Junction X by Erastes (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

know now that I compartmentalised my lies—in the same way that I compartmentalised many things—like my clients, for example. Never the twain shall meet, and that sort of thing. After a while, I didn’t even think to myself that I was lying to my wife about my affair with a teenager. I believed my own lies, and in so short a time span that I surprised even myself, the cold flush of guilt no longer plagued me when I told her I wouldn’t be home till late.

I was able to cover the extra hours I was allegedly working by blaming the weather and the time away from the office. I invented financial deals, new clients, fluctuating markets. There are many reasons why a conscientious stockbroker would be doing overtime. When we were starting out I had done it before, working all hours God sent, making new clients and was out of the house so often I might as well have been living aboard. I think that Val saw nothing strange in my new spurt of ambition and industry.

Something strange happened to my relationship with my family, however. Perhaps it was because I had to be very busy leading two lives; perhaps it was due to a sense of guilt, not for what I was doing when I was away from them, but that I was spending so much time away. But as the weeks passed and the winter slowly thawed away to a late and much-welcomed spring, I found that Valerie was more of a friend now than she had been since we were engaged, and that she was pleased with me for spending so much time indoors with her and the children. Home became something I worked at, something I did to fill in the gaps between stocks and shares…and Alexander.

From that first moment when he left me alone in the flat, the calendar came alive. I started counting days, then hours, sometimes minutes, sometimes seconds. Just sixty-four more minutes and the train will arrive at the Junction. Just two more days and it will be Thursday. Just ten more minutes and I’ll see him. Just five more seconds in your arms. Alex wasn’t the only one who begged for extra time. We were equals there; sometimes I had to hurry us out, sometimes he had less than an hour before he had to be home. Those times were frenetic; we had to cram into a mere sixty minutes what we could do for several hours.

There was no more uncertainty, either. We were like animals, at first. The second time he came through that door, I was waiting, pacing like an expectant father; I took hold of him as if it were a year since I’d kissed him, instead of less than a week. I think I hurt him, and I know I cut his lip, but it didn’t slow us down, and penitence didn’t surface until we lay gasping for breath, our clothes tangled around our ankles. There were many times, too many times, when we felt we didn’t have the time to undress. I would be buried to the balls in him while my hands slid under his school shirt and pullover, kissing what exposed skin I could reach, or he’d have my cock out almost as soon as he threw his satchel to the floor, pushing me back onto the bed as his mouth closed greedily, hungrily, around me.

We stole what time we could, at least once a week, sometimes a dizzying two, for he would pout and beg for a second meeting, and I would do anything when he begged me. We learned our sin quickly, or I did. I learned his skin, his shape. Learned the way his hair felt under my fingers. Mapped every curve and angle of him, both in the light and in the dark; traced the curve of his lips, the hollow of his shoulders; felt his warmth and his exuberance; and clung to him, our skins sticking together. I loved the way his body arched against that bed at the simplest of touches; I learned where he was ticklish—and he was amazingly ticklish—and where he loved to be touched the most. But I never learned to stop being astounded that once he had me—a middle-aged, inexperienced, married man—it wasn’t a joke. That he wanted me. That he didn’t tire of me. Of us. He never tired of us.

+ + +

“Have you and Phil fallen out?”

I pretended to finish the row of figures I was working on and spun my chair to face Val where she stood in the door. “Not at all. What’s for lunch?”

“Roast lamb, and don’t change the subject.” She came up behind me and rubbed my shoulders.

I shrugged her away with a show of impatience. “No. I suppose with the weather… I see him at work.” I hadn’t, not to speak to, at least.

“Why don’t you ask him over for lunch?”

“Oh you know him,” I said, and I couldn’t stop the blush I felt crawl over my skin. “He’s bound to be booked up.”

“You have argued!” She looked confused and angry at the same time.

“I swear to you, Val, we haven’t. You know how busy I’ve been.” It didn’t seem to placate her, as the frown remained. “Why the concern? You see Claire often enough—or are you spying for her?”

She turned away abruptly. “I happen to be fond of Phil. He’s not just your friend. And I don’t put people down and pick them up again as if they were toys.”

“What do you mean by that?” I said, but she’d gone. About five minutes after that, I heard her laughing. Suspicious, I edged out of the study and heard her talking to someone on the phone.

“No, he didn’t tell me about that. No, and I don’t believe that for a minute. Ed doesn’t know how… Oh no! You are making it up. Yes, yes, of course, we are! Of course, the children will be thrilled to