Always Being The Other WomanAlways Being The Other Woman
By Nici
 
Disclaimer:
 
This story is not a “Stroke Story”. This story is about adultery and emotions. 
So, if you want a stroke story, please save yourself the disappointment and 
back-page before reading any further.
 
This story in no way reflects my personal life. All the characters, and their 
behavior are purely fictional.
 
As always, this story is my property, and may not be used, quoted or published, 
fully or in part, anywhere, without my written permission.
 
I’d also like to thank andrewpeters for his help and editing. 
 
******************************************************************
 
I don’t know why I ever moved to The City. 
 
Short words, The City. Short, but big words for a big place, words with even 
bigger images of hopes and dreams with fame, fortune, and glamour waiting, only 
steps away for any beautiful and intelligent small town girl like me. 
 
Oh, and let's not forget the romances, with dashing and debonair men, so tall 
and so handsome. Men with sophisticated elegance and charm, strong men with slim 
tight waists and hips, broad in shoulders, clever talented men with minds sharp 
and defined. Successful and powerful men, yet gentle, caring and understanding. 
Men, who know how to hold you just right, say and mean the right words, sweeping 
you off your feet. Men, who give you that warm tummy, butterfly feeling just by 
being near you. All of them waiting, anticipating someone like me to enter their 
lives. Yes, the city has them all. 
 
Success? Why of course. The City has contracts galore, contracts from 
advertising agencies, modeling agencies and even travel agencies all just 
waiting. Success is just there, for a photographer with a uniquely feminine 
perspective and innovative artistic point of view. One, whose photos of even the 
most mundane, turns people and objects into works of art, a photographer just 
like me.
 
Working in the city and traveling abroad to exotic places in Europe, the 
Caribbean or even South America, on photo shoots or romantic getaways with some 
handsome lover, what life could be better? 
 
No, this place just is not me. 
 
I don't understand the city. In the summer, the over heated steel, glass and 
concrete structures bake you. It stinks of burnt cooking oil, sweat, and urine. 
In winter the concrete and steel is freezing cold, colder than anywhere else, a 
cold that bites deep. If the wind blows then the dirt, grime and garbage is 
picked up until, you can smell nothing else. If there is no wind then the smog 
presses the stench down into the city, and the air becomes so thick you can 
almost not breathe. The taste of the heavy humid putrid air even sticks to the 
roof of your mouth. The city is always and completely devoid of nature, even the 
infesting cockroaches and rats seem alien and foreign. Here, the smallest and 
lonely hovel of an apartment costs more than many pay, back in my small 
hometown, for the mortgage on their houses. 
 
I don't understand the people living in the city. A city full of people, always 
hurrying, never having enough time to say a helpful friendly word, always 
pushing always shoving. No one knows you. No one cares about you, an empty city, 
though too full of people. 
 
This city is a city ruled by men, but inhabited by women. This city is full of, 
businessmen contracting their love lives much similar to their business 
dealings, and women willing to be dealt with like commodities. How much intimacy 
must I give in return for a blowjob, a fuck, or anal sex? Do you add to my 
prestige if I take you to this party, to this restaurant? What price tag can I 
put on our relationship? 
 
Every first meeting, every first date is always the same. First, come the 
negotiating and the assessment of value. Then comes the framing, and wording of 
the contract. Lastly, the relationship ends when either the contract is not 
fulfilled in full, or some other woman of greater value is found on the meat 
market. All in full legalese. All up front and business like. 
 
Too often, we give ourselves away, hoping sex can and will replace intimacy and 
love. We kiss a frog, eager for a prince, only to find it hopping away a toad. 
 
