The Final Text

Hubby wants sex. He is trying to overcome (pun??) an addiction to porn. I find out that in the last 14 years he has not gone more than 2 weeks without jacking off to porn in the bathroom with the computer on his TV stand. We, on the other hand (another pun??), have gone without sex for over 3 months.

So, in his new attempt at coming out of his shell (when will the puns stop?), he is going without self-stimulation. We have sex when I get back from the conference for the first 2 nights. It's surprisingly good. I have pent up frustration, and he is eager to please.

But after that, I just get angry at his whimpiness. The constant need for reassurance is trying and nauseating. So I haven't been interested. But I've noticed his mounting frustration (another one...), and last night, he makes it clear that he expects to fool around.

It's amazing how subtle things can get in a marriage. He mentions to the kids that he's had a difficult day and is tired. I say that he should just go upstairs and get a good night's sleep. he responds, "Oh, I've got much more important things to do than sleep." Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

It probably doesn't help that I have been to get my second brazilian wax that morning...

So we lock the doors and send the kids downstairs to watch whatever on TV. We're down to it. I have to decide what to do. I just can't muster the "I love you so much" kisses and stroking that we usually go by. I turn over and shove my butt into his crotch and start grinding. He reaches around and touches me. I manage to come by imagining some silly fantasy, then roll over to receive him.

I thrash and bang as much as possible to make it quick, but also to vent the frustration. It must be confusing for a husband to be told that he needs to be less controlling, but to have his wife want him to be a strong man, regardless.

When it's over, I jump up and run to the bathroom. I sit on the toilet furious. I just want to get OUT! I want to leave now. I don't want to lie in the bed next to him and listen to his 130th insight on what he needs to improve, or what my true need is.

I grab my clothes and tell him that I am going to Wal-Mart for the boring school supplies (hand santizer, baby wipes, tissues) and ice cream.

I put on my Lily Allen Pandora station and drive the, oh, 3 minutes to get to Wal-Mart. I decide that I want the music around me in the store. I don't have my earphones, so I just hold it close and turn the volume up a little.

Before I get out of the car, I decide that FB has written me off. He won't meet with me, and he hasn't reached out to me. So, with one tear rolling down my cheek, I text:

I wasn't ready for it to stop. I'm sorry my husband is a paranoid neurotic. I miss fucking you. I know, too much drama. Still wanted you to know.

I stroll numbly through Wal-Mart, half expecting to see a client or business associate, listening to my Adele and Kate Nash.

No response.

No surprise.

I check out with my Ben & Jerry's Heath Bar Crunch and sanitary school supplies and drive home.

Is It Over?

It's Tuesday, and I'm sitting in my bed typing this at 1:53 p.m. I have a shitload of work sitting on my desk, but I can't focus. I want to see FB, but I think he's avoiding me. So much has happened...

I now have a husband who is desperate to keep me. He cries, he confesses, he praises, he waits.

"I feel like for the past 14 years I've been trying to murder the parts of you I didn't like."

You mean the parts that are fun and sexy and powerful? Those parts? Damn right, you have!

"Will you teach me how to dance? I want to be able to take you out dancing and not feel uncomfortable."

Um, okay. Why don't we just go and watch people dance first, so you won't feel pressured?

"I'm praying that God will tear out the part of my heart that is hard and afraid to be vulnerable."

Gees, who could ask for more than that?

The man dropped 20 lbs. while I was at my conference. Granted, that was because he was so jacked up on anxious adrenaline that he stopped eating...but he's eating again and has still dropped a few more pounds since.

He's wearing smaller pants and shirts that fit. For fuck sake, he's even putting conditioner on his goatee so that it doesn't hurt my face when we kiss!

So why do I still want FB? The other night, I was awake at 1:00 a.m. ruminating. I finally just said his name over and over and over, thinking that maybe I would hit a saturation point and be done with it.

Feelings are fickle. I got drunk with power, thinking that FB wanted me as much as I wanted him. That he would miss me when I'm gone.

