Heroine: The Husband's Cologne (2 page)

“Why didn't you come and find me?” I asked, probing further. 

“You were busy with Norman,” he burst out. “What was I supposed to do, drag you out of his bed?”

I winced. 

“You gave me permission,” I said defensively.  And suddenly I felt weak and guilty.  Poor guy!   Wait, what was this, a motherly instinct on my part?  Why did I feel like I should be the one consoling him? 

‘Right, that's all I need now,
I heard my pride pipe up. 
He's the one who got us into this, claiming he wanted his 'freedom.'  I just went along with it.’
  Granted, I had played my part in alluring Norman.  Dancing more with him than with the others, a few enticing looks in his direction when he was dancing with somebody. I had tempted him as well. 

“Anyway, not much happened,” I said.  There was some petting, and then I gave him...”

“Just some petting?” Daniel cried out.  “Not from where I was standing.”  His face was flushed, hot red. 

Now it was my turn to be shocked:

“You watched us?” My voice was barely a squeak. 

“Don't be coy, you even winked at me.”

Silence.  My brain surged.  I burst out without thinking:

“Well then, it looks like you really had some fun spying.”  Ouch, I hadn't meant to say it like that.  My stomach began to churn.  Again, there was silence.

“You're right,” he said.

I was stunned. 

“I had lots of fun, and I have to admit, I have never been as horny as I was last night, watching you.”

“Ok.”  I couldn't think of anything else to say.  I was speechless.  And in my case, that's saying a lot; I'm rarely at a loss for words. 

We spent the rest of that afternoon strolling around together.  We talked about all kinds of things, but never touched on what had happened the previous night.  We discussed our past, our plans for the future, just as if nothing had ever happened. 

That evening we went to bed early.
Together, of course. I wore my pajamas, a soft yellow pair with a floral design, and he wore his dark blue ones. For the first time, it dawned on me how conservative we were.  Sex in the dark (not always, but most often), pajamas, even our marriage seemed to serve as a necessary frame for our relationship. 

As we climbed into bed, I felt inwardly at odds.  I would never be able to forget the previous night that much was clear.  I felt torn between that which I perceived as my love for Daniel on one hand, and the
recurring feelings of lust on the other.  I wanted to belong to Daniel.  I was safer here.  But, at the same time, I longed for the thrilling sensations, the freedom and the electrifying moments with Norman.  Granted, I was sensible enough to know that even with Norman, the daily routine was bound to set in pretty quickly.  I was likely already an item to be checked off on his list of conquests, which reminded me that I had left his place without wearing any underwear.  I hadn't been able to find them in the morning, and ultimately I didn't really care.  So I had left without.  I felt a slight tingle across my belly, as I recalled how a light breeze had found its way under my dress on the way home and had lifted it slightly. 

A muted sigh made its way out of my stomach and into my throat, without wishing to rouse my voice, and then sank back into my chest; there, it triggered a swell of long-forgotten melancholy.  It was a sentiment whose source I couldn't place.  And with this melancholy came a sense of helplessness and vulnerability, and the longing to be held.

At that very moment, Daniel turned to me and asked me if I wanted to sleep with him.  Of course I did!  The fool, didn't he see how much I needed him?  My eyes welled up. 

The sex between us, if I can still refer to the occasional activities we engaged now in in light of the previous night as sex, was more or less a proof of trust, a guarantee, which said:
I belong here, I am at home here; here is where I feel secure.
 

And so, the evening ended with an exchange of intimacies and a climax for him.  It didn't happen for me, so, for the first time in our marriage (honestly!), I faked
an orgasm. 

In the following days, Daniel and I spoke a few more times about that fateful summer night.  To my relief, I found out that he hadn't witnessed the entire thing, but had only watched for an hour.  This left me with a small memory of my own to cherish like a secret, hidden treasure.