Most of all, I'm not the sensuous creature I once thought myself to be. I 
consider myself pretty. I have long slender legs. My breasts might not be large, 
but full and match my hips proportionally very well. My waist is slim. 
Therefore, I am neither fat nor skinny, but just right. My skin is soft, 
alabaster and without scar or blemish. I am not a brunette; my hair is black, 
but soft, smooth and straight even when long. I am Ashkenazim of Nordic and 
German decent. This shows in my face, my best feature, with high cheekbones, a 
delicate nose, and large brown eyes. My only disadvantage is my height. I am 
small and almost petite to an extreme, only 5' 3, everyone looks down to me, as 
if I were a child. 
 
Yet, the city I live in judges beauty not only by grace, and figure, but also in 
names like Gucci, Fendi, Prada and Armani. Physical beauty and intellect are 
only parts of the equation. 
 
I am only one of millions of pretty girls, living in this lonely city. I am only 
one of thousands of freelance photographers working every day for newspapers and 
magazines while filling in and living off of family photo events, biding time, 
waiting for that moment to be discovered. 
 
****************************************************************** 
 
Sitting in my favorite coffee shop, with a cup of my favorite coffee and one of 
my favorite cream bagels, I am not even aware of the blur of people around me, 
blending into the background, in the busy, noisy city. 
 
I'm more worried about my next photo session, and the non-existent photo session 
after that. With too many family weddings, baptisms, bar mitzvahs or 
anniversaries, and no fame and fortune in sight for the last 6 years, I've been 
going nowhere and fast. 
 
I was also wondering where my relationship with Bryan was going. Was this the 
real deal? Did he love me as much as I did him? As much as he said, he did? At 
least that part of my life was going great. 
 
Sweet Bryan, even though we haven't been able to see each other much as I would 
like. He’s always in a hurry, never staying over night, always showing up late 
for dates, a true big city executive, a meeting here, a meeting there, and a 
late night dinner party that just couldn't be avoided. I wish I could be part of 
it, but still, this did feel like the real deal with all the romance, intimacy, 
and tenderness a girl could want. The toe curling sex made it even so much 
better. 
 
It was getting very, very easy to imagine a life with him, a life centered on 
him. In that life, I could give up so much for him, surrendering completely and 
entirely to him. 
 
Even though he was 17 years older than I, we still had time. Time maybe for a 
baby, or maybe even two, time for a house and a family away from the city. Yes, 
I could willingly give up so much for him and consider myself happy in doing so. 

 
We've been together for almost a year. Maybe we should move in together, even if 
we don't get married at first. We'd have so much more quality time; he wouldn't 
always be in such a hurry, always so over worked. We have so much going for us. 
I could make him a home and be there for him. I knew I could. Our life, our 
home, our love together would be so beautiful. I could taste it! I wanted our 
life together, more than anything I've ever wanted in my life. 
 
Sipping my coffee, I chuckled in thought, "I kissed a frog, and he truly did 
turn into a prince." Who ever she was, the woman who divorced him was a stupid 
fool. He was everything any woman, especially me, could ever want in a man. 
 
"Excuse me, are you Sara Blum?"
 
I looked up to see a mousy brownish haired blonde in her mid-forties standing in 
front of me. Her stylish hair and clothing spoke of money and class, skirt and 
jacket by Chloe, shoes and purse by Versace. However, her mannerisms and body 
language told me she was uncomfortable in her surroundings, reclusive and very 
much a shy housewife type. An English rose supplanted in an American metropolis 
made of concrete and steel. She looked and acted very nervous, almost afraid. 
 
So, this was the woman who had called at the agency and requested an appointment 
outside of the office. Maybe I was in luck and could fill my appointment book 
after all. But, why the meeting outside of the office, why had she not left her 
name with the agent's secretary? 
 
I didn't recognize her. Her face didn't ring any bells. Had I photographed 
anything for her before, or had someone recommended me to her? 
 
Ugh, her nervousness, of course. Was she again one of those looking for a female 
photographer to take nude erotic pictures of her for a present to her husband, 
boyfriend, or lover? 
 
