Here's what he told me:
That he loved his wife.
That this was "body knowledge" (pulling my shirt up and rubbing me against him like a washcloth)
That "some people say length is important--but others say girth is it. Fortunately, I have both." "How big is your boyfriend," he asked, then cut me off before I could stumble through a reply. "No, don't answer that."
That he wanted me to wear a skirt. ("I want to be inside you," he said, pulling me onto his lap. "Next time, wear a fucking skirt, okay?")
"You have to open up, honey."
That I had to learn to compartmentalize. "You're going to have to go home and you can't think about this. Whatever we do, you have to stick it in a little closet and lock it away. It doesn't exist. You'll meet my wife and you're going to have to be able to look her in the eye. And if I ever meet your boyfriend, I know I'll be able to shake his hand. Maybe we'll even talk about music." He paused. "I think I can do that."
That we would consider "Safety first." That we would never forget who was most important in our lives. That if either of us thought our spouses knew, we would end it. I thought of a song I had heard--the lyrics spoke of holding someone sacred--and I felt sick with guilt. "This would hurt him so bad," I said, my chest tight. "Her too," he said sadly. So he made me promise I wouldn't tell.
I promised.
Things I said:
(I didn't say enough. Not the right things. Not at the right time. Occasionally, I made him laugh, usually on the phone. "You're funny," he said one time, and it was though I'd surprised him by having a personality.)
"I can't do this. You have to help me. I don't know how." (in the car that first night, so freaked out that I wasn't sure which side the gas pedal was on, unsure even of my own name)
That I was lonely. That I was nervous. That being around groups of people sometimes made me want to run and hide. That some evenings going to meetings was agonizing for me. That I felt old.
(We lay near each other, naked on a pallet in that small room at the top of the stairs, and he ran a hand down my body from breast to hip, commenting on how thin I was) "I can't eat. I mean, I don't want to eat. I mean, I do, but I don't have any real appetite... It's weird." (He was silent)
And at one point he suggested we stop, because I told him I was afraid of getting caught. "I can see your anguish," he said. And I was the one who said, "No. Not yet." And he looked at me and said, his eyes strange and a sad little smile on his face, "Do you like having your brains fucked out?"
I covered my face with my hands and said, "God help me, yes."
*******
"You don't understand. I can't go back. I can't go home. I can't live without this."