May 10: Time & Boris

For the married sex addict, time is always the enemy. No lazy weekends at the beach, no cozy cabins in the woods. Sex always happens on the fly, somehwere between morning coffee and late-night TV with the husband. One always has the sense that the clock is about to strike the midnight hour and the coachman is going to turn into a mouse. Maybe this works out fine for the male sex addict, but for a woman, whose best orgasms generally take more than three minutes to achieve, the speed that covert sex addiction requires is a definite downer.

Take *Boris*, whom I met two weeks ago at a Saturday afternoon cocktail party. The party was hosted by mutual friends and my husband was at work, so I was representing the family. The party began at 4:00, and at 7:00 I had to meet said husband downtown for dinner with one of his colleages and the colleague's wife (she's a stay-at-home mom, although "stay at home" seems like a misnomer, since she's usually shopping or doing Bikram yoga while the nanny watches the tots).

I got to the party at 4:30, and what with all the people I had to greet it took half an hour to make my way over to Boris, my pick of the evening, a tall fellow with enormous hands and a wide face that looked vaguely Russian. Indeed, when I got around to introducing myself beside the cheese tray, it turned out Boris had an accent and a one-semester research fellowship at a local university. Upside: a preconceived notion about the general sluttiness of American women, which would make it easy to get down to business. Downside: no wife or girlfriend in the country, which meant he could afford to be indiscreet.

It was 6:15 by the time Boris and I got to his apartment, a cramped studio with a gorgeous view of the Golden Gate bridge and not a single item of decoration on the walls. Which gave us approximately twelve minutes to do our thing before I had to rush off to meet the husband--five minutes of which would need to be spent showering Boris off of me, brushing my hair, and dressing. Fortunately, Boris was not one for gentle seductions. He whipped his pants off with such alacrity I suspected there must be velcro somewhere, whipped my dress off with equal dexterity, ordered me onto my hands and knees on the bed, and entered me without so much as a "Is this direction all right with you?"

This fellow was no Jeremy. I didn't come. But there was some satisfaction in feeling him bucking behind me, whispering indecipherable Russian obsenities (or perhaps he was pledging his everlasting love--how could I know?), his voice getting louder and deeper as his dick swelled inside me and he exploded. When he was done, he collapsed on top of me rather than pulling out, and there I lay, suffocating on his scratchy sheets, covered in his sweat and trying unsuccessfully to get a glimpse of his watch. I thought of my husband gathering up his things at work, stepping into a cab with the clients, making their leisurely way across town to the hip French restaurant. I knew my husband was unlikely to notice a thing--but what of his client and the wife? Might they, in their observant objectivity, pick up some lingering scent of Boris that my quick shower could not dispel?