There was a wedding ring on her finger; so hopefully, the pictures would be for 
her husband, and not a lover that her husband did not know about. I have had 
enough of angry husbands. One husband screaming and yelling at me because I had 
taken nude photos of his wife without his permission was enough for me. No, 
crazy overly possessive husbands, I want nothing to do with. He's your husband, 
not mine. So, you deal with him, not me, sister. 
 
Also, hopefully, not any pornographic photo shoots. I don't do those. I take 
erotic art photos, but that's all. I am a professional photographer and do not 
want involvement in anyone's funny games. Please, I'd rather not. 
 
Not that she didn't look bad. She looked very nice in fact. Not that I'm that 
way. I do find women at times interesting and have wondered. Only men have so 
much more to offer. I just cannot see how any woman could compare to the 
strength, the magnetism and power of a male. I'm a woman who likes dick. I love 
cock. I worship cock. Men and that hard piece of man-meat they have, makes my 
world go round. Give me a big strong man that makes me feel feminine and soft, a 
man where I can allow myself to surrender and be submissive and weak, to a 
woman, any day, and thank you. 
 
Just, I am a photographer, and do have a good eye discerning women who can make 
nude photography and those that should rather leave their clothes on. 
 
Even though she was in her forties, her body wouldn’t stop me from making good 
erotic art photos with her. Only working with amateur housewives was always a 
royal pain in the butt. They want, but they can’t. They’re too embarrassed to 
express themselves physically, sensuously. Add in the mixture of a pushy husband 
in the background and I would rather just throw my camera out the window. 
 
With my mouth, still full of coffee and my thoughts still with Bryan, "Hmmm" I 
pointed to the empty chair on the other side of the little table. 
 
I swallowed, "Sorry, coffee." 
 
She sat down across from me, purse on table, both her hands pressed whitely to 
the top of her purse. Why is she so nervous? This is only to set up a 
photography session. If it's supposed to be an erotic nude photo session, and 
she is this nervous already, how is this going to work? 
 
I took another sip of coffee to give her time to relax. 
 
She looked down at her hands and spoke, "I'm sorry I didn't leave my name at 
your agency. I was afraid, you wouldn't meet with me. My name is Angelica, 
Angelica Simons. I'm Bryan Simons wife." 
 
This time I spilt coffee. "Excuse me? You're Bryan Simons ex-wife?" 
 
Now with a sterner look on her face, she stared back at me, "Is that what he 
told you? No, I am Bryan’s wife. We are married." 
 
Why is she doing this? Is this some kind of crazy joke? Is she some kind of 
lunatic stalker? Oh my god Bryan, why didn't you warn me? 
 
"No, that is not true. You’re divorced. You've been divorced for years. What are 
you trying to do?" I glared angrily back at her. No, she's not pulling this one 
off on me. 
 
Blushing, her eyes dropped to her purse, she opened the clasp, and reached in, 
pulling out folded papers and a package of photos. She stretched her hand with 
the papers and photos out towards me, "He told the other one the same thing, so 
I've come prepared. There's our wedding certificate and some photos made two 
weeks ago of us at our 15th wedding anniversary. There's also photos of us 
together with our two children, Andre and Melissa. Believe me, we are married. 
I'm sorry, but this isn't the first time he's done this. I'm so sorry." 
 
Two weeks ago? Their 15th wedding anniversary? But, he said he was on a business 
trip. 
 
There they are, all the party photos of their big wedding anniversary. There's 
their son and daughter. There's them with his parents, his in-laws. There they 
are cutting the anniversary cake. I can even read the, 'Happy 15th Anniversary' 
written on it. All taken at their house and all with time stamp on them. 
 
Where was I that weekend? Sitting at home in my little studio apartment feeling 
lonely, wearing one of his t-shirts he'd forgotten, because I felt closer to 
him, his smell surrounding me. I was at home, waiting and worrying, not able to 
call him on his cell because he was in Europe… on a business trip, missing me, 
wishing I were there with him. 
 
