This story can only be found bundled with the Erotic Novella “Locker Room Fantasy”
What made me leave my husband Boris? Tomatoes. There is no other explanation.
When I think of those days just before I took flight my teeth begin to hurt. My husband Boris had for six years done little more than squeeze my hand and get a melancholy look whenever I asked him to make love to me.
I persevered. I invited him to drink wine from my navel. I lost weight. I gained weight. I invested in latex and paraphernalia. Nothing. I still loved him in some ways, like one might love a puppy or a tree. I suggested counselling and he yawned.
In Year Six I resolved to try adultery. You may wonder what took so long. Well, I am an extremely hopeful person. I hoped one day I’d come home to find Boris, bottom bared, waiting for me to spank him. Something would happen. How could it not? Also we lived in Manhattan, where making personal connections is not easy.
Woman proposes – the universe complies.
I was in the laundry room, there in the basement of our co-op building, musing about who to approach with my delicate need for more sex. I considered options. They all seemed very complicated. As I was leaning against the washing machine, feeling how good the spin cycle felt against my center, I noticed the video camera in the corner of the room. Ah. Dan the Doorman. Who had nothing to do except sit quietly all day watching various black-and-white television screens for signs of unusual behavior. Of course. So I began to behave unusually, at least for me. I rubbed my breasts through my clothes and looked into that camera lens. A few minutes later Dan himself stood at the door of the laundry room. It was that simple.
I thought sex with Dan would free me from Boris. But the simple pleasure of getting banged against a washing machine every afternoon wasn’t, after all, what got me to leave. It was Marge, a woman who lived in our building’s garden apartment. She was old, in her eighties at least. Maybe she felt guilty about being the only tenant with a yard, because she brought us fresh vegetables from her garden all summer long. One Sunday morning she came bearing tomatoes the size of my fist. Boris was out. I asked her in. I put the tomatoes on the sill over the kitchen sink. Before I could thank her she seized my hands in hers.
“Oh, no, you better eat those right up, honey,” she said. Her grip was amazingly strong. “Nothing gets better with age!”
So the two of us sat right down at my table and ate those tomatoes. I let the juice drip down my chin. She licked her fingers. A few weeks later Marge died of a heart attack, wearing her gardening gloves. Three weeks after that I was watching Boris sit in his favorite leather armchair, his jaw set, his temple pulsing, drinking a bottle of Evian and watching Sixty Minutes. My neighbor was dead. I thought of her poor fragile life. I thought of how old Mike Wallace looked. Boris drank his water. I thought of leaving him. I thought of killing him.
It is at such times that all things become possible.