Me, Myself, I
Hello World. 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 is the whole idea.
Frankly, I’m 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. Somehow, I don't think he meant write it down so that the whole world could read about it. But writing it on paper or in a diary is just asking for someone to stumble across it (you know who I mean).
So cowering in at the back of this over-priced cafe' sipping cold coffee, 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 three years, seven months and seventeen days ago. Back then I wasn't expecting by life to take a left turn into the maize of secrets and lovers lost and found.
I know that I am seeming to ramble, but I'm typing as I think, no time for notes and re-writes. I am not a writer - I am 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 and hiding their wealth through every legal loop-hole and dubious off-shore haven. Money junkies, you could call them. It might be immoral, but it's legal and a girl has to make a living.
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?; an unrealised need for excitement? Or was it just a need to fill a space in my life that had been void too long.
Scratch that last one - it's a damn lie. A poor excuse for being too fucking week and needy to say, "No. Piss off buster and take your charm with you."
But I'm being too hard on myself - at least that's what my shrink says. But I'm guessing that that's one of those lines they learn in training, like patting a child on the head and saying, 'There, there.'
Perhaps I should be kind and leave him. I could provide enough evidence for him to take me to the cleaners. My, wouldn’t his lawyers just love that. The pain I’d cause if he were to find out that his wife was a sleazy, bed hopping slut would be more than I could bear.
How well I know myself.
I am a kind of junkie. Dope? - Pills? No, nothing so normal. My demon is risk, sex.
I'm not unloved. I'm not one of those women who can claim: "my husband doesn't fuck me any more." That 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 got into the water with a woman-eating shark, and that I was just another trophy.
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."
Next: Looking for Excuses