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**The dialogue in this blog is as accurate as my memory of the events allows. I am gifted or cursed with an eidetic memory; which means that I can recall everything I’ve ever read, seen, heard, experienced, smelt and done.
This comes in very handy in my job, and also means that I can lie to my husband successfully.
Although few people have this ability, it usually fades before adulthood.**

Writing a diary is fairly easy. But writing about things that were said and done three years, seven months, ago, takes a skill I’ve yet to master completely. I trained to write reports and decipher complicated legal jargon, unfortunately, I was away the day they covered the erotic confessions of a wayward wife.

Even with my uncanny memory, I have to remind myself that the people I’ve met have ways of speaking that are, and continue to be alien to my own provincial, sexually stinted, almost, sanitized language. At first the sheer weight of sexual bluntness in their words was like a slap in the face with a wet fish.

Frankly, I feel out of my depth, drowning, as the sheer weight of words, situations, feelings and sensations crowd in on me, weighing me down.
I recall a scene now in which everybody was blowing everyone else, when they weren’t sticking silver straws or rolled up bank-notes up their nostrils and sucking in hundreds of pounds of cocaine at one quick sniff.
And I don’t just mean women blowing men. My eyes have certainly been opened.  The problem is that once they are, there’s no closing them again. You can’t put the genie back in the box.
What’s that old Chinese saying: you can’t un-know something, even if you build a mental wall to hedge it in, the wall will always be there as a reminder of what is hidden.

How hard can it be to write a blog? Just tell it as it is……. as it was. Then remove the names and the descriptions of the pertinent characters.
Simple….. Yeah. Right!

Like a million other women I’ve read “fifty Shades”, and if that’s what erotic writing is, then I’m afraid anybody who stumbles into this blog is going to be very disappointed. Perhaps I should hold off until I’ve waded through piles of erotica. But who has the time, and frankly I don’t have the inclination. I’d rather be doing it than reading about it.

There are of course a good number of sites like this one, and yes, I’ve looked at a few. (I won’t list them here. That’s called free advertising.)

I’d ask for critique, but as I’m not even going to pretend to be a world-class writer, and this blog is as much for me as you, you my friend, will have to suffer the stumbling prose and disjointed dialogue. Not that I’d reject any suggestions if anyone more competent decided to suggest a different angle. So please, comment away.
But no story lines please. This is not a work of fiction – it’s a confession of guilt.

It’s Saturday. I’m all alone in the house, with exception of two fastidious cats and one damp, smelly dog, fresh from a walk across the fields that surround or little hovel. Husband is out visiting someone or other. It’s rugby international season again. When is it not. At least that’s what he told me. Could be he’s up to his balls in pussy somewhere. Perhaps I’m not the only one playing away from home. But I doubt it.

Mine is an open book; wears every emotion on his face. In fact his eyes are so clear I sometimes think I can see right into his busy brain.
This morning he rolled me over and played harmony with his tongue on my clitoris, while his thick finger-tip strummed at my G-spot. By the time we crawled out of bed his sperm-bank was half in me and half on the sheets.

So, here I am taking to the blog, while still warm and sated from my husbands bed.
Hey, I never said he didn’t make me cum. He has a fat, beautiful nearly nine inch cock. It’s just that the journey is invariably the same. Like a straight road to your favourite destination. Sometimes you just want to get there by a more twisted, more dangerous route.
I just know he’ll come back with a dozen long stemmed roses and half-a-dozen spliffs from his friend. It’s always the same after his regular Saturday morning shag.

I suppose if I look back, and with benefit of hind-sight, I might conclude that my fall into the pit started with an email from an old (but not old) friend.

If I had gone home early, as I’d intended that Friday evening, I wouldn’t have opened Christian’s email and ended up going to that gallery opening.

Christian is an artist, wine lover, right wing socialist and probably the gayest man on the planet. At least that’s how he describes himself. He and I have shared a double bed, completely named multiple times, with not slightest chance of fluid passing between us. Although he did once offer to give me a hand job, just as a novelty, and out of scientific curiosity, since he’d never felt a pussy in his life.
I declined the offer on the grounds that a GCSE in science didn’t make him a scientist, and that he couldn’t claim to be even slightly bi-curious.

He was waiting at the door of the gallery when I finally arrived. “You’re late,” he scolded, lightly, looking me up and down as if I was a naked model about to sit for one of his canvases.
“Traffic,” I replied.
“You drove?”
“People traffic. The underground was jammed.”
“Well there’s quite a crowd in there already. We might have to use our elbows.”
“Lead on Mac Duff,” I said, starting to unbutton my coat. “Anybody I know in there?”
“Not a soul. A few people with too much money; some skinny tarts with bad dress sense; a spattering of talentless pretenders, a fat man who is an art critic from some disgusting provincial rag, and some Italian looking guy who’s so beautiful, I’ve decided I’m going to have his babies.”
“That’s what you said about the last one….what was his name again?”
“You promised you’d never mention the departed. If there ever was a fucking prince who became a frog, it was him.”

Here I have pause to collect my thoughts. I can’t think about that evening without a little sadness. I can’t help but see it as the death of innocence and the birth of corruption.
I’m not crying crocodile tears you understand. I wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming into a life of cheating on my husband. I had my eyes wide open, in a kind of sleep-walkers trance.
Still sounds as if I’m attempting to mitigate what I’ve done. Perhaps I am. Perhaps we women who’ve fallen through the branches of the  faithful tree and landed on our backs with our legs spread  for anonymous men to fuck, need some form of psychological bandage for our consciences.
Or is that just me who is afraid to accept what I am.

There’s probably an old saying, but I can’t think what it is.

 

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