Publisher's Synopsis
My Life with Michael is an erotic fantasy for anyone who has ever wanted to have their beer and drink it, too. Surprisingly sweet, the story follows the course of an adulterous affair between two ordinary people confronting the changes that aging brings to the experience of love and sexuality. With humor and honesty, my novel explores the pleasures and pitfalls of the adulterous relationship: the crudity of the courtship, the raw sexuality that ultimately lapses into monotony, and, inevitably, the bittersweet farewell.
Excerpt:
Mentally I commanded my heart to cease its infernal yammering. Then I saw that it was ten till and I still had to get to the tenth floor and I figured I'd better hurry because I didn't want to be late. What was this, a job interview?
Contempt for my own foolishness finally got me going. I made it through the lobby and all the way up the stairs to the tenth floor without hesitating, and then I was in his hallway and the room was right there, but I was panting and sweating and I couldn't go in just yet. I always took the stairs, and now I regretted that age-old resolve on my part because I was a mess and even worse, I'd lost my physical momentum and had started thinking again about what was going to happen here. Big mistake.
The hallway was high-ceilinged and dim. Phony candle-type lanterns hung in iron brackets every ten feet along the walls, spilling what little there was of their eerie light onto the blood-red carpet. The only windows to the outside were at the very ends of the protracted hallways; I could barely make out the tiny breaks they carved into the pervasive gloom. I wondered whether they were large enough for me to jump through.
Hoping for respite from the strangling sensation that clutched at my throat, I craned my neck skyward. The ceiling was decorated with a bronze gilded pattern, and where a moment before it had given the impression of loftiness, now it seemed to be pressing down, ever closer to my unprotected skull, and the gilding wasn't an artistic design, it was a web of interlocking chains poised to drop down and trap me there, where Michael would find me the next morning, huddled in a whimpering ball and ready for the insane asylum. I peeked reluctantly back towards his door. It stood tall and ominous, a large black iron knocker dead in its center. "Boom! Boom! Boom!" I seemed to hear it clamor, surely in order to summon the damned spirits within. "Boom! Boom! Boom!" And then there was a slow creaking sound, like that of a poorly oiled door or the gates of hell opening, and I leapt into the air and from that elevated vantage point finally saw that there was a visitor entering another room down at the other end of the hall.
I exhaled. Somewhere in my head I heard chicken noises and that was annoying so I ran a brush through my hair, resettled my bag on my shoulder, and took a fortifying deep breath that I wished was a beer. I took the teeniest hold possible of that big black knocker and gave it the most timid tap I could muster. "Boom!" it resounded. I heard movement inside the room, and then a chasm was opening before my eyes, threatening to swallow me up, and I held my breath as the door separated slowly from its jamb. I don't mind telling you that in that moment I was scared out of my wits and not in the least bit horny. And when he finally appeared in the doorway, the expression on his face told me that he felt about the same way.
"Hi," I said. As usual I'd chosen the best moment to show off my quick wit and brilliant conversational skills.
"Hi," he answered back, with equally impressive eloquence.
And then we stared at each other, motionless with fear.
"Can I come in?" I asked finally, speculating with some justification that the answer might be no.
"Oh, of course." He moved aside about three inches, and I wiggled my way out of the hallway and into the room.
