The Flat-Out Truth

I met Velvet six weeks before our first sexual encounter. He was a successful small business owner in an unglamorous field: He manufactured boxes or packaging of some sort. But he had a dream of launching a lotion line, and that's how we met. He was auditioning models to appear on the product's packaging.

Somehow, he came across my modeling comp card and called me in, expecting to see a light-skinned chick with shoulder-length permed hair.

The woman who showed up at his office looked nothing like her photos. In an act of liberation, defiance, I-hate-men & devil-may-care, I had chopped my hair completely off.

I didn't get the modeling gig, but my short yellow dress and bright lipstick smile must have caught his attention. We talked – or rather, he talked and I mostly listened – for three or four hours. He dropped enough sexual innuendo into the conversation to make me cautious. When I went back for our second interview, I ensured Nothing Would Happen by:

• Bringing my brother along.
• Wearing the tightest pair of jeans I owned. Getting into or out of them was such a challenge, I couldn't possibly get naked on a whim.
• Making it a point not to call and then deliberately losing his address.

I did everything right.

Until weeks later, when fate stepped in.

On a whim, as part of my Artist's Way artist's date, I went to a comedy club on a lonely Sunday night. And he just happened to be there. And he just happened to run up to me as I was heading out the door. And he just happened to walk me to my car. And he just happened to tell me that he wanted me in his life "whether it's personal, professional, or both."

As if both of us didn't know that the only place our relationship could go was personal and horizontal.

First of all, the man was fine. He was a perfect physical specimen. Tall, about 6'3". Delicious, smooth, chocolate black. Chiseled cheekbones. Thirty-eight, looking 30. Handsome, successful, prosperous. I nicknamed him Velvet because he reminded me of a 1970s black velvet painting.

Velvet was married. With two kids: a 19-year-old and a five-year-old. I'd met his wife of many years in passing during my interview, when she shook my hand and eyed me suspiciously before leaving the room.

I knew all of that. But after months of abstinence and sexual frustration, I didn't care:

"I want him. I want to have a little fun. I want some male attention. I want sex. I want fun. I want excitement.

"The truth is, I don't give a f*ck about his wife, deep down inside. She's his problem. It's his marriage that he's jeopardizing, his choice, his risk. The only thing I'm worried about is the disapproval & disgust the people around me would feel if they knew."

And in the end, public opinion really didn't matter to me:

"I want him, I'll have him, I'll accept the repercussions of my lust, the consequences of my behavior."

I was predatory.

I wanted him sexually, and I wanted to leverage his business contacts to escape my horrible secretarial job.

With no apology and no shame, I took a wanton leap into the unknown.

And for the most part, I enjoyed it tremendously.

High-Score Diaries: Part 7 of TBD (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 TBD)

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