning the woman that I once loved more than the life itself and most of all, I couldn't picture leaving my three children. As Danielle became cold towards me, I noticed that she was more and more distant to the kids as well. She wasn't interested in their activities, I was always the one who went to parent-teacher meetings and I literally had to drag her to recitals or sports events, which our kids enjoyed and participated in.
Why things turned for the worse, I couldn't quite say, although I do believe it had a lot to do with my long workdays, my job overflowing into weekends, as well. I tried working from home for a while, but soon gave up. Nothing seemed to work and bring us together any longer.
Her mind is preoccupied with clothes and the way she looks, and I have to admit, she looks damn good. She spends most of her time in the gym or lunching with her girlfriends, and when she does spend time at home, she's either sleeping, or bossing everyone in the house like a dictator.
I suggested the therapist and the cynical look on her face made me slam my fists against the table and give up right there and then. Sure, I cheated on her a couple of times while the going between us had been good. However, that was when I was on business trips out of town and she never knew about it, I'd be willing to bet my life on it. I just truly believe that she achieved everything she wanted in a marriage, financial security to say the least, and to be quite frank, it was more than that. I busted my ass so that she could have every luxury her greedy little mind required and she showed no gratitude.
I tried an escort once, having arranged a meeting at one of the downtown hotels, and was horrified to realize that the girl who knocked on the door was almost a clone of my wife physically, thus immediately sending my fears into complete state of panic. She walked in, took off her blouse and lifted her skirt, bending over a chair and allowing me to fuck her like that in a frenzy-like state. She moaned and physically responded, but I could tell that it was all a game. I tipped her well on top of what I had already been charged by the agency and after she left, I took a shower in the luxurious suite, which I had rented for a night and jerked off in there, noting that that particular release was much more pleasurable than the pussy I had just pounded.
I began browsing personals and sex ads in the local newspapers and magazines. I carefully studied each photograph if there was one, and found something wrong with every woman advertising. Some were too young, some too old. Not pretty enough. Wrong hair color. Sometimes, the face looking out at me just seemed to belong to a sarcastic, cold and greedy bitch, much like my wife. Certain ads would excite me, but I never had the balls to go through with any of my plans. I believe I tried to find things that were wrong with the women. God knows, I'm no irresistible hunk with a six-pack and the body to die for. Too much time spent behind the desk, coupled with junk food lunches and lavish dinner parties, which my wife and I attend a few times a week had taken its toll. Plus, of course, the fact that I am nearing my fifties and my already lazy metabolism had slowed down to the point where I can almost feel every single meal adding to my weight.
I didn't care about it until that point. Now, having seriously thought about finding a woman on the side, I wished I had taken better care of myself. Yet, time didn't permit me to go to the gym more than once or twice a week, and besides, I truly believed that all I'd ever be doing is browsing through the ads and fantasizing. Never actually taking any action.
Until that is, I noticed an ad in one of the Chicago Readers's personals, and my eye seemed to get stuck on it. The ad differed from others in that it revealed no exact age, absolutely no measurements, weight or height. There was no description of eye or hair color. The only thing I was certain of was that the ad was by a woman and she wanted sex. At least I hoped that was what she was after.
I searched for the toll-free number to call into the voicemail box and leave a message and in my frustration couldn't find it for a while. Once I spotted it, I realized that particular phone number was all over the place. I took snafu as an omen not to mess with things and changed my mind about calling. Despite the decision, however, I carefully folded the ad section of the newspaper and slid it under the heavy files in my desk draw. I figured I'd forget about it, but that didn't turn out to be the case.
A few days later, having thought about the ad, and in my mind pictured the woman that posted it, I pulled out the newspaper again. In my haste to be done with it earlier, I forgot to circle the ad, and it had taken me almost an hour to browse through and find it again. I cursed myself for being such an idiot, but the fact that I found it calmed me down some. This time, I took a red marker and made an oval-shaped circle around it, picking up the phone and yet again giving up before I even finished dialing the number.
I did this many times over the next few weeks, after a month realizing that I might have missed my chance of the woman ever answering. To my great surprise, the ad was still running when I checked the newest of Readers a few weeks later. I was excited now, obviously, she hadn't found anyone yet.
I carefully re-read the ad and found it to be identical in both newspapers. It read:
Thirty-something housewife searching for a companion for occasional, no-strings attached meetings. Discretion a must. No monetary compensation.
I was slightly dumbfounded. Thirty-something might mean a thirty-one year old who looked like she was in her mid twenties, or at thirty-nine, a washed out broad with titties down to her knees. No-strings attached could stand for visits to museums, a shoulder to cry on, or a wild, uninhibited sex. Discretion, well that one I did understand. No monetary compensation – did that mean she wouldn't be paying, or didn't want to be paid by the person answering the ad? I also noted the fact that the ad didn't state whether she was seeking a man or a woman, although it had been placed in the "women seeking men" section.
I would pick up my kids from school sometimes and curiously peer at thirty-something mothers of their classmates, who were patiently sitting in their cars or quietly gossiping on the side walk, waiting for their offspring to come belting out and their faces would turn into rays of sunshine, happy that their children were once again under the safe wings of their mother hens.
For some reason reading the ad, I never pictured a stunningly beautiful, tall and dark mysterious stranger, rather a mousy looking housewife – after all she did introduce herself as the latter – and the idea of me balling some of those women was more than appealing. "Occasional, no-strings attached meetings" seemed more and more inviting to my frustrated mind and sex-starved body.
Finally, weeks after I first noticed the ad in the paper, I gathered up enough courage and dialed the number, carefully entering the appropriate mailbox when prompted. I'm not sure what I expected but when there was no audio response save for the beep I waited and waited and then realizing that this stupefied silence in expectation of some sort of response is being recorded I hung up.
Minutes later I tried again. This time I was ready. When the beep rang in my ear, I took a deep breath and began blabbering. I stated my name, and the fact that I was a male, which I could have kicked myself for, of course. Ever so carefully I recited my cell phone number and hoped that for the love of god, my numeric dyslexia wouldn't prevent me from giving my number correctly. I hung up and realized my palms were sweaty.
Despite having banged strangers while married before, this somehow seemed different. It was like I was on an interview, only I couldn't see the examiner and I felt as if my pride and self-esteem were on the line here. Realizing that I haven't told her that I was a white man, I almost dialed the number again, only to hang up as I recalled she hadn't revealed her own race in the ad.
I dated, fucked and married exclusively white women, but that was really not a conscious decision. It just happened that way. I certainly gawked at attractive women of all races and at this point, I didn't care who or what she was. My mind was aching for some human contact save for the occasional slap on the back by my tennis buddies or breathtaking hugs from my children. I wanted a woman and in my desperation I believed anything would do.