  
In my final year of high school in my home town, and I had a boyfriend.  My previous relationships had been more or less superficial affairs.  Mostly they revolved around sex. 

  
Sure, there were infatuations, but the longing for a deeper, more enduring relationship was not something my affairs gave rise to, regardless of whether it was a grown man or a boy.

  
With Timo, my boyfriend at the time, I thought (at least at first), that things might be different.  But with him sex, too, was foremost on his mind, as I discovered one day to my disappointment.  All he wanted was sex, sex and more sex. This was a common pattern when I was young and sometimes my life seemed to be about nothing else. More than once I’d wished that men would see me as the longing girl I was, rather than a beautiful toy.

  
I had my first experience at the age of 16.  That was during a holiday with my parents.  We had gone to spend it at a farm in Austria, as we had done for 10 years.  The farmer would rent a spacious holiday apartment to “Piefkes” like us, a more or less derisive term for Germans, like “Krauts” for the British.  My sister and I were allowed to help out in the stables and the farm.  I always had the feeling that we were a part of his family, and my parents trusted the owner, who managed the estate together with his wife and mother.  At the time of our first holiday there, the farmer's son, now a young farmer himself, also lived on the estate, and was around six or  seven years old.  That meant that he was now around 17. 

That year things were a little different.  My parents went on their hikes as always, and it was up to us kids to decide whether we wanted to stay on the secluded estate or tag along with them.  That worked out fine for us.  Sometimes we went along; later we tended to stay back on the farm. 

On the day that I lost my virginity, it was warm and sunny.  My sister decided to go hiking with my folks.  I stayed alone on the farm.  My mother had bought me a dirndl dress, especially for our stay in Austria. 

The horror!  I couldn't stand that red checkered outfit and would have given anything just to be able to run around in jeans, but there was nothing I could do; my parents insisted I wear it.  My folks were already getting on in years at that point.  They had met in their late 30s, and it took an additional three years until I came along, and my sister – with the wonders of fertility medicine – joined me two years later.  They were part of the post-war generation.  Following the war they had immigrated to Germany from Romania.  At times, I had the sneaking suspicion that they were looking to explore the “Imperial” side of Austria, when I saw them wandering around in their traditional outfits.  They certainly wanted to fit in, to belong, often to the quiet amusement of the locals. 

So I walked around in a dirndl, with bare knees and white socks.  I had shot up considerably in height since the previous year, my breasts had grown substantially and I had been wearing a bra since the age of 13. My parents had refrained from any kind of sex education for us, so it was in my biology class that I got the gist of how human reproductive organs worked, not to mention the stories I was told by my girlfriends. 

Dressed as I was, then, I guess I came across as “sexy,” as I made my way demurely across the farm.  It was only clear to me much later what kind of effect the dress and my coquettish walk might have had on the sex-starved young farmer, who had nothing but cows and sheep (apart from his elders) for company. 

I felt him stare and I liked it.  Unwittingly, I returned his looks.  A glance of the eye, with my head lowered at the same time, had an effect on this burly boy teeming with hormones, which I was still too young to grasp.  A part of my brain had likely noticed, but it couldn't make itself heard (and still can't to this day).

“I have to go up to the hayloft,” he said to me.  “Want to come with me?”

It was more an order than a request, but I was happy for something different to do.  The barn was a few hundred yards up the hill, and couldn't be seen from below. 

I ran alongside him and his wheelbarrow, at times hopping up and down like a young chick.  As we arrived, he opened the barn door and we went in. 

“We need some hay,” he said.  “We'll have to get it from up there and throw it down.”  I knew the way already; we had often played in the hayloft together.  As we approached the ladder, he let me go first, something he had never done before.  Usually he was the first one up.

Just before reaching the latch to the loft, I felt his hand against my leg.  It was dry and warm and I felt a tingle surge from the spot he was touching up through my thighs.  It was clear to me that from his vantage point he could see up my skirt, and the thought made me uneasy, but excited me, too. 

