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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} First Ever Repost (9):Something To Tell (MF) ~by DrSpin
Date: Thu, 24 Jan 2002 23:10:03 -0500
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Something To Tell (MF)
by DrSpin (aka Neil Anthony)
(first ever repost - originally posted February 2000) 

---------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

"Listen," she said, interrupting. "There's something I have 
to tell you." 

It was a long drive home; more than two hours of it. But it 
had been a great party and worth the trip. I saw people I 
hadn't seen in a long time. Better, I became engrossed in a 
long and stimulating argument in the library about the 
democratic process which made me feel invigorated. Living 
out in the bush was good for the soul but not the 
intellect. Alison had been listening to my chatter in the 
car patiently. Or so I thought. Now, it came to me in a 
flash, she hadn't been listening at all. 

"There's something I have to tell you," she said. I felt a 
cool breeze. Those are often signal words, portending 
unpleasant news. Sorry but I have terminal cancer, for 
example. Or, sorry but I've decided to leave you. 

"Go on," I said warily, watching the road ahead. I forgot 
instantly what I had been talking about. 

"Back there at the party."

"Yes?"

"You got into some big debate. I was dancing."

"Sure." I knew that. Alison loved dancing.

"I went outside for some fresh air. With the guy I was 
dancing with. Mark, his name was." 

Uh oh. She had something to tell me. Here it was. I 
listened with growing dread. 

"He made a pass at me," she said.

"I see," I said. Was that all? "He put the word on you, 
eh?"

"Well, he kissed me."

"Ah. And you kissed him back?"

"Not at first."

"Not at first?"

"No."

"But then?"

"Well, he didn't stop."

"Did you ask him to stop?"

"Well, no. I just assumed he would."

"Did you give him any signals about stopping? I mean, did 
you struggle?" 

"Well, no."

"Alison, if he kissed you and you didn't tell him to stop 
by way of word or action, why would he stop kissing you?" 

"You make it sound like it was all my fault," she said 
truculently.

"Go on with the story. You were talking about kissing him 
back."

"Was I? Yes, I guess I did."

"Kissed him back?"

"Yes."

"For how long? I mean, how long did you both go on 
kissing?"

"I don't know. For some time, I guess."

I sighed in exasperation. "Alison," I said. "What the hell 
is going on here? You started by saying you wanted to tell 
me something. But you've told me almost nothing. I'm having 
to drag it out of you like a dentist pulling teeth. What 
actually is it that you wanted to tell me?" 

"Well," she said uncertainly, "I guess I wanted to tell you 
that I kissed this guy. To own up to it." 

"That's what you were going to tell me? That you kissed 
him?"

"Yes. I thought I should tell you."

"And I'm glad you did. It was the right thing to do. See? 
I'm not so unhappy about it. I can understand. You like to 
dance and you like to be kissed. He was probably an 
attractive guy. Was he?" 

"Well, yes. He was, actually."

"I can understand. As long as that's as far as it went."

Silence. An awkward silence. I glanced across at her. She 
was staring out the side window. "Right," I said softly. 
"There's more. You'd better tell me." 

"It's not easy," she said quietly.

"You didn't plan to tell me about more, did you? You were 
only going to tell me about dancing and kissing." Silence. 
I took it as assent. "If I ask questions, will you tell me 
truthful answers?" 

"Shit," she said, softly but distinctly and with feeling. 

This was unlike her. She didn't often swear. The whole 
thing was unlike her. She was not adventurous, flirtatious, 
immodest or careless. She barely drank alcohol, she didn't 
smoke, she didn't gamble and she certainly didn't play 
around. Unless, that is, I had misjudged her completely in 
all the eight years of our marriage. She was a cautious and 
conservative woman, a home-maker and responsible mother of 
two. 

I persisted. "Alison, will you tell the truth?"

"If you ask questions," she said, her voice tight.

"Okay. What happened next?"

Silence. Then: "I can't answer that. It's too hard for me."

Right. I understood. I had to ask specific questions. And 
the right specific questions. "Did he touch your breasts?" 

"Yes."

"You let him touch your breasts?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." She looked out the window again. 
"I didn't stop him." 

"So he put his hands on your breasts."

"Yes."

"Hang on a moment," I said, looking at her to check. "That 
dress. It buttons up the front. Did he undo any buttons?" 

"Yes."

"He put his hand inside your dress?"

"Yes."

"And you let him?"

She sighed deeply. "I didn't stop him."

"Maybe by then you didn't want to stop him." Silence. "Is 
that right?" 

"I don't know."

"But you didn't stop him."

"No."

"Did he put his hand under your bra?"

"Yes."

"Of course he did. Did he undo your bra?"

Hesitation. I felt it. "Did he undo your bra?" I repeated.

"No."

I was puzzled about her initial hesitation. I pursued it. 
"Was your bra undone?" 

She made a little protesting noise in her throat. "Yes," 
she said.

"So if he didn't do it, you did. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Alison, I don't believe this. You took off your bra to 
allow him access to your breasts?" 

"Yes."

"Jesus. Was your dress undone? What, were you bare to the 
waist?"

Again the little noise. "Yes."

"Did he kiss your breasts?"

"Yes. God help me."

"Jesus, Alison. How much more is there? Jesus, did you fuck 
him?"

"No," she said very quickly.

It was true. She wouldn't lie to me. But clearly there was 
more. "Did he put his hand in your pants?" 

"Yes," she said. Her voice sounded like she was becoming 
resigned to it. 

