A Woman from the Ad

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Amateur

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 poker oyna 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 canlı poker oyna 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.

As soon as I left the message I made sure my cell phone was on and recharged. Of course, I didn’t expect an instant callback, but one never knows. I was hopeful, not overly so, but still, there was a definite glimmer of expectation.

Later that afternoon, stuck in the standstill traffic on the Kennedy Expressway my cell phone went off and expecting to hear one of my kid’s voice on the other side, I answered it without checking the caller ID first. After my initial “hello”, there was a long pause and I repeated myself twice before I got the response.

“Hi,” said a smoky woman’s voice, one that I didn’t recognize. Despite the nervous expectations throughout that day at work, like a blockhead I had forgotten about the ad the minute I sat in my car and pulled off towards my home.

“Yes?” I asked, slightly annoyed at the prospect of a wrong number. The voice certainly didn’t belong to my wife.

“You answered my ad in the Reader,” said the voice and I was grateful the car wasn’t moving at the time, as I would have certainly floored the break or worse, the accelerator. I was shocked, although not unpleasantly so.

“Oh, yes!” I said, switching myself into a happy, chatty mode. “Yes, I did. Eh…I don’t really know how these things go and what are your expectations, but…”

“Like the ad said,” the voice was unrelentingly cold yet very sexy. I noticed a slight accent, which I couldn’t quite place. “Occasional, no-strings attached meetings.”

“Okay?” I asked, anticipating a clearer explanation, but none followed. I felt like a fool.

“What exactly do those meetings consist of?” I asked, hoping she’d say they would be solely about sex, but not really believing she would.

“Sex. Just sex. No relationships, no dinners, nothing but sex.”

I began sweating.

“What does occasional mean?” This was better than I thought.

“Once a week. Wednesdays.” There was a slight pause. “Wednesday lunch time.” She didn’t ask me if I was free or willing to go for that. It might have been impossible for me to do it on those particular days at that particular time, but I had a feeling if I declined she’d hang up right then and I’d never hear from her again.

“Huh…” I giggled like an idiot. “I’ve never done anything like that before, and…”

“Well, you’re either in or you’re out.” She didn’t sound nervous or frightened, not even impatient, even though the words that were hitting my ears would have otherwise made me believe she had been at least anxious.

“What do you look like?” I asked.

“Good enough to fuck.”

“Do you want to know what I look like?” I asked hopefully, suddenly blank on how I would have described myself. Slightly overweight, late forties, thinning hair… Nothing seemed attractive enough to disclose at this point.

“No, I don’t. If you’re disgusting, nothing will happen, that’s all.”

Damn! The woman was cold, I had to give her that. But I’ve had coldness in my own home for so long, I wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

“You said in your ad that there’s no monetary compensation.”

“I don’t want any money. And I sure as hell won’t be paying you.”

I laughed out loud then. This lady was proving to be one tough cookie. And I liked it!

“When?” I asked.

“Well…” The first hint of hesitation in her voice broke the frigid façade of her business-like dealing. “Tomorrow is a Wednesday.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” I still couldn’t place the accent and that bothered me. “You want to meet me for lunch?”

“No dinners means no lunches either.”

“Hm.” I thought about the possibility that she’d want to have a quickie in the car and the idea of driving through downtown Chicago during the lunch hour was not a very attractive one. I went for it anyway. “Do you want me to pick you up some place?”

“No.” Came the reply.

“What then?”

“Book a room in one of the downtown hotels and I’ll call you in the morning to find out where and the room number.”

“Which hotel?” I asked like an idiot.

“I don’t care. I’ll call you to find out which hotel and what room number so that I can check out you’re not putting me on. Somebody will know where I am, so no funny business!”

Well, saucy and smart. I liked that. I hoped she’d turn internet casino out to be physically attractive, too. Judging by her voice, she would have been a bombshell.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Was all she added and then the line went dead. I closed the flip phone and pressed it against my lips, as if I could taste the voice that had just soothed my ears. I was in for one crazy ride, I knew that. How crazy? Well, I had no clue.

