An Affair Abroad Read online

  AN AFFAIR ABROAD

  The Hummus Series

  ~

  T.K. Richards

  This novel is a work of fiction

  with character names, places, and

  incidents created by the author’s

  imagination. Any resemblance is

  coincidental to any event, location,

  or person either living or dead.

  To the single ladies.

  May you find love.

  Copyright © 2018

  LNK Publishing

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-13: 978-1717350619

  Cover by Jake Johnson Photography

  The content in this book may not be

  suitable for persons under the age of 18.

  Due to strong language and adult situations.

  Discretion advised.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1-NADIA

  CHAPTER 2-LONDON

  CHAPTER 3-MAXIMUS

  CHAPTER 4-TASTE

  CHAPTER 5-HOSPITALITY

  CHAPTER 6-SHOTS

  CHAPTER 7-GOODBYE

  CHAPTER 8-PASSPORT

  CHAPTER 9-MRS

  CHAPTER 10-REALISM

  CHAPTER 11-ARRIVEDERCI

  Chapter One

  Nadia

  This is humbling. Sitting in a room full of strangers because I can’t get over a man. What a bunch of losers. Wait a minute, I’m here so I guess I’m a loser too. Why would I take advice from Carmen ‘Can’t Keep a Man’ Woods? I would die if any of my friends saw me in here. Note to self—give Carmen a tongue-lashing tomorrow—better yet, never mention I was here.

  I can barely hear myself think with Lady Chatterley sitting next to me. For the love of God, someone please shut this woman’s mouth. I have been smiling and nodding the entire time she has been yapping her purple lips, but I haven’t heard a word she’s said. Well what do we have here? This one seems pretty full of herself. I can tell from looking at her designer shoes whatever problem she’s facing, it is most likely her fault. I shouldn’t say such things. I don’t know this woman, yet still I want to call her Ms. Look at Me. She can’t stop looking in the mirror long enough to see what is actually happening in the world—like how I am intensely watching and judging her. Shame on me. A giant panther could have entered the room and she wouldn’t know it. Look up sweetie you’re not cute enough to be clueless.

  My God! Who let King Kong out of her cage? Note to self, ‘don’t let her kick me in the ass.’ She has to be the tallest, most statuesque white woman I have ever seen. Please don’t sit by me, please don’t sit by me. Whew! That was a close one. I might slip and say something slick and she would wipe the floor with me. Next mental note—Nadia, stop talking about these people.

  Now what do we have here? Possible lesbians, perhaps? Jeez, I hope not. I can’t bear to hear what issues they are having. I thought once you gave up on men, you should be happy by process of elimination. Right? How could any woman on woman relationship have problems when a man isn’t involved? Guess I’ll find out soon enough. If they do turn out to be a couple, I’ll treat myself with donuts tonight. I beg someone, anyone, gas me now.

  Is the therapist here already? Is she one of these women I have talked about horribly, waiting for the right time to speak? I don’t want to be the guinea pig, nor do I want to sit here and waste my time looking at strangers all night. I have talked about them to myself which I really need to work on. Note to self—Work on your bullshit, and stop talking about people.

  The metal door creaks as it flies open from the hands of a petite, well- dressed woman, rushing in with folders pressed against her chest. Her maroon- colored lipstick, and black cat-eye frames announced she was fashionable, and perhaps well paid, which was a good sign. As her heels clanked across the wooden floor, I had a change of heart. This didn’t seem like a place I belonged. As she continued to get settled in, I stood and grabbed my sweater from the back of my seat. Avoiding eye contact with everyone, I fixed my mouth to say, ‘I’m so sorry, but I can’t stay,’ but was intercepted by the therapist. Coherently and unapologetically she spoke. “Forgive me for running late, I couldn’t get my husband off of me,” she said.

  ‘Wait, what? Did the therapist greet us with personal information? About herself? Maybe I will stay after all.’

  I repositioned my sweater and made myself comfortable, eager to hear what she was going to say next. “Allow me to start by asking you all this question. Are you open to sharing your deepest, darkest, most liberating sexual encounters with the people you see in this room?”

  The room fell silent. We all looked around at each other with skepticism. Crickets in the window, music from cars passing by, and chatter from the hallways filled as whispers in the room as it remained on pause.

  “I urge you to answer my question honestly, as it is important for you to be successful in this class. My name is Dr. Bartley, and I’m here to help you help yourself.”

  She looked around the room, accessing us from what I could gather. No one had found their voice to answer her question, and as the silence continued, she began writing in her notebook, looking up at us from the rim of her glasses.

  “I’m going to assume those who have remained seated are responding yes. Yes? Okay then. Let’s get started. You with the mirror,” she said, pointing to the girl I nicknamed Ms. Look at Me.

  “Me?” she asked tapping her designer shoes. Her heavy lined eyes looked confused, and her caramel face had a bit of fear written on it suddenly.

  “Yes, you. You are primping in the middle of the day. Why?” the doctor questioned.

  “Don’t you want to know my name first?” she asked.