"Did he put his fingers in you?"

"Yes."

"Did you...did you orgasm?"

Suddenly she turned angry. "Yes," she shouted. But then her 
anger died just as quickly. "Yes," she repeated quietly. "I 
did." 

I drove along the dark road, not even trying to assimilate 
this information. I had to know it all first. "Did you feel 
his cock?" 

"Yes."

"What, outside his pants?"

"Yes."

"And inside his pants?"

"Yes."

"You unzipped him and put your hand in and grabbed his 
cock? Is that right?" 

"Yes."

"Did you take it out?"

"Yes."

"Did you bring him off?"

"Yes."

"What, you jerked him off?"

"No."

"Then how did you do it?"

"That's not the right question."

"Bullshit, Alison. Tell me how you got him off."

"With my mouth."

"You sucked his cock?"

"Yes."

"You...you knelt on the ground, bare to the waist, took his 
dick in your hand and put it in your mouth." 

"Yes."

"And he put his hands in your hair and he loved it."

"Yes. Well, I assume he did."

"You assume it because he came?"

"Yes."

"Damn. He came in your mouth. You swallowed?"

"Yes."

"Jesus. Fucking Jesus. I was in the library catching up 
with old friends and you were giving some guy in the bushes 
out the back a blowjob. Is that what happened?" 

"If you must put it that way."

"And that's the full story?"

"Yes." She turned to me for the first time. I felt her eyes 
searching my face. "Isn't that enough?" 

"Considerably more than enough," I said. "What on earth got 
into you? This isn't like you at all." 

"No, it isn't," she said. "Honestly, I don't know how and 
why it happened. It just did. I can't explain it. What are 
you going to do?" 

"So tell me," I said sarcastically, "what do you think I 
should do? Stop the car and throw you out?" 

She was silent, staring again at the road ahead. We drove 
for a while without speaking. 

"Who was this guy?" I asked eventually.

"His name was Mark. He was a friend of Tim and Heather 
Watson, I think." 

"And he was good looking."

"Well, yes, more or less."

"More? Or less?"

"Well, more. He was a good looking guy."

"Are you going to see him again?"

"No."

"Swear?"

"I won't see him again."

We drove for another while. "Tell the truth," I said. "If 
you could have done so safely, would you have fucked him?" 

"I don't know."

"Alison, the truth."

"It's easy to say no now and mean it. But back there? I 
don't know. Maybe." She looked across at me again. "What 
are you going to do?" 

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" She was surprised.

"What the hell can I do? I love you. You're my wife. The 
mother of my children. My best friend and closest 
colleague. So what can I do? The only real answer is, 
nothing. You had an adventure. I guess I'll have to learn 
to live with it, because the alternatives are 
unacceptable." 

She was silent, thinking. We ate up more kilometres. "If 
we're going to get past this," I said eventually, 
"everything has to be clean. You have to tell me 
everything. If I think something has been left unsaid, it 
will nag at me. Is there anything more to tell?" 

"I don't think so," she said uncertainly. "I think I told 
it all." 

"So you came just the once."

Pause. "No," she said. "Twice."

"See? There's something you didn't tell me. Do I have to 
drag it out of you?" 

"I just remembered it now," she said. "When you asked."

"When did you come again?"

"When...ah, when he did."

"When you sucked him off?"

"Yes. It was, I don't know, so exciting, I guess. It just 
happened out of nowhere." 

"And you swallowed it."

"I told you that."

"All of it?"

"Not all of it. There was too much."

"It spilled from your mouth? Where?"

"On my body. On my dress."

"It's still there?"

"Uh, yes. I guess it is. More or less."

"Jesus, Alison. You're sitting in the car beside me with 
another man's sperm dried on your body and damp on your 
dress. Is that how it is?" 

"If you want to put it like that."

"What else do you have to tell me?"

"Nothing. I think that's all."

"And you've never done anything like it before?"

"You know I haven't."

"And you won't again?"

"I can't promise."

"What? Alison, what are you doing to me?"

"Being honest. I don't plan to do anything. But who's to 
say what will happen in the future? You might change, I 
might change, anything might change. I'm 33 years old and 
I've been a pretty good girl all my life. I'm getting older 
quickly, feeling less attractive by the minute, locked into 
a pattern of existence which stretches out for years ahead. 
Tonight a man found me desirable and, despite not having 
any plans or intentions, I responded. I feel young again. 
Sorry, darling, but that's how it is. I feel guilty but I 
also feel good. It's the most exciting thing to happen to 
me in years. So who's to say I won't respond if such a 
situation happens again? You? Not realistic. Me? I'm not 
that dishonest. It would be the easiest thing in the world 
to make a promise now, but I know in my heart I might not 
keep it. I don't love you less and I don't want to harm our 
marriage and I don't want to live with anyone but you. I'm 
just telling you the truth." 

"This means I can't trust you," I said sadly.

"Perhaps you never should have. Trust breeds complacency 
and boredom. I don't want to be bored and I don't want to 
be boring." 

Jealousy was sitting in the pit of my stomach like a cold 
hard lump of indigestible porridge. But the truth could not 
be avoided. For a long time now I'd been treating Alison 
like she was boring. And I'd become boring too. 

"There's something I have to tell you," I said to her.

"Go on," she said.

"I've booked myself into dancing classes next week."

She laughed and the tension fell away around us. "You have 
not," she said. 

"No, but I think I might."

ENDS
---------------------------------------------------------

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com and at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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