I checked my phone for the most recent number of a received call, but the last one on the list was that of my house phone. She had obviously blocked her caller ID. I was slightly disappointed. A mysterious stranger is all good and dandy in a novel, but when one is faced with it in reality, it’s more intimidating than anything else.

I tried to think about how intimidated she must have been calling me. I felt I was fooling myself in that. There was too much confidence to make me think any different than that she had plenty of experience in this kind of business. For all I knew, she was seeing a different man every day of the week, and this was something she had done a million times before. I didn’t care.

That evening, I was a bundle of nerves. I couldn’t concentrate on anything at all. The book that I had been literally devouring for the past two nights seemed unattractive. News was the same old crap, and none of the movies on the cable held my attention for longer than a few minutes. My temper flared when Danielle tried to slip me one of her ever-so-familiar request for slightly more money than I had been giving her. And let me tell you, that amount was already very generous. I yelled at her, pounded my fist against the kitchen counter and accidentally knocked a coffee mug on the floor, breaking it into a thousand pieces. Always ready for a fight, this time Danielle said nothing. She simply looked at me, turned on her heels and stomped out of the kitchen.

I felt bad when I looked towards the table and my three kids were sitting there, forks and cups of water half way in the air, their mouth open, their eyes wide. They seemed to me as if I had been looking at the photograph, none of them moved or said a word.

Later on that evening I took a long bath, grooming myself to as much of perfection as I possibly could. I clipped my nails and used baby lotion to soften my skin; I trimmed my goatee and washed my hair. I knew I was doing it all for nothing, as I would repeat the whole process again in the morning. I wanted to look good, and as bizarre as that may sound, I wanted to look good for someone I didn’t even know. The woman with a velvety voice might turn out to be an old hooker, trying new tricks. She might look like something out of a nightmare, with bad teeth and over processed hair.

Yet again, none of that mattered to me. I felt like a high-schooler, in tow for a party, aware that there was a very good chance he could score with a girl he’d liked for a long time.

I tossed and turned that night and when I finally managed to fall asleep, I’d wake up every few minutes, or so it seemed, unable to go back to sleep for a while. I left the bed and went downstairs to my study, browsing through porn sites and working myself up to what was to follow the next day. I called the Weston Hotel on the lake and booked a room. While I was told I was very lucky to have found a vacancy at all, due to the conference that had had most of the hotels in Chicago booked, I also felt foolish for spending over three hundred bucks on a room that would be used for a simple fuck. The fact that I didn’t have to pay the woman on the phone for her services made me break my rules of a restricted budget and pay the amount that I found to be absolutely ridiculous.

When the alarm clock went off, I was so tired I didn’t feel like getting out of bed at all. Nevertheless, I got up and took another shower, washed my hair and carefully inspected my face for any previously missed unruly facial hair. I found the best pair of silk boxer shorts, compliments of my wife after a particularly generous shopping spree that she had awarded herself. Not wanting to appear too businessman like, I dressed casually, in khaki pants and a sweater.

Danielle’s suspicious looks didn’t faze me at all, and when she asked why I wasn’t wearing the suit, I told her I was to be at work only half a day and spend the rest in the gym. I doubt she believed me, knowing my dislike of rigorous workouts that she swore to, but she didn’t prod further.

Duffel bag full of clothes I wouldn’t be wearing in tow, I walked out of the house with a heavy and yet a light heart. I was excited, but at the same time, I worried that the woman on the phone was just taking me for a ride and I might bitterly regret the decision to ever answer the ad in the paper.

On my way to the city I called my office and told them I was taking a sick day. Always a responsible workaholic, I found it hard to do so, but the prospect of what was to follow later made it slightly easier on my conscience. I parked the car in the Weston Hotel lot and checked in. The view of the lake was stunning. The overcast weather that we had had for days had broken and the mid autumn warmth had brought out the sailboats to taste the water one last time this year.

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