More perplexing still, were the feelings triggered by his persistent stroking of my inner thighs.  It reminded me of when I would touch myself, or masturbate, as my biology teacher referred to it. 

The guy held onto my foot with one hand, and with the other he slowly moved up to my panties.  I felt them gradually get moist and knew immediately what was coming.  I had seen it once in a sex movie, where a farmer seduced a woman on holiday (or she seduced him, it wasn't too clear).  He let go of my foot and said:

“Go ahead, climb up.”

When we got up to the loft, he wasted no time and took me in his arms, giving me a long kiss.  At first I was bewildered.  I didn't understand what he was doing with his tongue, but the strange sensation quickly grew on me: a gentle throb that found its way down to my stomach and on to my belly. 

“Take off your clothes,” he said shortly. 

I was nervous, because in the movie I'd seen there was a more intimate exchange at this point.  The look he gave me, however, left no room for doubt as to what he wanted from me, and I wanted it too. I was turned on by it, even if I didn't know exactly what was in store.

Only a few minutes later, I had lost my virginity. It hurt but there was also another sensation. A sudden spiteful thought occurred to me:

“Be honest, you've never had sex with a woman before, have you?”

He held his breath and shook his head quietly.

And with that, a different feeling came over me. It was one of power. It thrilled me to know that I was the first woman to introduce him to sex, and now I took the initiative.

I quickly yanked his sweater over his head and gave him a shove.  Since his jeans were still wrapped around his ankles, he lost his balance and plopped right into the hay. Then I told him what I wanted to get from him. At the end I had to help myself. This guy was too unversed.

After several minutes we both got to our feet, without looking at each other.  Or rather, I looked once again at his flaccid and shriveled manhood.  It was nice to look at, but it would never manage to scare me again.

I was impressed, not by his potency, but by mine.  I had actually succeeded in turning a big, hard rod into a small, soft and – I almost had to chuckle at the thought – “cute” little appendage belonging to such a burly guy as he was. 

We gathered up our clothes, dressed and walked back down to the farm.  Nobody seemed to have noticed anything.  We were undoubtedly still “innocent” kids for our parents as far as they were concerned. 

In the following days we met a few more times up in the hayloft.  Things went pretty much the same way as they had the first time. We undressed, and after a few kisses and a little petting he would lie on top of me.  I guided him inside me, then he would come and I would take care of myself. 

My true satisfaction, however, came from the knowledge I acquired:
Look a man in the eye and you've mastered him.
I had also finally caught up with my girlfriends, some of whom had already had sexual encounters and many of whom had steady boyfriends.  Later, I found out from the young farmer (what was his name again?), that the lines that he used the first time with me were ones he had seen in a porno that was making the rounds in his circle of friends.  He was even more inept than I had initially thought.

A few days later we left.  For me it was the last holiday I was ever to spend there, because the following year I refused to go, staying home alone for two weeks instead.  My mother didn't understand, but I got my way in the end. 

While my folks were away, the first thing I did was get my hands on the contraceptives that my biology teacher had recommended.  She was someone I could talk to.  Or rather, it was when she informed me thoroughly about the possible consequences of my actions that I really felt like an adult woman.  The fact that I had to get undressed in front of her was not a problem for me.

I even told my girlfriends about it. They looked at me dumbstruck and asked me whether I was crazy after I told them of my escapades.  Screwing a guy without a rubber and without taking the pill was absolutely insane!  It was only then that it dawned on me what could have gone wrong. 
“Quelle naïvité!” (I had just learned the phrase in French class).  My gynecologist later provided me with the necessary prescriptions for the pill and I took to carrying condoms on me at all times. 

But I've gotten off track a little.  What I really wanted to talk about, was how I got rid of
Timo and found Daniel.  I met Timo at a club, while I was in my next to last year of high school.  I was 18 at the time, he was already  25, worked as an electrician and – this was the special part – could afford a Mercedes, a red 280CL convertible.  It was  a beautiful ride.  In fact, I had known him even longer than that.  I knew where he worked, what he did. I also  knew his parents and siblings.  In short, he was from my area. 

