Lesbian dating married woman
I have let my hands wander over the tendons in her neck, feeling how hard they are, how splayed.I have cupped the back of her head and felt her heat. Sex with her is unlike anything I've ever experienced.Her name is Anna, not 's all soft and sleepy—a name with wind in it, a name that brings to mind treetops and oceans.I love that her name is the same spelled forward or backward; this palindrome suggests that despite the softness of her sound, Anna is indestructible, a solid pillar of a person. We spent the entire seven-hour ride complaining about our marriages. It makes no sense; I am straight—straight as a stick, as steel, as flint.My woman has gleaming black hair, a perfect nose, a shapely mouth bracketed by two deep dimples.She is not a professional cook or a professional gardener or a professional glassmaker, but everything Anna does, she does with ardor and competence, the combination producing an amazing bounty.
I've always understood myself to be irrevocably hetero, in love with muscles and sweat, with stubble and silence, with the flat-packed chest and the visible bicep.
Given my age, given that my hormones don't soar as high as they did in my twenties and thirties, I'm a little surprised I can have sex at all.
I have not had sex with my husband in some time; our children keep us bound.
Anna lives just 15 minutes from my house, in an antique abode with pegged-pine floors and soaring ceilings, her bedroom filled with the fragrance of jasmine from an actual jasmine plant, which is, the first time I see it, in extravagant bloom.
Her huge garden is in the back of the house, and we wander through it just as summer starts, filling our baskets; and then, back inside, she slices a starfruit, a melon, a vibrant red pepper, placing them on a white plate in a circular arrangement.
I tell her I don't like snakes, and she asks me if I like geckos. I slide my thumb up and down slowly between her fingers.