Hi there!

It seems my writing hiatus has (at least for now) come to an end, for I am happy to announce this new multi-chapter story, A Life of Style. Yes, that is an awful pun, and no—I am not sorry for it. I'm not sure how often I'll be updating, but I'm hoping to keep it at two weeks between chapters (max) because these chapters will be (I think) relatively short. The story will be told from Kyle's and Stan's perspectives in an alternating pattern (Ch. 1 - Kyle, Ch. 2 - Stan, Ch. 3 - Kyle, etc.), and the narrative will be largely linear, though some of the chapters will prominently feature flashbacks for the sake of providing backstory.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this story. It's not the happiest one at the outset, but it's one I've wanted to write since my return to fanfiction: my version of the old school South Park OTP: Style.

Happy readings!

TEPR

It's a familiar feeling: his cock in my ass; the way he gently tugs on the back of my hair when he gets a bit too worked up; his sheepish slinking back after he's come and, guided by his sense of decorum, doesn't want to sound too sloppy when he pulls out. This is what it feels like to be desired, and for better or for worse, I think I'm finally getting used to feeling this way with someone other than Stan.

"Thanks, baby. That was really good," Chad says, hopping off the bed and looking for his boxers.

"Don't call me that," I growl, rolling over to face him. "That's not what this is."

"So I can fuck you," he says, leaning over to kiss me, "and I can kiss you, but I can't call you 'baby?'"

"Precisely," I say, standing and leaning against the wall after I kiss him back.

I have to give him credit: Chad is much less dense than the average propulsion engineer. Don't get me wrong—rocket scientists are smart, but I've found that many of them lack basic levels of common sense. That was my initial assumption about Chad when I met him at work last year. He was the first friend I met in Huntsville, and I never would have imagined that it would turn into something sexual, especially not while I was still married—am still married—to Stan.

Before you get the wrong idea, I should tell you that this isn't your run-of-the-mill, fall-in-love-with-another-man-and-leave-your-husband affair. My feelings for Chad are purely carnal. And it's not even that I find him irresistibly sexy because I don't; his looks are average at best. In that regard, he's nothing compared to Stan, with his piercing blue eyes, easily flushed cheeks, and adorable smile. But Chad is a change, and change is what I think I need right now. I still love Stan, and I love the life we're building together, but it's not everything I ever wanted, and I've just recently started to realize that. Admittedly, this is shitty timing on my part.

It was only a year and a half ago that I convinced Stan to uproot from our charming home in the Denver suburbs and move to Ala-fucking-bama. I had a promising job waiting for me here, and because of the cheaper cost of living, we would pretty much make bank by relocating to the South, even if it took Stan some time to find work. Thankfully, it didn't, though.

We moved just after the school year ended, right after Stan got tenure with Denver Public Schools, and he was less than thrilled about leaving the city that we, as a couple, had grown to know as home and where he had begun to build a solid career. A couple of weeks after we settled in Huntsville, though, he saw a posting for a job in his field, teaching middle school history at a prestigious local private school. The administration liked that he wasn't from the South and could bring in an outside perspective. To the delight of both of us, he got the job and couldn't be happier. In addition to teaching, he's also the boys' soccer coach, and his schedule has been busier than usual as the school year winds to a close. His weekday evenings are often occupied by practices and games, causing him to spend all weekend grading. If I was in a different place, I'd tell him how unfair it is that the school hasn't hired an assistant coach yet or that he should take a breath and slow things down, that the head of school loves him and he doesn't have to worry about job security for next year. But that's not where I am. Instead, I am here, expelling Chad's semen from my ass and wishing I had a drink.

"How about we grab a drink?" Chad asks me through the bathroom door. I will not allow myself to get so comfortable with this man that I'll let him see me on the toilet, not even after he's fucked me dozens of times. For the sake of Stan and everything else, that just can't happen.

"A little early, don't you think?" I ask, half-scoffing and slipping my clothes back on. "Isn't your lunch hour almost over, anyway?"

"Oh, come on, Kyle. It's Friday. You know McGregor doesn't give a shit. Besides, I'm not going to see you for an entire week."

I flush and step outside. "That is correct," I say, walking past him to the door. "Because I am taking a trip for spring break with my husband."

Chad always hates this part, the part when I leave his house. A part of me feels bad for him. He's nearly thirty and just realized last year, after a string of horrible relationships with women during and after college, that he's gay. And I'm apparently the first guy he's been seriously into. Even worse, I'm beginning to think he might be in love with me. Christ.

"Don't go," he says softly, placing his hand over the doorframe to block me. "Please. Not yet. I'll miss you."

"You really should be getting back to work, Chad." I stare at him icily. "Don't take your job for granted."

"Oh, come on," he whines. "Don't do this again."

I suppose I should confess that my affair with Chad isn't the only thing I'm keeping from Stan. I have been out of work for just more than three months now, and my husband's none the wiser. I know that's shitty, but it's reached a point now that there's no way I can tell him. What do you say in this situation? Oh, sorry, I meant to tell you ninety-seven days ago—but who's counting?—but it slipped my mind until now. I don't think so. And before you judge me, try putting yourself in my shoes. Have you ever been laid off from an awesome job with a great salary and benefits package? Have you ever gone from being the primary breadwinner to immensely thankful that you've been saving money judiciously? No. No, you haven't. So you can't judge me.

Sorry. That was rude, and presumptive. Maybe you have been in my shoes, in which case you understand how much this fucking sucks. Maybe you also understand how hard it is to tell your partner when this bad news lands at your doorstep, how badly you want to but how you find yourself unable to find the words to express everything it is you want to say. Maybe you understand that the day you get laid off—excuse me, the day your company "is forced to reconcile the gloomy forecast for the upcoming fiscal year and, as a result, must cut back accordingly"—is two days before your husband hits the road for a weekend soccer tournament, and only a week and a half before his formal semesterly review by the head of school, so telling him this evening doesn't seem like the best option because you know how excited and stressed and jittery he can be in times like this, and you don't want to upset the delicate balance. You know this because you've been married to him for three years, though you've been a couple for twelve (but who's counting?) and he's been your soulmate for as long as you can remember. Maybe you understand that the best option in this situation, when faced with news of your impending unemployment, is to keep it buried inside, to put a smile on your face when your beaming husband tells you about how great his fifth period class was today and how he feels like he's making a real difference in the life of one of the players on his eighth grade team. I guarantee that you would feel as conflicted and sick to your stomach as I do every moment of every day that I keep this secret from him, knowing that one day he'll find out and that the longer it takes, the larger and more unpredictable the eruption will be.

But perhaps you also understand that in situations like this, you need a friend, someone in whom you can confide, or else you risk going crazy. And perhaps you understand how, given the right circumstances—too much stress, too many mojitos—this friendship could one night slip into something more, something more dangerous, and once it's started, you are unable to locate your best instincts, and you have no idea how to stop it. Perhaps if you understand all of that, you can understand who I am and how I got here.

Which reminds me—I've been so rude. I should introduce myself. My name is Kyle. I'm an unemployed software engineer, I'm twenty-seven years old, and I haven't had sex with my husband in over a month.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this first installment!I'd love to hear what you think so far. Please leave a review if you are so inclined; I would appreciate it greatly.

Cheers,

TEPR