She was still talking. Her lips were moving. Her eyes were pleading, begging for 
understanding. I couldn't hear her over the rushing sound in my ears. I was 
dizzy, so dizzy. What did she say? 
 
"Please, I don't want him to know that I know. The last time, we almost 
divorced. If he knows I know, then I'll have to act. I won't be able to just 
ignore, and hope that things will change, will get better..." 
 
"You're married? You have two children?" I could only think, remembering my 
thoughts of moments before, my dreams of our marriage and our children. They 
were now her marriage, their marriage, and their children. Our children, our 
love, our building our home together and our life, the watching our children 
growing up, our vacations, our times together, growing old together and our 
wedding anniversaries, there in those pictures, all gone, never to be. A foolish 
dream dreamt by an even more foolish woman. 
 
Her hand reached out towards mine, "I'm so sorry. I know you're hurting!" 
 
I couldn't take any more. With shaking hands, I reached into my purse looking 
for my wallet. I couldn't see it, couldn't find it. Damn it, I'm not going to 
cry, not here, not now, not in front of her and not in front of them, no I'm 
not. 
 
Finally, I found my wallet and pulled some money out. That should be enough. I 
rushed out of the café, not saying a word good bye. 
 
Out in the busy street, the sun blinding my watery eyes, I stumbled first into 
one man who pushed back, "Hey lady, watch where you're going!" Bouncing off him, 
I ran fully into the next one. This man grabbed me by the arms and shoulders so 
I wouldn’t fall; "Slow down." He smiled, and then set me aside before he 
continued on. 
 
Automatically, I wandered drunkenly in the direction of the bus stop. I couldn't 
keep the images of those pictures out of my mind and the more I thought of them 
the dizzier I became. 
 
How could he do this to me? I loved him. I cared for him. I thought he loved me, 
no he said he loved me. Why? 
 
I stopped, and someone behind me bumped into me, cursing me as they then went 
around me. I pulled out my cell, and called his, "Hello, this is Bryan Simmons, 
I'm not available at the moment so please leave a message." Then came the beep. 
 
"Why Bryan, why did you lie to me. I know now you're married and even have two 
children." I hung up. Why should I be talking to a machine? A machine that 
wouldn’t talk back, that can’t understand my emotions? Damn it Bryan, why can’t 
you answer your phone? 
 
The bus, my bus, I saw pulling out from the bus stop. There was no way that I 
was going to catch it. I was still at least 50 crowded feet away. Why that now 
too? I wanted to just sit down on the cement sidewalk and damn the people. Damn 
them all, why can’t they just leave me alone? Why must they always be pushing 
and shoving, always in a hurry? I can't right now. Please, I can't. 
 
A taxi stopped at the curb and a man got out. The door stayed open, and almost 
unthinkingly, I slide in and told the driver my address. I turned off my mind, 
and just let the sounds of the city surround and draw me in, into a quiet 
solitude of nothingness. My only goal was to lock my door behind me, and the 
world outside. 
 
****************************************************************** 
 
With both locks turned on my door and the chain in place, I turned to the heavy 
curtains and blocked out the sunlight and as much of the sounds of the city as I 
could. Away, please everything just go away. 
 
Finally, safe and secure I could let my emotions roll over me. I began to shake 
as the first tears came and crawled onto my bed, pulling one of my pillows into 
me. The silky coverlet felt cool. The pain inside of me hurt. It hurt worse than 
anything I've ever felt before. 
 
My tears fell on my pillow I was hugging so tightly to me. So tightly, as if it 
were a person, a person I loved and loved me. 
 
Feeling, knowing intuitively this, I got up, went to my closet, pulled out from 
underneath shoeboxes an older wood and cardboard suitcase. From it, I took out a 
white damask pillowcase with hand embroidery stitching all along the edge. Once 
it had belonged to my grandmother. It was a part of my dowry from her. 
 