But there's no evidence of that.

But there's no evidence to completely disprove it, either (hope springs eternal - what an idiot I am!) Last Friday after our networking meeting, he tell me that Hubby "harassed" him while I was at the conference. Turns out, Hubby sent him a pathetic, psycho email during that week asking him to tell him, man to man, "how far did it go?". All I can do is look at FB with dumb disbelief and ask are you fucking kidding me? I walk away from him in a daze.

I had sent him a text from the conference that went solo. I sent him a text about his business earlier last week that also hung in midair. So I call him later on Friday, ready to apologize for my paranoid, neurotic husband. He says, "Can I call you back? I can't talk now." I say sure, and go for a run with phone in hand. (I do love to listen to Pandora while I run.)

Of course he calls back after my run when I'm sitting in the kitchen with my sitter and kid. I say I just wanted to say I'm sorry. But I can't say anymore. I can't ask if he thinks I'm just not worth it anymore. I can't tell him that I'm probably willing to live recklessly if I know that I haven't fucked him for the last time.

This weekend, I'm working on the computer. I send an email asking if we can do a networking 1:1 meeting over coffee or lunch. I want his help with invitations to an event we're cohosting with 4 other people. No response. So I send a text yesterday. He says, "Haven't had a chance to check my schedule." Really?

Today, my 2:00 1:1 meeting gets canceled, so I send a text that I have the afternoon open. The response is, "Can't meet this week. Sorry."

Damn! So it's like that ;)

Sorry. Busy.

I know.

Now...sure seems like I'm not on the A-list anymore. Where do I go from here? Hubby wants me, FB doesn't seem to give a rat's ass anymore. What do I want from FB anyway?

The body, of course. So fun to touch, hold, fuck.
The validation that I'm wantable. (Why? I already know that...)
The escape from a relationship that is stressed and heavy.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Big City Conference

I'm flying home from my conference. For the first time since all of this started, I feel tearful. It's a relief. I've been worried that my heart for my husband had gone cold.

I think the poor man sent me about 50 texts in the last 4 days. Most of them desperate pleas for me to find time to call him and reassure him and reassure him and reassure him that we are okay, that nothing happened beyond what I told him, and that I'm not screwing every man at the conference.

It's tough to have a blow up like this, then watch your wife run off to a big, fun city to a conference attended by 90% men. It makes me pity him, which doesn't make me want to go home.

I vented to several guys there, and told my GM, "I don't want to go home," at least 10 times. But now, I'm surprised that imagining being in my home with my kids and Hubby feels like a hug instead of a burden.

Got a lovely 2.5 hour delay in for my connecting flight. I missed it by 5 minutes because my first flight left 50 minutes late.

Surreality

Friday morning I get out of bed and immediately hide in my computer.

Hubby wants to discuss, dissect, and talk. However, I have a presentation to give at 11:30 at the networking group (in front of FB? Will he show? Will he be angry? Will he ever speak to me again?)
I research and type away to create my handout.

Hubby finds solace in a Christian brother. I hear him pacing and talking on his cell phone. I hear the voice on the other end asking, "Did she cross the line?" He says, "No, no. But it's definitely a problem."

I imagine all of his men's group hearing the tale and warning him that I'm awash in sin. They tie me to the bedposts and I spew green pea soup and my head does a 360.

He comes back to me and says, "I'm coming to the networking lunch with you."

Oh fuck!! On so many levels…fuck!!

Hubby explains that his friend told him that he "needs to own this."

What, I ask, does that mean?

"It means that I need to become a part of your world. I let you drift away from me because I don't like to do all of the networking stuff that you do with the business. But in doing that, I created a separation between us that allowed last night to happen."

Wow. Christian brother knows his shit.
I have asked Hubby repeatedly to come to the weekly lunch.
To come to the conference.
To come to the networking social.
To come to the training.

It's always, "You know how I hate those things."

