Cake Eaters of Adultery

When does eating cake seem like a bad idea? Never in my book. I love cake. It’s my favorite dessert. Forget ice cream and mousse or puddings. They all hold their appeal, but cake is special. It’s for celebrations like birthdays and weddings. It has layers and frosting. Nothing bad has frosting, I’m convinced.

In adultery, cake eaters are reviled.

They are the ones who cheat because they want “more.” They have plenty of cake. It’s just not the flavor they want or they aren’t in the mood for it or they want pastries instead.

One potential lover was perfectly content.

No worries about weight gain or cavities. He’s got it all. Intimacy with his wife and the promise of passion with me.

“It’s so boring and predictable with her.”

What I would do to have predictable sex…

“Yeah?” I reply, biting back the urge to ream him.

Of course, it’s boring being married umpteen years.

At least you still touch each other.

“I want an FWB situation good for both of us.”

But better for you, dude.

I want a man who craves intimacy. That’s what I want.

No sex at home.

I wanted desperation and desire.

I need a man to look at me hungrily. The lack of touch will do that to you.

What I don’t need are empty promises.

“I’ll give you all the time I can.”

Yeah, right.

“Why can’t you just be happy with what we have?”

Because I’ll never have as much as you.

“I’m not ready for this.”

I’m not ready for your lies.

What kind of man isn’t jealous of my marriage? The guy who has enough already.

So it’s not a level playing field. We aren’t evenly matched.

The games start.

Do I answer his text right away or wait? I should wait. He never answers mine quickly.

Why?

Because he’s busy.

“I have responsibilities…” he texts.

“I do too.”

“You know I’m swamped at home.”

And I wonder how occupied, exactly. What is his wife like? I bet they laugh together.

“I’m busy, too.” But not quite busy enough.

I’ll never get what I need from this man.

I’m a bonus he’ll quickly forget in a few months or a year.

What I would prefer is a memory. One that sears into my retina. One that I can’t erase easily and neither can he. Of afternoons so steamy that I asked him to crank the air conditioning in the hotel room.

“Be naked. We will get sweaty,” I texted.

Devil emoji in return.

“I can’t wait,” he responds. “Room 343.”

“On my way.”

I can feel my panties getting damp from desire only imagining what we would do to each other.

I dab perfume on my wrists and powder my face in the rearview mirror in the parking lot. He doesn’t care about my shiny skin when he opens the hotel door.

Pushing me up against the wall and pinning me there with his bulk.

“God, I missed you,” he says breathing me in.

Brushing my hair away from my neck and nuzzling me until he reaches my ear.

“Ohhhh.”

I am putty.

“I want you so badly,” pressing his growing erection against my stomach.

That’s the affair I need. The kind where there isn’t a moment of doubt about how much you both want to be there. How many lies you are both willing to say for those few stolen hours of joy. How much pent-up passion is spent.

I don’t want to be a distant second. Or, third. I need devotion because I don’t get it at home.

That’s what I tell myself, at least. Maybe I just want the adoration.

This is an affair. I should get what I lack or it’s not worth the risk, right?

That’s it. I’m done with cake eaters. I don’t want an “exit” or a “fantasy” affair, but I want genuine need.

I get to choose my cake this time.