I can’t say why.Īfter it became clear that our compromising position would not be acknowledged in any penal capacity, part of me rather enjoyed the fact that Bill knew. He wouldn’t (couldn’t?) look me in the eye. However from that day on - and to this day - Bill never spoke to or acknowledged me in any way ever again. To my great surprise and relief the issue was never addressed, we were neither given a warning, nor fired. I carry this debt like a karmic tab that always hangs in the balance, for myriad reasons, namely, the collateral damage to my marriage and in my own psyche. I’ll be paying a mortgage for decades, and maybe one day it will really be mine, not the bank’s. In the same way I own my house, which is to say, not at all. Looking back now I want to go back and yell at myself, “So what, own it, bitch!” Fucking laugh. Whoever it was saw the scene, in all its undeniable consensuality and then walked out, just as quickly, softly closing the door behind him.Īnd off I slunk, cheeks ablaze, to the corner of his office, like a shamed child, to (softly mind you, can’t mess up the face) bang my head against the wall. Somewhere near 6 o’clock a quick knock on his office door gave us a start, and without waiting for a response (rude, by the way!), some impatient dude walked right in (careless lovers), as I jumped off his lap, too late.
Sitting on someones lap during bumpy road skin#
There was only one thing to think, one conclusion that could be drawn if you walked in on the scene that December evening: You would have seen me, a brown woman sitting side saddle on this handsome white man’s lap, but fully clothed, no skin showed, nothing was hanging out or going in. It was just a powerful and mutual attraction: personal, physical, and mental, that we selfishly and stupidly indulged. (I have tasted many flavors, broken a few hues of fever.) No drunken desperate moment of weakness at the company Christmas party. There wasn’t a sexual void that needed to be filled. I want to underscore that this was no sleazy fuck-in-the-supply-room after-hours kind of tryst. I both regret it and cherish it and wouldn’t mind experiencing it again right now. If I had avoided that kiss, that seemingly inevitable kiss, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this today. Several weeks after we started emailing, DM’ing on Twitter, and instant messaging late at night and on the weekends, in what many might dismiss as a well-coordinated midlife crisis: a mutually desired kiss transpired. Much more intimate, to my mind, and his, than the soulless sport-fucking so many are fond of.
This sweet, seemingly innocent gesture of affection and attachment, to me was an intense act of intimacy.
We started having lunches together occasionally. From there the online banter became more frequent and flirtatious. I was, by the time things turned, a devoted married mother of two, and he a devoted married father of two.īut something sparked between us one night when separately live tweeting a presidential debate between Senators Barack Obama and John McCain back in 2008. This wasn’t a burning attraction, mind you.
I liked and respected him, I admired his straight-shooting communication style. He never did the “developer dance” I found so obnoxious and condescending, a variation on the refrain, “we can do anything with enough time and resources but…” He wasn’t one to dominate discussions or fill the time with streams of meaningless buzzwords and pointless PowerPoint decks. Observing him in meetings, I found him funny and professionally perfunctory. Though we were technically on the same team, we worked in different locations on campus and had different managers. Over the next many years of mutual employment, nothing even remotely romantic or personal transpired between us. (PSA: New England dudes don’t have the keenest sartorial sensibility either, just sayin.’) There was a voluptuous sensuality to his face that I found unusual for a white man, or at least in white men who live in New England. Those physical traits paired well with the red tie he wore for his last round of interviews and his too-long-for-the-corporate-world curly mop of hair.
Sitting on someones lap during bumpy road full#
He had soft full lips, intelligent eyes, and a gravelly voice.
We were sitting around a conference room table, in what would be his final interview before the team decided if he would become our next director. I was attracted to him right from the start. The title cheapens what was actually a truly erotic and long, tormented love affair.
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