More Guilt

oldart1They 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.

Who?
How long?
How many?
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.

Guilt

back-foot

I told him I was going to be late home. He didn’t ask why. He doesn’t any more. He’s well aware of the pressures of my chosen career.

At 6.15 I took a cab to a pre-arranged destination, climbed the steps, pushed open the big door, and was on the big double bed, on my back inside ten minutes.
By 7.30 I was in the back of another taxi. “Where to Mrs?”

Cab drivers see a lot of humanity. I was sure he could smell the fresh sex emanating from my crotch, even though his knowing smile was carefully masked, his nose flaring just enough to breathe in my heated aroma.
This one is not sophisticated but he is rich. He’s also moderately hairy, long armed, big fingers and he loves to eat pussy. I’ve always been a sucker for a man who prefers to dine before he fucks.

He’s been screwing me twice a week for three months now. And the only demands he makes are that I turn up on time and keep my mouth shut. Like me he has a lot to loose. And he’s on his third marriage.
After the first time he tried to give me a present. I put a stop to that very quickly. Such things are ostentatious and can me traced. And I’m not a call-girl. I don’t fuck for money or expensive, shiny trinkets.

Do I, did I feel guilty? I did, yes. Guilt used to follow me around like a stench. I was surprised he didn’t notice the smell. But after a while I stopped noticing the aroma too. It’s a roller coaster, with excitement at the top and guilt at the bottom.

Would you believe I am, or was, a nice Roman Catholic girl? Guilt and repentance is part of my psyche. It was fed to me at the breast in my mother’s milk and with every meal, that I committed sins just by breathing.

Confession? Not any more. I can just image Father’s face when I began, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned, I have fucked three men who were not my husband, and I don’t particularly feel sorry about it.”

 My mother, who’d only ever had one man inside her in her entire life, would give me that look, the one that shouted disappointment and sorrow and then it would soften to forgiveness. I was still her girl after all, even if I enjoyed sinning more than repenting.

Looking for excuses

I am in a wine bar which has free internet access. I'm on my second vodka and tonic. Really I should have gone to the coffee house. Drinking alone is a bad idea, especially in the middle of the day; might have to give myself the rest of the day off.
Half of my disappointing club sandwich is still on the plate, slowly curling at the edges.

I've been awake all night fretting, and right now I don't know if I want to continue baring my soul to a voyeuristic digital world of strangers. I'm scared that someone out there has already seen what I put up yesterday. I can't take that back now; can't erase their memories. Might kill them though, if I knew who and where they were.

There are other lunchtime drinkers who’ve come for the same reason – to tap away on their laptops, key pads and mobile phones. Workaholics?; lovers sending saucy messages?; or the might be like me, writing about their nasty little secrets. Secrets that would wreck their neat, organised little worlds, were they to get out. How many other adulterers are here? Are we like rats - never more than ten feet away?

There’s a mirror behind me and I view my well dressed, professional reflection unkindly. How the hell did my life get so messed up?
Did I do it to myself? Or did the men who punctured me with their cocks take a piece every time I dropped my knickers and opened my legs?

Yadda, yadda! Get on with it bitch someone will probably say right about now.
Patience. You don’t have to stay and keep me company.
Where was I? How fast time goes when one is being indecisive.

There's a fair haired man at the bar who's been giving me the eye for fifteen minutes. Give you two guesses what he wants. I know exactly what he sees; lady alone; looks affluent; expensive clothes; gold watch; diamond studs in her ears; slim, brunette; green eyes; good cheekbones. And he's wondering how much he'd have to spend to get me on my back with my legs wrapped around his body?
Probably thinks I’m a call-girl. Nice delicate name for a whore. Some people might think that that is exactly what I am.
But as I said, Tic-toc! Tic-toc!

 

Erotic confessions of a cheating wife

hight heeled red shoe

 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