I have recently written Hubby a letter telling him that I want a sexy husband. That it doesn't matter what his body looks like, it's how confident he is. I listed at least ten things that we can do together that will give us an identity as a couple. A month later, none has happened.

So here we are. And now he wants in. Not sure how I feel about that.

But wait…there's more! We get to go see a therapist today!! Yippee!

He calls the one that was most recently recommended for biblically-based counseling. She's thankfully unavailable that day. He calls Jessica, whom we have seen together within the past year or so. She has her entire afternoon open. Jessica is Christian, but I know that she will not pass judgment on me. I think that maybe talking with her won't be a bad idea after all.

He goes upstairs to get dressed.

I swallow any remaining pride and hurriedly type (then delete) an email plea to Mitch and Laura asking them to be my alibi for last night. I tell them that I met FB for a drink. Nothing happened, but Hubby is pissed that I did it.

Laura's comes right back: You naughty girl! Of course I'll vouch for you. What time did I leave?
Mitch pops up a few minutes later: I'm at the beach this week. But I sure had a great time at Frank's last night! Let me know if I can help ;)

My friends ROCK! Delete, delete.

Now my only hurdles are getting through my presentation with FB and Hubby in the same room, and negotiating their meeting without public profanity or bloodshed.

Thankfully, our drive to the lunch is filled with phone conversations with corporate clients who need updates on projects. So there's no room for small talk.

We arrive on the scene early, and greet each member as they enter. Everyone is very friendly and happy to meet Hubby (which I knew they would be.) Hubby impresses me by actually remembering things I've told him about some people. He always does well in social situations. Everybody always likes him. What is his problem?

He informs me later, "I was the biggest person in the room." Who gives a fuck?

Things are going well, and I'm wondering if FB has decided to bail. I'm scribbling last minute notes on scratch paper for my talk. I look up, and he's there. My already quivering hands and fish-flopping stomach kick into overdrive. He sees and ignores me. I do the same.

At the Airport

I feel so much lighter! I could not wait to get out of Dodge.

I sit on the floor typing away in the Atlanta airport, on the way to my conference. Much has transpired, leaving me more double-minded than ever before.

Today is Monday. Hubby was out of town last week, returning around midnight Thursday. I had already had my date with FB Tuesday night. Fun and carefree - just what I needed. We watched a stupid movie, smoked cigarettes, and fucked (not necessarily in that order.)

But, the next day I started to realize that we had family plans for the weekend, then I would be gone the following week. When would I get my next chance?

Thursday after dinner, I ask Mom if she will watch kids so I can get a bikini for my trip. Clever shopper that I am, I find one at the first place I go. So…
Me: Whatcha doin?
FB: Goin to Frank's for a beer. Wanna join me?
Sure do.

I meet him at the bar. While he talks to his buddy, the manager, I get a new companion. Apparently, the hotel nearby is hosting a conference for stamp collectors. This 80 year-old professor orders his vodka martini and perches next to me. I chat him up, which seems to amuse FB. Then, when the prof gets up to go, he decides to chat with us both. One thing about FB that I love is the absolute lack of pretension with strangers. He ends up joking with the man about which of them will get laid that night. Hmm…I wonder.

But when we get back to his place, he decides he wants something he hasn't gotten from me before. Now, mind you, as fun as our naked tussles have been, I have yet to come. The first time it didn't happen, he said, "We'll have to work on that." I let it slide, because I knew something he didn't. The second time, he assumed he'd done his part, and wanted to know what my problem was. I explained that I can come in a heartbeat, just not during sex. So he touched me for, oh, two minutes. I gave up because I knew he wasn't into it. It really wasn't all that important anyway.

But Thursday, it was another deal.
Why should I blow you when you won't even take the time to make me come?
He's drunkenly adamant. He gets what he wants, no negotiating.
So I'm drunkenly adamanter. It's not that I'm against the idea. I can be pretty entertaining when I choose to be. It's that his proposal is fundamentally unjust and unfair! How can I set a precedent where I do whatever, and he does nothing for me?