I slipped the one pillowcase off and put the damask one on. I curled back up on 
my bed, pulling again my pillow into me as much as I could. I could feel her 
nearer me now. 
 
I felt a child again and just as when I'd been sick or hurt, she was there. I 
could smell her perfume faintly. I could feel the rougher, heavy wool texture of 
her black skirt against my cheeks, just as it had always been when I laid my 
head in her lap. I could almost hear her singing, singing the songs she always 
softly sang, from the old country. Words, I knew, but couldn’t seem to bring 
into context, but words that comforted me. I could almost taste the smells 
coming from her kitchen, the sweet scent of eggy bread, the stronger of gefilte 
fish, and the heavy smell of cabbage cooking, all my favorite dishes. 
 
I fell asleep hearing her words spoken softly, tenderly, almost in a whisper, "A 
bissel pain must we all feel, meydl. Dos geht nisht anderst." 
 
I awoke later to my cellphone ringing from my purse. I didn't answer. I knew it 
was Bryan. Later my telephone rang and I let the answering machine take the 
call. Twice again it rang, and three times more my cell went off. I never 
answered any; only lay there hugging my damask covered pillow as if life 
depended on it, wanting the feeling of the nearness of my grandmother to return.
 
An hour or so after the last call, I could hear a key being pushed into the lock 
on my door. Even though he could open that one lock, the other one could only be 
opened from the inside, and still the chain was there. Yet, I did not feel safe. 
I did not want to talk with him, and I even feared now talking with him. 
 
I got up and pulled an embroidered quilt out of the old suitcase and crawled 
into the furthest corner of my room, the blanket over me except for my head, the 
pillow hugged tightly in front of me. 
 
First, he knocked on the door, and then I heard him, "Sara honey... I know 
you're there. Please open up. We've got to talk." 
 
I did nothing but pushed myself further into the outer wall and corner, pulling 
the quilt and pillow even tighter. 
 
"Sara, please let me explain." There was then a longer pause. "Sara, I know you 
love me, you don’t want to do this. Let’s talk. We can work this out."
 
Then there was nothing. Only the wail of a siren in the distance and the busy 
evening noise down in the street below me could be heard. Still, I was afraid to 
look. Was he still out there waiting? Would he come back some other time? 
 
At the thought of him out there waiting panic took control of me. 
 
No girl, relax, breathe deeply. You're not going to cry again. You're not going 
to show them that you hurt. You're not going to show him feelings. He's not 
worth it. Don't show him that he hurt you. He's yesterday's news. Don't give him 
any control over you. 
 
Yes, this is The City. The big city abounding in elegance and glamour, the city 
that offers fame and fortune, the city with all the beautiful people. People all 
categorized and living in solitary lonely boxes. The city with all the noises 
smells and sounds decrying the depths of human dignity. The city where neon 
lights flash so brightly that they blind you so you don’t even notice them 
anymore. They blind you so that you don't even notice the humanity surrounding 
you. 
 
No, I should have never come to The City. I should have stayed at home, but I'm 
here now. I can't go back anymore. The old folks aren't there anymore. There’s 
nothing to go back for. Times have changed and I have changed. 
 
Now, I'll change again. The pain, the hurt I feel inside won't let me do 
anything but. I know it'll happen. I know how I'll change. I can’t stop it 
anymore. I can’t fight it alone. Even if I do finally get my own studio, and 
become known, I'll become just like those others, so cold, so bitter on the 
inside. 
 
I guess it doesn't matter. I'll never have the babies now, the babies to show my 
innermost loving self to, the babies that need a mother's love. I can hide that 
self now. Hide it deep within me, never to show again. I can become like them. 
You want my body baby? You want to fuck me? What's in it for me? Do you know the 
right people, the people who can help me be successful? 
 
I guess it doesn't matter now. I'm always going to be the other woman. So, 
what's in it for me?