I slept with a married woman, with her husband's permission.
I should have recognized the hand-on-the-upper-thigh maneuver. But I didn’t expect to be hit on by my happily married friend Celeste; we were just splitting a cab downtown. So I slurred on about the delicious and strong drinks we’d had that evening.
“Did you know tequila’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac?” I said.
“I didn’t,” she smiled, her hand lingering.
“Yeah. This bartender I dated…”
And she was kissing me. My brain swirled. She tasted like green margaritas.
We arrived at her apartment. When she hopped out, the hem of her skirt slightly exposed the waves of her ass.
“We have to do this again soon,” she said. The cabbie chuckled and we were off. On the ride home my thoughts roamed from, “That was awesome” to “Is she latently gay? Am I?” I opened the window for fresh air. The scent Celeste left in the cab — vanilla — was making me dizzy.