Then I think, well, maybe if I do it, he'll soften (pardon the pun), and he won't be so stubborn. So I climb on top of him to kiss him. He stops me and says, "Now I don't want you to do this and be all bitter about it." So I pause, sigh, get off, and go home.

Driving...
Me: I could make your head spin if I went down on you. But why can't you do the same for me?
FB: That's the way it is. Goodnight or goodbye.

Tears. Had I made a mistake…

Hubby: Where are you?
Shit. It's 11:45. I'm literally 200 yards from the house.
Me: I'm home. When are you getting there?
Hubby: I'm home. Where are you???
Me: In the driveway.

He steps out onto the front porch as I frantically try to hit "Delete Thread" for, oh, the 2000th time.

But it doesn't work. The fucking phone is messed up and it's not responding when I tap it! Shit! He's watching me! Bang! Bang! Panic. Damn it! Then it works, but instead of hitting "Delete Thread", I hit "All threads". My texts are all gone. But that's better than the alternative.

He's upstairs when I come in. I go into the powder room downstairs and turn on the light. Red, puffy eyes. Shit, shit, shit. What am I going to do?? What am I going to say?? It's almost midnight, I taste like beer, and I've been crying. Doesn't look too good…

I douse my face, pat my eyes, turn off the light, and climb the stairs. I get into bed and stare at the ceiling. He waits, then asks with consternation, "What happened?"

I still don't know. But at the last minute, I decide that a half-truth is less risky than a bold-faced lie.

I sigh, You were right.

"What are you talking about? What happened?" he's starting to sound panicked. My heart is pounding, and I begin to feel like I might vomit. A feeling that accompanies me for the next 14 hours.

I was out with my friends. Mitch and Laura left, and it was just [FB] and me. He asked me back to his apartment.

His mind raced, "Did anything happen?"

No! Of course not. I told him no, and I came home.

The next hour is a sort of blur. He questions, he paces.
He finds my phone.
"Why did you delete all of your text messages?"

Shit.

I didn't delete them. I don't know how that happened. My phone has been freaking out lately.

"Why are you lying to me?"

Okay, I deleted them. I didn't want you to see the text from him.

So my wildly disturbed Hubby calls FB at 1:00 a.m. (or thereabouts, as I said, it was sort of a blur.) He walks away from me as he's talking into the phone. I have no idea what their conversation is.

"He said nothing happened."

Thank God! FB's given me a blank slate.

That's all I remember before Hubby finally gives up and goes to bed. Somehow I have moved from our bed to my 8 year-old's room. It's my default place to sleep when it's Hubby's turn to sleep in our bed. I grab my phone and send three contiguous texts that I don't remember because, of course, I had to delete them after they were sent. Some rambling apology about Hubby finding my phone and that I said Mitch and Laura were with us.

I fall asleep, still nauseated, but exhausted. Wondering what morning will bring.

Scandalous Texting

One of my favorite parts of playing with FB is the texting. It will probably be my downfall. All Hubby has to do is log on to my cell phone account and he'll see the bajillion texts to a certain number.

(I've even imagined the conversation as Hubby dials the number out of morbid curiosity.
FB: This is [name].
Hubby: Are you fucking my wife?
FB: [pause] I think you need to ask your wife that question.)

I wish I could have saved the texts. I have hit "Delete Thread" dozens of times to remove any readily available evidence. But the exchanges are tantalizing and entertaining...

FB: What time do you wanna get down?
Me: Hey, I was ready at 1:30. I'm just waitin on you to get yer vain little ass back from the gym.
FB: Beautiful tight ass.
Me: Like I said, vain...

