A  Wanton W\Life

By Elizabeth Lin Johnson

While not written to be pornographic there are many explicit descriptions of sex not appropriate for minors. Only adults should read this book.

I apologize for the graphic salacious descriptions but they are integral to the wantonness and adultery which occur.

While explicit it is written to avoid use of vulgar words except in a few instances necessary for a particular uncouth character.                                            

Chapter 1, Prologue To Adultery

It was long ago, but for me, not so long ago.  On a warm September, 1975 evening, I crossed a threshold, while young, not yet a woman, although married and with children.

That night I backed out of our home's driveway, glanced from the rear view mirror to the kitchen window and saw him. My husband was watching, just like Mom did when Dad drove off. At the curb I looked away, entered our cul-de-sac and drove off, uncertain but determined not to turn back.

I'm like Dad? No, it's only dinner.

 I assured myself. A lie, I was no longer a faithful wife. I was meeting a man not my husband and the father of my children, my premediated betrayal evident in my purse.

Turning onto the El Camino Real from my Mountain View, California home I mused about my life.

I was a poor Asian girl, raised Catholic by nuns, going to be one!

Only 16, I was stopped on the sidewalk walking home from the bus stop.

He was white, 5 years older, the only man I ever kissed. Engaged at 17 with parent’s acquiescence, at 18, married.

I gave my underage consent for security, to escape a dysfunctional family before I knew another.  He assumed control of my life, even ensured my virginity on the altar.  

Now, 25, I'm on a date, my first date, meeting a man I choose to see. For the first time, I'm me.

Conversing with myself I rewrote a personal history justification for my dinner date. Approaching Michael's restaurant, however, my rationalizations dissipated, replaced with timid reality. I was risking my marriage, my family, my safe world. I knew I should go home but knew I wouldn’t.

 While familiar with the restaurant from driving past, I’d never eaten there, too upscale for our family budget. Now I was entering an unfamiliar world, economic, social and moral. I was scared but fear was part of the enticement.

Scanning the parking lot from across the street I wondered if he even came with a false hope he didn’t. There it was, his black Porsche, parked in front. Knowing I shouldn’t but no longer in control, I drove in.

Parked, I calmed, checked my hair and makeup in the mirror then clambered out and hastened to the entrance, my heels clicking on the pavement; my small gold sequined purse strung on my left shoulder, my knees visible in the silken mini dress.

My quick pace was not confidence. I was afraid to be seen by someone, someone who knew me. They would want to know why I was there, dressed up, alone, seeing a man. Yet haste was also fed by desire, desire to see him again.