To the reader
Dear Reader - welcome to the first post of this my Adultery Confession blog.
I don't know how good I am going to be at this, or if I can write well enough to keep the interest of any who might stumble on these pages while looking for something else.
If my words strike a chord, let me know.
If you've read better prose on the bathroom wall of your local diner or public house, I apologies for keeping you.
If between the beginning and the end I manage to amuse you, then I'll be pleased, and grateful for a note.
If you hate everything you read here, please pass on, and I hope you find what you were looking for when you stumbled down this rabbit hole.
Writing in secret
It’s wet out and I am sitting here in the semi-darkness, wondering why I am about to confess to being a cheat and an adulterer. I expect to be judged by those of you out there who might stumble on these pages. And I suppose that’s the whole idea.
Frankly, I am not looking for pity, forgiveness or understanding.
My shrink says that writing it all down would be cathartic. Sounds like something you stick up your bottom. And I don't think he meant write it down so that the whole world could read about it.
Writing it on paper or in a diary is just asking for someone to stumble across it (you know who I mean). So, sitting here in this over-priced cafe', sipping cold coffee and writing directly into the digital ether is the safest way I can think of.
No paper-trail. A false name. No evidence.
I am, just to be clear, writing in retrospect. At least to begin with.
This strange life all started a couple of years back; back when I wasn't expecting by life to take a left turn into the maize of lovers lost and found.
I know I'm seeming to ramble, but I'm typing as I think, no time for notes and re-writes. I'm not a writer, I'm a.......lets just say, I work for people who have more money than they can spend in fifty life-times, and are hell bent on making more. Money junkies you could call them.
Right now I'm wishing that my coffee was a tall vodka and tonic. No liquor licence here though.
How do such things start? With a glance? A word? A smell? A need for excitement? Or was it just a need to fill up a space in my life that had been void too long.
That too is a lie. A poor excuse for being too week and needy to say "No, piss off buster! And take your charm with you!"
Perhaps I should be kind and leave him. I could give him enough evidence to divorce me. My, wouldn’t his lawyers just love that. The level of pain I’d cause if he were to find out his wife was a sleazy, bed hopping slut, is just too much to contemplate.
How well do I know myself.
I am a kind of junkie. Dope? - Pills? No, nothing so normal. Though I am not averse to a little stimulus, now and then. No, my demon is risk, sex.
I am not unloved. I'm not one of those women who can claim: "my husband doesn't fuck me any more." That sort of thing happens with a predictable regularity. But like most long term relationships, I've seen the routine too many times and it's stopped surprising me.
That doesn't mean I don't enjoy the ride. He's a good, sometimes great lover.....Woo-o-o-o...! That's something I promised myself I wouldn't do. I'm not going to talk about him here. At the very least, he doesn't deserve that.
Back space. Move on.
My first affair was unpremeditated; like unpremeditated murder. At least from my direction. It wasn’t until I was wading in too deep to back out, that I discovered that I’d gotten into the water with a circling shark, and that I was just another victim, another trophy for his bedpost. After that....after that, well you'll see.
I wonder if.........................Not alone now. Later....Bye
Definition of a Wanton Woman: A person (especially a woman) who is immodest and sexually promiscuous.
Quote: Yet we never understand why she lives her life as such a wanton woman.