FB: Please drive safe and if you feel you can't drive then come back and crash.
Me: Don't u know how dangerous it is to txt & drive? I could've gotten killed txting u this. Go to sleep!
FB: Please be safe! Sorry!
Me: No sorry! Really WANTED to stay. No drama. Just WANT.
FB: I know! And understand.
Me: I have 14 years pent up. You only have a week or 2. Thanks for understanding. Tears are not aimed at you!
FB: It's been longer than that. I'm crying next time. And you'd better hold me!
Me: You're such a dick! It would be nice to feel like I'm at least meeting a need of yours.
FB: You are. I care about you and you make me feel special and cared about. I love that. I really do.
Me: Thank you. I mean it. Home safe & sound. Sleep well!
FB: You too! :)

Me: Hubby's mad at me cuz I went out last nite. Dog is mad at me cuz I skipped our a.m. run. I'm mad at me cuz of my headache. Hope ur doing better than me!
FB: Nobody's mad at me, have no headache, just made a wonderful cup of coffee and had a great evening. Feel-n good!
Me: Wonderful! It's good to be [FB] :)

Me: I hate you because I want a cigarette ;?
FB: They are bad, bad, bad!
Me: No YOU are bad, bad, bad.
FB: Noooooo you are!
Me: I don't think my dog is mad at me anymore. Not sure about hubby. Headache left with wine. Ahhh!
FB: Wine is awesome!

Time to hit "Delete Thread."

The Victoria's Secret Experience

I am amazed at how I am floating through my existence and shifting from one reality to another. I am more amazed at the moments when the realities collide. The perfect example is shopping for lover lingerie with my two daughters.

I got a coupon from Victoria's Secret for free panties and $10 off a bra. I don't know when it happened, but I have somehow become uncomfortable in almost every bra I own.

So after dinner with the family last week, I ask if I can run into the store and cash in my coupon, secretly hoping to find something pretty for my next interlude. Hubby and son stay in the car. Girls and I head into the mall. After setting the ground rules that there will be no excursions to Claire's or Bath & Body Works, they agree to be my shopping assistants.

The store is almost empty, with a cute, tiny Asian girl busily arranging and folding. I stare helplessly at the different styles, clueless where to start. "Can I help you?" she offers. I tell her that I'm looking for a comfortable bra. "What size are you?" she asks perkily. 34DD. "Well, we have DDs in almost all of our styles. Do you want me to show you?" Lead the way, Honey.

I have learned with age that trying on bras is an exhausting gymnastic exercise. And I have this masochistic streak that forces me to rehang everything that I try on before I leave the dressing room. This is especially punishing when shopping for bras. To have this girl spoon-feeding me is an offer I can't refuse.

She bustles through the drawers, describing the attributes of each style, grabbing my new under wardrobe as she goes. At one point, she looks me up and down and says "Are you sure you're a 34DD? When was the last time you were measured? You know you need to be measured every 6 months." Honey, I buy new bras every 6 years, are you kidding me? Measure away.

She wraps, she looks. She wraps lower, she looks. Consternation crosses her brow as she delivers the seemingly bad news, "I'm getting 34C." Fabulous! If I'm a 34C I'll be able to wear every cute bra in the store! Maybe this workout program is working better than I'd hoped. "Let's get you back to the dressing room to try on a few sizes." My thoughts exactly.

The girls play Miss Mary Mack and make silly faces at each other in the mirror as I try on the first bra, 34C. My 8 year-old turns around and pats my bulging breasts like bongo drums, "Ooh Mommy, that doesn't fit!" No shit, kiddo.

I wait patiently for my gal to check in on me so that she can see how WRONG she was to hand me such an inadequate option. "Yeah, you're puckering," she muses. She tosses a 34D over the door, which still "puckers." Over comes the 34DD. Ahh, sweet moment of victory! I TOLD her I was a 34DD.

But after all possible adjustments are made, I'm told I'm "gapping." Subsequent wriggling and fidgeting with at least 10 more bras yield the gal's expert opinion, "You're somewhere between a D and a DD." Great, I'm in Bra Limbo. I can buy DDs with the idealistic enthusiasm that I will somehow continue to lose weight working out and get larger breasts. Or I can buy the Ds with the idealistic enthusiasm that I will continue to lose enough weight to fit into them.

