I am afraid to post this.
——————-
During the summer of 2009 I woke one morning horrendously drunk with a man who wasn’t my husband lying naked in bed next to me with my toddler asleep down the hall. That moment changed my life irrevocably.
Tony and I had met after I graduated college and he’d gotten out of the Army. He was blond and fair, had full lips and a big dick. We danced the unrequited love dance for years before having a falling out of mass destruction. We’d played on the playground of make-believe grownups, but this particular morning was full court press adulthood. I had not been faithful to my husband.
For years I’d bent myself to my kind, soft-spoken husband’s ways. His introversion and fear of making waves, while at first highly distasteful to me, eventually taught me to temper my rambunctious nature and to rely on the natural Hy instead of the Super Hy, but it was never enough. He wanted me to be something entirely different: less enthusiastic, less sexual, less intense, less happy, less boisterous. I met him in the middle, but he stayed at his end of the field. My reunion with Tony, ten years since we’d last spoken, was my wake up call to my misery.
When my husband came home from his business trip a few days later I knew enough not to tell him of my hardcore make-out and petting session with my old friend — that would only be alleviating my guilt and hurting him — but I had to tell him I wasn’t happy and something had to change.
Our initial talk led to more talks and even more. The rest of the summer found me in tears and him with a sweet, thoughtful look on his face as we tried to figure us out. “I want you to feel confident, babe,” I finally told him one night. “To explore, to be you, to spread your wings. When you’re out on business trips, I want you to find a woman in the lobby and take her to bed. Do whatever you want with her.”
His mouth gaped, but he agreed he’d try.
In the meantime, I fought the feelings inside of me regarding Tony. He’d made me feel alive, wanted, perfect just the way I was. He’d said I looked even better now than I had at 22, he knew me and accepted me for all my energy and quirks, he loved it all. I hadn’t heard anything close to that in years, but I was married and I had to shove my drunken memory out of my head. It never happened, I told myself over and over and over. It never fucking happened.
But, it had.
And a couple of weeks after I’d told my husband he had free rein to do as he pleased, he gave me the same pass, not knowing he’d just loaded my gun.
That permission slip not only set me free to feel my angst and longing for another man’s touch and words, but it also opened my eyes to a world of grey where marriage wasn’t all or nothing and couples had the right to redefine their relationship in any way they chose. It’s what makes me understand why people cheat. I was willing to cheat to save my marriage. It was the only reason. Others have their own lists, maybe similar, maybe different. It doesn’t really matter.
There have been several men since then that I’ve dallied with that were taken. First, there was Chad, a big man from Texas with a sweet drawl and a new girlfriend. He came to visit me while on business and he thrust his giant cock down my face, but drew the line at penetration. “That’d be cheating,” he’d said. Then there was Jim, an ex-lover of mine who’d also just found a new girlfriend and who, days before they married recently, sent me a beautiful cock pic of himself in his office. And lastly, Kevin, the young man with whom I’m currently taking to my bed whose girlfriend touches him less than once every 8 weeks.
There have been others, as well, but my interviews and meetings with them ended in only words or kisses in a bar. If they spoke badly of their women, I was done. I’m not interested in cuckolding any sister of mine. I’m here to satisfy my own cravings and those of another. I don’t want to think about actively harming some woman whose heart is probably longing for something different herself.
I don’t know why I haven’t written about them before. They’re a major part of my life, particularly Chad and Jim. We’ve been doing this “thing” together for almost 3 years. It’s cheating — outright — but I simply don’t care. My conscience is clear: I’m single. I let them wrestle with the devil. It’s not my bag.
Some might say I’m contributing to the demise of a relationship, but if it wasn’t me, it’d be someone else, and I like these men. They’re sweet, sensitive, and kind; intelligent and funny. It’s too bad they don’t get what they need from their women, but again, that’s not my problem. It’s theirs. And they appreciate me like other men don’t. They see me in a different light, like I’m aglow. I am not ashamed to say it makes me preen.
I’m fairly certain that when I share my views on this topic I am judged, but before someone walks in my shoes for a minute, they have no grounds. Rigid boundaries and black and white thinking leads to unholy unhappiness. A close friend has cheated on her partner for years. The paternity of “their” baby is questionable, though he has no idea. With her, it’s cowardice that keeps her from leaving and cheating that keeps her there. I get it and I don’t judge her for it. It just is.
I’m of the firm mind that no one should fiance themselves until they have gone through some level of strife and come out on the other side satisfied with its resolution, no less than a two-year engagement to be sure if I have to put a number to it. Because dating for a year or less and getting engaged changes the game. You are essentially married at that point and can you make a lifelong decision after 8 months of bliss?? My dissolute, sad, and broken heart says resoundingly, “NO.”
I am in no way judging the cheaters out there or calling them all cowards. Not even close. I know my friend inside and out and I know her motivation behind staying with her man is truly cowardice. We’ve spent long hours with tear-streaked faces on the topic and I often cringe at that fact and weep more for her. That I wish for more for her, for all of us, is the only result. I wish we could somehow do all of this without hurting anyone else. Some of the best, most intelligent, funny, insightful, and sensitive people I know cheat or aid in an indiscretion. Infidelity, in my opinion, is not a character flaw. It’s a behavior born out of desperation, longing and need, or even simple practicality. It’s part of living.
Being attached isn’t a special attraction for me with a man, it’s just another part of his story and if I can somehow lighten his burden, bring some excitement and passion into his life I want to provide it. The rewards justify the means and I make no apologies for it. I am only me, he is only himself: the libertine and the grateful.