  “We’ll get to names a little later. Right now, I’m interested in knowing why you are staring at yourself in the middle of the day? In a class for people who are sexually frustrated no less.”

  “Um, because you never know who you are going to meet,” replied mirror girl.

  “Did you plan on meeting someone to impress in here?” Dr. Bartley asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “And how about you?” Dr. Bartley pointed her pen towards me.

  “What about me?” I asked looking her in the eye, past the glass on her ebony frames.

  “I saw you getting ready to leave as I walked in. Tell me why?”

  “I had second thoughts about staying,” I firmly replied, refusing to allow her to bully me into submission like the first two women.

  “May I ask why?”

  “I don’t think I belong in here,” I sassed.

  “So why did you sit back down?”

  “Honestly, when you blurted out you couldn’t get your husband off of you, I was intrigued. That was one hell of a way to enter a room,” I said causing a stir.

  “Your response tells me you are interested in other people’s lives. Am I right?”

  “I, I, I wouldn’t use those exact words. I just found what you said to be very honest. You know. I have never met a person bold enough, or unafraid to enter a room as their true self. Nowadays, everyone is either faking it, or trying to be something they’re not,” I explained with surprising support from the room.

  The girl I labeled as Lady Chatterley sat opposite of me, humming in agreeance, catching the attention of Dr. Bartley, “You appear to have something to add. What brings you here?”

  “A former attendee recommended I sit in one of your sessions,” she answered.

  “Do you often take advice from unlicensed professionals?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lady Chatterley scoffed.

  “What I am asking you is, where is your own mind? Your own train of thought? Where is your courage to do what you think you sho
uld be doing? Don’t worry. We’ll work on those factors in the weeks to come.”

  I read the room. Of seven attendees, three sat in their seats with expressions of enthusiasm on their faces. The possible couple were having a conversation with their eyes, and Lady Chatterley appeared to be uneasy as she raised her to speak as if we were in school. “Can you start with someone else? Please? I don’t want to go first.” Dr. Bartley answered with an impish grin across her lips, “Of course. Class let me inform you. I am all about expressing how one truly feels. I encourage my class to speak freely and honestly. I will push you to stop hiding and reveal the person you are when no one else is around. Your true self. You will have to get personal, and dirty, and detailed in here, so again I ask, is everyone in here comfortable with my methods? And this time I would like a verbal yes or no.”

  “Yes,” answered everyone except me.

  “I was right earlier. I don’t belong here. Good luck to you all,” I said avoiding direct eye contact with the room.

  The immediate silence was uncomfortable. Quickly, I crossed my tote with my sweater and jetted to the exit. Lately, I have been second guessing myself about everything. I know to follow my gut, yet I disobeyed it, and sat back down. ‘Big mistake.’ Trust is one of the areas I needed extreme help with, and trusting a room full of strangers with my most personal, intimate details is not where I wanted to begin that journey. Such a conversation could be had with my closest friends, whom I’d be spending the day with tomorrow. ‘I won’t tell them about the class. Only about dumping Evan. They already call me Naïve Nadia. No need to make it worse.’

  Despite the overcast and heavy weekend traffic, I wiggled my way through the backroads of Charlotte to Taylor’s shower. Five minutes late, but on time before the bride threw a hissy fit, I arrived with the cheese and fruit tray, bottles of chardonnay, and tequila. The shower was a hit, filling the country club with the bride and groom’s side of the family, an overflowing table of gifts, and libations flowing amongst the room.

  The party was near its end when Levi, the groom, arrived to pick up the gifts, and his bride to be. He tried to break up the party and tear Taylor away from us, until it became clear we weren’t ending our night early. Outnumbered and aware of the company before him, he loaded his car with the presents, and waved his scrawny arms at us as he left.

  We snacked on the remaining food trays, to balance the number of bottles we were most likely to empty. Our group never needed to go to a party. We were the party. Shannon, the outspoken wild one, was in rare form. Always forward and unapologetically direct. Tonight, was no different. After over indulging on tequila, she overstepped with invasive questions for the bride, “Are you ever going to tell us what he is like in bed?” The room chuckled as Isla passed the near empty bottle of tequila around the table. Taylor replied,

  “You never share such information about the one.” Shannon’s face stiffened. Her golden eyes locked on Taylor, and her lips barely hid the cracked smile she forced, “He’s that good huh.”

  All of us squealed in high pitches followed by laughter, while Taylor blushed, revealing the unspoken details, simply by smiling so hard. Her rosy flushed cheeks could no longer hold her resting bitch face.

  “Good for you Taylor,” I said. “You are right, it’s none of our business.”

  “What’s going on with you and Evan?” Taylor questioned as her caramel hands reached for the last drop tequila.

  “Not a damn thing. I know you guys think he is a keeper, and he does look great on paper, but I am just not into him,” I emphasized.

  “Why not? I wish a man like Evan would sweep me off of my feet,” said Isla scowling in my direction.

