Anna was like a bad habit. An addiction Thomas couldn’t shake. They just had sex together. Sex. That was it. They didn’t even talk that much after the first year or two. Yes, through the years the frequency went down, but there was still a fundamental rendezvous cycle.
Pure lust, they whispered.
They couldn’t stand each other as live-in friends, maybe mates. No. Anna didn’t want a man as intelligent as her. Thomas was strong willed and an independent thinker; and Anna was impossible because she never stopped talking about the abuse of women and children, about the horrors of illness, the torture of war and male stupidity.
The good thing was they worked this out at the beginning. They stopped trying to make “it” work and just got down to fucking. When the animal surge came on, they set up their next rendezvous…that was the simple agreement. They would meet, no matter how their marriages might be going. Anna was always having problems with her less intelligent husbands; and Thomas steadily married to a wonderful suburban wife, sleep walked in domestic idleness and comfort.
When Anna and Thomas met at last in some no-tell motel, they ripped off their clothes; they fucked with the curtains open almost in public view. This ache of lust neither could explain; neither of the lovers was particularly handsome or beautiful…but their physical fire for each other was volcanic. Thomas would fuck Anna for hours in every bearable position, for days it seemed…then without a sentimental word or farewell glance, they’d vanish until the next mindless rutting season.