Trip the Lights Fantastic, Part 3

A few months later, I stood on our front step, buttoning my jean jacket to cover the torn white-cotton tee underneath. Lenny had ripped it during our lovemaking earlier that evening. Now, I tried to hide the evidence from James.

My art-director partner at the agency, Lenny had curly black hair, a bushy moustache and wire-rimmed glasses, with an acerbic wit and Daniel Day Lewis sensuality. He was a few years older than I and committed to an intelligent but passionless woman.

He also was Theo’s best friend.

Between Theo’s prophetic dreams and my visionary signage, we thought there might be more between us than meets the third eye and started seeing a psychic. New Age was all the rage at the time, and we became convinced of a higher consciousness and that we had known each other in past lives (which, according to our medium, included a turn as Egyptian royalty and one in early New England.) We were destined to be together in this one — or would have been except for the fact that, while I vowed to divorce James, Theo refused to leave his wife who, ironically enough, was also named Susan.

So, in spite, I decided to fuck Lenny. (Did I mention my impulsivity?)

There had always been a casual flirtation fueling our creativity. Lately, though, the sexual tension between us had grown until, during the midst of a new campaign, I suggested we move our creative session to Lenny’s place. Soon, the storyboards were crushed on the couch beneath us as we went at each other, unable to resist any longer. I gasped when he forcefully ripped my shirt, then wrapped my legs around his torso as he carried me to the bedroom, tossing me across the bed.

Clothing flew in every direction as we ceded foreplay for straight-up screwing. We both orgasmed within minutes, then lay naked atop the tousled sheets, staring at the ceiling in silent recognition that the fateful die had finally been cast.

Eventually, Lenny left to draw a bath, then led me to the bathroom where he had lit a dozen or so candles around the clawfoot tub. His demeanor softened (either by the sex or sense of impending doom), he gently scrubbed my back before climbing in with me. Once the water cooled, we took another turn in the bedroom, this time fully giving ourselves to each other in some unconscious knowing that our partnership had been forever torn apart.

Now, one may wonder how, if Theo indeed was my kindred soul, I could be so heartless as to bang his best friend. Fair question, and one I have mulled over multiple times. Yes, I tended to act without forethought and yes, my brain constantly searched for new stimulation. There is, however, one fact I failed to disclose: Theo and I never actually had intercourse. That’s right: There was zero copulation, zilch, coitus nada. Despite the many sweet gestures and sweaty make-out sessions, his cock never touched my cunt.

All that petting without any payoff can really frustrate a girl.

Judaism views adultery as a cardinal sin — indeed, The Talmud calls it ha’averah, the “sin par excellence”— and while Theo considered himself reformed, he still believed the root tenets of the religion. (How he justified that our affair, even without actual intercourse, didn’t quality as adultery is something I never could comprehend.) He also was on his third marriage, and the prospect of yet another failed union ate at his ego.

Perhaps the better question is, why did I continue such an unrewarding relationship? Chalk it up to gullibility, my sense of unworthiness or, rather, a growing delusion that Theo and I were destined to be together — one fed, I will add, by his continued reassurance of such. It was only a matter of time, he told me, just be patient. Yet among my personal virtues, patience had never been one. Instead, I turned to the art of none-too-subtle persuasion.

A few weeks before my pivotal poke with Lenny, I followed Theo to Northfield, Minnesota, and his alma mater Carleton College, that bastion of Midwest liberalism which produced the late stalwart progressive Paul Wellstone. While Theo had, in theory, gone there on sabbatical, he mentioned where he’d be staying and dropped hints that I should join him there. I did just that, stopping along the way for some last-minute sundries.

Knocking softly, I smiled as he peeked past the latch. The door opened wide.

“I knew you would come.”

They were the last words spoken for hours as I revealed my various purchases — chocolate bars, strawberries, whipped cream —and we proceeded to eat them off each other’s naked bodies for the rest of the afternoon. (I can only hope he left a good tip for the housekeeper.) Yet, even in that food-induced frenzy, we didn’t actually fuck.

With my increasingly possessive husband and my supposed soulmate unwilling to do the deed, I was forced to take a long, hard look at my life’s trajectory: straight over the cliff. Instead of retreating, however, I pulled a Thelma and Louise and hit the gas pedal. If a crash was inevitable, I might as well face it at full impact.

Which landed me on the front steps of my house, covering my torn tee after my romp with Lenny. With a sigh, I buttoned my jacket and prepared to ask my husband of five years for a divorce. I need not have worried, though. Before I could confess anything, James called me into the living room.

“Susan, I think we should split up.”

Ain’t that a kick?

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