  “Look, I already feel bad about stringing him along. Trust me on this one. If you knew why I have to break up with him, you might sympathize with me.”

  With great hope, I wanted them to take me at my word. Such a wish might have been able if they were of sober mind. “Then tell us why,” they said in unison, like a rehearsed choir. I finished off the remaining tequila in my glass, and chased it with a squeeze of lime between my teeth. Gasping from the burning pains in my chest, I bought myself a few moments before sharing my quandary, “He is incapable of giving me an orgasm.” I hid my face with shame, peeping at my friends through the cracks of my fingers. Taylor and Isla looked at each with smirks between them, Khai took a sip from her cup with raised eyebrows, and Shannon couldn’t help but be Shannon, “Come again? No pun intended,” she teased.

  I knew her too well to know her pun was indeed intended. Once the banter and laughter faded, I pled my case. “I’ve never had an orgasm with him. Sex with him is so horrible, I can’t describe it,” I blurted hiding my face. My friends looked at each other in silence, which is strange because they always have something to say. I could tell from looking at each one of them, they were calculating their responses, and waiting each other out to speak first. “You are going to let a good man go, because of bad sex. You’re crazy Nadia. Do you know the percentage of women who have to fake it in the sack, but have a good man? Do you think a lot of women are sexually satisfied? Let me break it down for you. Studies show only twenty percent of people, married or single, actually experience the best sex of their lives. Get you a vibrator, handle your business, and keep your man,” Shannon lectured looking down at me from her ginger colored nose.

  “You seem to have it all figured out don’t you Sha? Pass the wine please?” I asked Khai in desperate need of a swig to survive Shannon’s sermon.

  “You know I’m the one in this circle who knows the most about sex,” Shannon bragged.

  “Just because your yellow ass talks about it the most, doesn’t mean you know the most,” Isla added.

  “And you do? As I was saying, you better not throw a perfectly good man to the woods when the rest of us are meeting pathological liars, cheaters, sword fighters, video game freaks, and what not.”

  Shannon definitively rested her case. After taking a bow, she tooted her own horn further, telling me her advice was free of charge this time. I balled up a paper napkin from the table and threw it at her. Khai then decided to chime in, “Have you told him he was bad in bed?” I admitted I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And with that statement, I proved to be a walking nincompoop.

  Men rarely make decisions with the consideration of a woman’s feelings. They live their lives selfish and entitled with the world handed to them, while women have historically made the dumbest decisions in their life based on a man. Girls choose a college based on a boy. The television show Felicity was surely about a million girls worldwide. Women have agreed to public marriage proposals, to save the integrity of a man she has no intention of being with long term.

  Always the nurturer, women everywhere are sparing a man’s feelings. Ignoring their own needs and wants and desires, to be pleasing to or for a man. I know this firsthand. The love of my life, Dylan, or who I thought was the love of my life, wasted my early twenties. I could have moved to New York and become a dancer, or experienced the rough streets of NYC and become a groomed writer at a major publication. Instead, I met a big shouldered sexual god with a head full of course hair, and a smile that could charm the panties off of a nun. It is because of him, I stayed in North Carolina after college. Afraid if I left he would find someone better, or we would grow apart, or he wouldn’t want me anymore, and cheat on me because of the distance. It is also because of him, I have yet to trust a man with my heart, and overanalyze everything in my relationships. His ghost lives in my head and my bedroom, even though he did turn out to be a serial cheater, with me living in the same city as him, a compulsive liar, and extraordinary gas lighter.

  Evan is better than Dylan in every way, except between the sheets. His kindness is appreciated, he calls often, is a considerate human being, and his resume is desirable, but that’s it.

  My friends couldn’t understand the torture I feel when we’re intimate. He’s too good of a person to tell the
brutal truth. My only solution was to end the relationship, and leave the hurtful comments to his next partner.

  “Nadia, Evan is crazy about you. Shannon is right. Fake it and stroke his ego, then get yours with a toy when you need it,” Khai encouraged. Raising her sketched eyebrows, she took another sip. I don’t think she bought what she said either.

  The mention of a bedroom toy, served as a segue for Shannon to become livelier. Describing what brand she recommends. Exaggerating with tales of how she became addicted to one in particular. Unfortunately, Shannon’s wild stories didn’t remove the attention from me completely. “Do you love him? Like at least a little bit?” Taylor asked.

  “I have love for him, but no, I can’t say I love him, love him.”

  “You guys, this is about Dylan again,” Taylor added, “Look at her. She is still hung up on the douchebag with the bomb-diggety dick.”

  “This is not about him,” I lied.

  “Yes, it is! You are still hung up on your old flame who cheated on you, and made you feel insecure about yourself. All because the sex was “immaculate” as you put it?”

  “This is not about him for the last time.”

  I convinced no one, but I refused to let on. Beneath the digs and jabs, I knew my friends were concerned about my well-being. When I love, I love hard. And getting over Dylan was beyond rough in the beginning. I suffered extreme dark days during that time, and I knew my circle never wanted to see me in such a state again.