When we first met, he was tall, weedy, lanky, and a joker, just like Number 36: The Neighbour’s Husband. My husband [The Hubby] went away with work, a number of found-out infidelities already under his belt, and I found myself bizarrely attracted to the really tall guy with the big ears. By the time we met for the third time, I was crushing on him hard. Secretly, of course, but still, crushing hard. I could give you all of the bullshit stories about how my husband was a dick and didn’t give me the attention or love I needed (which would actually be true), but really, I just kinda said fuck it. If it was okay for my husband to cheat on me and get away with it, it would be okay for me to cheat too. Except I would make sure I never got found out, unlike him.
Between my flat and the flat beneath me (Number 36 and his wife), there was always some sort of party going on and before long, Big Ears and I found ourselves chatting in the corner of my kitchen, no one else in the room, slowly sliding closer and closer towards each other. We didn’t kiss, but it was at that point that we both knew we wanted to.
As time went on, Big Ears and my downstairs neighbour became good, close friends, so whenever I found myself in my flat alone (a lot) and he was downstairs, he’d wait for them to go to sleep before sneaking up to mine. That’s what happened the first time we slept together, and it became a fairly regular thing.
“Hi, I was just about to back to camp … do you fancy some company?” he asked.
“Absolutely, come on in,” I said, opening the door wide and beckoning for him to come in.
And we’d fuck. Furiously. Rampantly. Filthily.
He started taking steroids at some point during our affair and got pretty ripped. He also got a bunch of torso tattoos, including one that spread across his lower abdomen, and he had his cock pierced. I was fascinated by it – his cock, but also by him. His body was an absolute delight and I’d eagerly look forward to the time we spent together. Plus the sex was amazing. Playful and adventurous. It seemed that all we did was have fun together, but I think alcohol had a massive part to play in that, alongside line after line after line of cocaine.
I started to get very real feelings for him. And because we never got caught – not even close – it just became the norm for him to knock on my door after hours whenever my husband went away.
One night, after a particularly heavy session with Number 36, Big Ears had a car crash. They’d been talking about me. Number 36 knew that I was sleeping with Big Ears as well as him, but Big Ears wasn’t aware of my extra-marital activities with Number 36. Blind-drunk and jealously-angry, he drove his car well over the limit and crashed into another car that had a family in it. Rather than stay and face the music, he ran away … right to my door. That’s where an already crazy night got even crazier.
I was drunk too. I’d been out with the girls and snorted almost as much as I drank, so when he turned up at my door, scared and in pain, I wasn’t exactly at my best and most rational self.
“Let’s run away together. My mother’s boyfriend is a proper wrong’un and could totally get us out of the country together. Where’s your passport?”
That was it: my master plan. I didn’t tell him to face the music, or hand himself in, or do anything else that was rational and sensible. Instead, I begged him to run away with me; to go AWOL, leave my husband behind, and be happy somewhere else.
You’d think he would’ve said no, but he didn’t. He agreed. So together we hatched a plan with Number 36 to go back to camp and get his passport, pack some of his shit up, and then prepare to leave together. We were planning ferries and trains and all sorts … coked up and drunk beyond belief. Looking back now, it’s almost funny.
“Guys, I’ve got some really bad news,” said Number 36, after he’d tried to go to camp to get Big Ears’ passport. “The cops are looking for you, mate. You’re going to need to give yourself up.”
It was the first smart idea to come out of any of us that night. I was starting to sober up too, and the gravity of what Big Ears had done was starting to dawn on me.
“He’s right, you know.” I agreed. I didn’t want to agree, but the sober version of me was definitely coming back into play.
“I’ll give you guys a few minutes to say goodbye. You’re probably not going to see each other for a while,” Number 36 offered.
And even though Big Ears had cracked ribs and a number of other injuries [that we later found out about], we fucked one last time. We both knew it was goodbye. Our stupid little fairytale had played out for as long as it could. It was over.
I saw him for a few minutes in the hospital a few days after that, just to make sure he was okay, but he got into quite a lot of trouble for his drunken smash, quite rightly. We never saw each other again.
But I loved that guy. I did. Briefly, and in a way that I couldn’t really understand – and still don’t. He gave me something that I needed at the time, locked away in an abusive marriage that almost went on to destroy me. But it was more than the sex I had with The Neighbour’s Husband [Number 36]. It was more than just sex. It was sex plus something. I think it was love, but maybe it was something between the two. An obsession? Maybe an addiction?
But there you have it: the short version of my affair with Number 30: The Guy with the Big Ears.
It was literally a car crash.