The Hazards Faced By Power Mowers

A million years ago, in another lifetime, when I was not yet a mother, but had been a wife for a few years, I heard a story that's stuck with me. It used to be merely an amusing tale to tell, although it was full of sound and fury signifying something to those involved.  It was my mishearing of a key word that made it funny to me.  Now, though, I think how it has a new meaning.

We were living in a small rural western town, enjoying dinner at one of my husband's colleague's homes.  The man of the house held court, sharing some scandals he'd witnessed.  One involved a fellow with whom they worked, a likeable man.  Our host told us that the man had been having an affair with one of his customers, and the pair had gone out of town, driving four hours away to stay in the big city.  The man had booked a room at a nice hotel, and the illicit couple had engaged in hot monkey loving together.  The only problem was that some of the man's colleagues, including our host, had coincidentally booked rooms at the same lodging.

"There we were, walking down the hallway to our room, when he and his power mower came out of theirs."

I swear to god that's what the fellow said.  I was confused.  "Sorry, what?  His what?  He brought some gardening equipment to cover his true intentions?"

"Huh?" asked our host. 

"Why'd he have a power mower in the hotel?" I queried.

My husband's colleague laughed heartily.  "It was his power mower, not his power mower."

This made no sense to me.  Clearly, I was missing something.  "His power mower?"

"Yes, it's a French word.  It means lover," explained our hostess.

"Ah," I said.  "His paramour.   I see."

My new lover is French.  Ancestrally, I mean.  At least on one of his lines.  I suspect he is somewhat like me, a Heinz 57 variety of ethnicities as so many of our fellow Americans are.  He's not spoken en français to me, but I'm sure his pronunciation, like mine, could lead to some pretty hilarious mixups.  He has little to no experience with that language, since he took Spanish in school.  So he can order dos cervezas, por favor, but he probably wouldn't know to ask for deux bières, s'il vous plait.  Besides, he's more of a wine drinker, anyway.

I'm babbling, aren't I?  It's because I'm a little nervous.  But I probably shouldn't be.  See, the married man I've fallen for may not know much about French vocabulary, but he knows the language of extramarital love.  The ins and outs of getting a little something on the side.  This is not the man's first rodeo.  He's had other paramours in the past.

That's reassuring to me, because if there is one thing I don't want, it's for his lady to learn of my existence in her man's life.  I do not think she'd take kindly to knowing I've sucked his ****, ridden him hard and put him away wet.  Virtually, anyway.  We've engaged in all manner of intimate acts online and over the phone.  *** many times in many ways over the past few weeks.  He's a helluva cyber lover, believe you me.

We're about to step it up a notch, and the risk of discovery will become greater.  When lovers meet and share a hotel room, strange things can happen.  We'll be well beyond a mere four hours' drive from his home town, but I've bumped into folks I know in some pretty odd places as I've traveled the US and Europe.  I'm glad that he has a proven track record in carrying out his affairs of the heart and other assorted organs.  Still, I'm not complacent. 

When I'd heard the story years ago, I'd wondered about the pain and humiliation almost inevitably felt by the wife of the fellow caught at the hotel.  I knew what that was like several years later when my own husband cheated with a customer.  Several of his coworkers had known, and they'd tried to tell me in roundabout ways.  I was so slow-witted, I never caught on until I read evidence, some writing in his own hand.

I can only hope my paramour is more careful.  I do not want to cause pain to anyone.  And he does not wish to leave his wife.  But the need to have more than his marriage affords him draws him to seek out someone else, just as it did me.  We have different circumstances, of course, in that I have that ultimate golden ticket, the hall pass.
milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
3 Responses Jan 10, 2013

So many irons in your fire. Who will wear your brand? Or is it, whose mark will YOU ultimately bear? You know, as long as your heart is on your sleeve, you can always change shirts. But that seering brand kinda thing can be much more lasting. Be careful. Honestly, I really hope you find an enduring and committed love. You deserve it. :)

I guess that it would be fun to take the power mower out for a daiseyance.

It can become a small world at the most inopportune times.