At  6
feet, 2 inches, with broad shoulders, short blonde hair and blue-green eyes, Timo was shamelessly good-looking and he knew it. He danced with me, I liked him instantly and he proceeded to “sweep me off my feet.” That's the way he later put it to his friends.  Well, what he didn't know was that I had wanted to be “swept off” and that I had had my eye on him all evening.  So I let him seduce me. Some well-timed gestures of resistance, then I let him stroke my neck, conceded a French kiss and swooned in his arms.  We drove to his apartment on the outskirts of town, in the open Cabrio, as it was summer and still wonderfully mild, around 75  degrees by night.

Actually, I was still in a steady relationship at the time, but I had no desire to give myself to the guy who, until then, I had only allowed to touch me.  He was a classmate, a handsome athlete, a competitive swimmer with a shaven chest and shaven body (to minimize water resistance...not for the ladies).  Things were not great in bed, however.  The odd kiss and a little horseplay didn't live up to the expectations of his incredible body. 

I let him know that I wanted to end our relationship, and when he didn't believe me (the arrogance, he didn't even take me seriously!) I took off with Timo.  What followed was one of the hottest nights I had experienced up to that point.

Anyway, I wanted to talk about how I got together with Daniel.  I knew him from school, we had actually been together for a short time many years back, but only held hands and did a little petting.  Later, I found out that he had no memory of this at all. 

He was handsome, but was also a real show-off, and a know-it-all.  Nevertheless, he could also be kind and affectionate and I even felt safe with him.  Shortly after this, he left school and disappeared somewhere. He had probably had a falling out with his ultra-conservative parents, both school teachers.  Rumor had it that he ended up in the Army and began a career in drinking.

In the meantime, things with
Timo had taken a turn for the worse.  Everything was about sex with him, he wanted to do it from behind, in front, on top, underneath and who knows what else. 

I was looking for a long-term relationship, with affection, security, trust, that kind of thing.  Not just a doll to be flaunted around.  In short, I wasn't getting what I wanted (even if I didn't know exactly what that was). 
Timo was uncontrollable, and a few times I even caught him flirting with other women. I wanted a wedding, all in white of course, but he wouldn't hear of it.  I was in love as I had never been before, my feelings for him were at once tempestuous and tender, and I would have put up with anything, if that meant getting married.

It was like trying to beckon an oak tree in a forest to come to you.  Its leaves may rustle, the bark may scratch, but if you dare take these for an answer or a gesture of affection, you'll go nuts. 

And so we had a huge fight.  I had convinced him to come to a party at our school.  He was annoyed, wandering around griping all evening, and by the end he was drunk.  It was a fact that I noticed too late.  We left the party, I was nearly in tears, we got into his magnificent Mercedes (
could it be, that that's what I was in love with?)
and took off.  In the car he began berating me, asking me how I got the stupid idea of going off with that loser Daniel.  Where did I get the nerve to flirt with Daniel and leave him in the lurch like that?

Well, so I had bumped into Daniel at the party and we had talked. I found that he had changed considerably since leaving high school.  He was bigger, brawnier, looked like an adult and was extremely gracious with me.  He had always been kind. 

He told me that he had left the army and was now studying electrical engineering in Cologne.  As I heard the words “electrical engineering,” I cringed.  It was a subject that I usually filed under the heading  “yuck.”  Just like mathematics, physics, chemistry and other natural sciences that I was forced to endure until  11th grade, at which point I dropped them all.  A class in biology would have to suffice.  Music, German, history, foreign languages and the like were all much more engaging.  I also liked French in particular, as Timo pointed out with a smirk when I listed my favorite subjects to him one day.  He was such an oaf.