They say that confession is good for the soul. What a load of crap. All it does is make the listener feel superior. At least confessing this way, I am not being judged. Not directly at least. You, however you are, will be judging me. I can accept that. Please, go ahead and feel superior.
But why are you wasting your time reading this? Entertainment? Are you a student doing a philosophical study of the sins of the flesh? Or are you waiting for the dirty bits?
Of course I don’t expect an answer.
I’m sitting on the opposite side of the room in the same bar that I was in yesterday. There are a couple of well dressed stock-broker types sitting in my old seat. Their talking is loud and punctuated with bursts of toothy laughter. They have their mobile phones out of course, and now and then there’s a buzz as a text or a tweet comes winging in.
I’ve an important meeting this afternoon, so I’ve reverted to coffee. It’s mildly better than at the coffee bar along the road.
The barman is a cutie; tall, slender, wavy black hair, designer stubble, tight bottom, knowing eyes. He visually undressed me again, in that professional inoffensive way good barmen have. I don’t mind. It’s one of the perks of the job, and I did return the favour.
Feelings of guilt and self loathing are far less now than they were the first years. Not so much a stab in the guts type of feeling, and more a persistent itch between the shoulder-blades. Of course I tried to block it out at the beginning, but it was like trying to stop a rolling juggernaut with your bare hands.
What kind of woman has multiple affairs? A damaged one?
That’s not me – I hope. I am a child of well balanced, God fearing, hardworking parents, who knew only kindness and toleration to their children. And I didn’t have and Uncle Buck who fed me toffees while he sexually abused me.
A woman battling low self esteem? No – I don’t think so; though a psychiatrist might quickly come to that conclusion, until he saw my haul of bungee jumping certificates. But then he’d probably say that I was over-compensating for a lack of affection.
I’m supposed to be a smart woman. I’ve worked hard to climb the ladder. I have a good life. So why risk everything? Smart and stupid then.
The risks are there every day, I know that. And sometimes the strain is almost unbearable. I find myself trying to read his facial expressions, analyzing the tone of his voice. Has he found something I’ve clumsily left laying around? Did I do something to make him suspect? Condoms in my pocket?; scraps of note paper with telephone numbers?; semen soaked knickers in the wash basket?
No, I’ve been ultra careful. I have a locker at the gym where I keep a few things; clean knickers; a change of cloths; wig; stockings; suspenders; condoms, lenses.
I remember how shocked he was when I cut off my long hair. Shocked and disappointed, although he belatedly said he liked it. He was lying, of course. But I had to do it. It’s hard to wear a wig when you have that much hair underneath. It saddened me too, but needs must. Afterwards I looked at myself in the mirror – it was still me, but a beautiful, almost boyish version.
He made love to me that night. He tried to grab my hair from behind, I could feel the disappointment emanating through his cock buried deep inside me. There was anger then. He wanted to punish me for not asking his permission. I felt the extra sting when he slapped my ass. He wanted to hurt me; wanted to leave a mark, a hand-print. But he loves me too much to resort to all out abuse.
So afterward, when he had emptied his balls, he rolled me over and kissed me on the lips, the nose and the top of the head; running his fingers through my hair. He didn’t say anything, there was no need.
Later when his breathing had slowed, and he’d let go of my breast and rolled onto his side, I had lain in the dark and cried for my lost tresses and the disappointment I seen in his eyes.
Inevitably that leads me to this blog. It is evidence of my infidelities. It’s a chronological description of every extramarital, salacious, dirty, exciting thing I‘ve done with other men, since I promised to forsake all others.
Well it might be, if I don’t delete everything. That way nobody will ever know who I am. I’ll just disappear into the ether along with my words.
Why take the risk? The smart thing to do would be to hit the delete button, and smash the hard drive with a hammer.
So why don’t I?
I’m not as smart as my IQ suggests. Or I am more stupid than I give myself credit for.
And what about the other men?
They are safe I suppose. I camouflage their descriptions so people can’t pierce through. I have no desire to break up marriages. I’ll fuck other women’s husbands, but I won’t steel them.
I’m giving myself a pat on the back for that little piece of moral mumbo-jumbo.
What would happen if he found out? There would be shouting and swearing and frothing at the mouth. Then questions to answer.
And of course – why? That’s the one I dread the most.
He might even attempt to kill me. He isn’t a violent man, but he does have big strong hands, and when I met him he had a real passion for the kid of legalised on field violence that went with university rugby.
It’s often said that murder is hard the first time and that it gets easier the more people you kill. Adultery is the same; once the ball starts rolling it’s hard to stop it.
I love my husband, so why am I being unfaithful? What need doesn’t he fulfil? The sad conclusion I’ve had to face is, that at the bottom of all this, it’s not him……it’s me.
So why exactly am I writing this all down for the world and their wives to read? Writing about it, when all is said and done, is creating a trail of evidence that can and would be used against me, if the shit hit the fan.
I laugh as it occurs to me that I’m perhaps performing some sort of public service; documenting my misdeeds as a warning to others. Twisted, or what. I might be in need of some sort of psycho-therapy.
I certainly don’t want people to cheer me on, because and this is the rub, “I believe in marriage. “
Infidelity is just something I do. Something I can’t seem to resist; a compulsion. I seem to glow when I know that some one desires me.
I know, we all want to be desired, worshiped, adored, lusted after, fucked till we can’t stand up or piss straight. That’s want women want, but as we all know you have to be careful for what you desire; getting it often comes with consequences.
Of course I’m always sorry afterward. No, those feelings started to fade after the first few times. I’d started to know myself. To accept that I was what I was.
The first man didn’t force me. I went willingly, ripping at his clothes as he tore at mine. Like a scene from a cheap movie in which the characters can’t wait to get into each other. Art imitating life. Well that was exactly how it was. Too quickly he was inside me and I was clinging to him as if my very life depended on it.
It wasn’t just the things he made me do that excited me, making my flesh tingle, making me question my life, turning me into a sex addict sneaking around to get a fix. He made me admit that I was probably always like that. That he was just the trigger that brought out who I really was.
And blogging like adultery, alcoholism and drug abuse is addictive. Perhaps I have what is called an addictive personality.