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 have 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 will be pleased, and grateful for a note; if you hate everything you read here, please pass on, and I hope you find what it was you were looking for when you stumbled down this rabbit hole.
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. And 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, 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 three years, seven months and seventeen days ago. Back when I wasn’t expecting by life to take a left turn into the maize of 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’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?; an unrealised need for excitement? Or was it just a need to fill 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 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. How well I know myself.
I am a junky. Dope? – Pills? No, nothing so normal. My demon is love, or at least the pretence of it.
But 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.
He’s a good lover…..woo… 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 shark who’d been circling, and that I was just another trophy.
I wonder if…………………….Not alone now. Later….Bye
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