I compromise and buy 2 Ds and 2 DDs. But wait...it's not over.

I have to find panties to match. And I don't even call them panties. It's underwear. Hers, his, who cares. It's underwear.

I eventually emerge with 4 bras, 5 panties, and a $250 tab.

Hubby loves it. The combo of the newly fit bod, the brazilian wax, and the lingerie is so intoxicating, he doesn't think to ask why.

Mom, however, is a little older, wiser, and penis-less. She offers to throw my new under duds in the wash with hers. As she's hanging them on the drying rack, she quips, "These are awfully nice...you're not having an affair are you?"

You know what, Mom? I'm dying to tell you. I genuinely believe you'll understand. But right now, no, I'm not, Mom.

God's in the mix Part 2

My 10 year-old is the most empathetic child I've ever known. We're in the car together, and we're talking about another child's parents. She says, "I'm so glad I don't know what it's like to have a mom and dad who don't love each other."

I tell her I'm glad, too.

God's in the mix Part 1

All of my emotions since the affair began have been bottled up. I start listening to Pandora almost constantly as a way of both venting and distracting myself. I've always loved music, but, as with most other aspects of my personality, I've shelved exploring new music for most of my marriage.

One of my favorite Pandora stations now is Katy Perry. I listen to it while I do my ab and arm workouts. One day last week, a song comes on that grabs my attention. I have heard it before, but I stop to see who it is. It's Paramore. I think, "Cute name. But I'm pretty sure they spelled it wrong intentionally." So I google "paramour" to make sure. I also think that a paramour is a lover, and verify that when I look it up.

Sure enough, Hubby sits down at the computer that evening and says, "Um, honey? What's this about?"

The Brazilian Wax

I swear that my working out and having an affair are unrelated and coincidental. I will be at a sales conference next week. I decide 5 weeks ago that I am tired of being 10 lbs overweight. So the sales conference is my short-term goal.

In the last month, I've lost 5 lbs and I've gotten into most of the pants that were too tight in June. The first time I had sex with FB was about 2 weeks ago, so by then I'm already feeling sexier and looking better. I decide to do something I've never done: get a brazilian wax.

I send FB a text asking if bikini or brazilian is better (knowing full well what he will say - he's bald! And not Telly Savalas bald. I'm talking Jason Taylor, Andre Agassi bald - soooo sexy!)

Then I have to decide which torture chamber to patronize. I certainly don't want to go where I've had my hair cut for the last 15 years! And it's not the kind of thing I would call another mom about. "So Janie, know where I can get my crotch waxed? And are Billy and Stevie still on for the playdate tomorrow?"

I google "best brazilian wax in [city]" and actually get to read reviews of 2 places that a lot of people seem to like. I call one Monday, and make my appointment for Wednesday. But I can't stop thinking about it. I'm so excited! So I ditch my Tuesday networking event early. As I walk back to my car at 11:30, I call the spa and ask, "Do you still have that noon appointment open today? I thought I couldn't make it, but I can now." Off I go - literally.

Hunter is a sugary sweet, friendly girl in her early 20's. She asks if it's my first time (brazilian virgin - probably the only virginity I have left.) She asks if I'm nervous, "Only because of the mess you're going to have to deal with," I reply. She giggles and tells me to undress from the waist down, lie on the table, and "cover up with this" as she hands me a hot pink washcloth about the size of...well, a washcloth.

Now, I ask you, why would I cover my hairy self with a washcloth when she's just gonna come back in and take it off to do her job? Yet I obediently cover.

Hunter: Now the first thing I'm going to do is put your legs in a position called The Frog [giggle].

How cute! Oh right, this is where the washcloth comes off...She bends my legs out and open.

Ouch a little, ouch a little, ouch, OUCH, ouch.

Hunter: You are doing so well! [giggle] And you are SO lucky because you don't have a lot of hair on your labia. That part hurts the most.

Who KNEW?? I tell her that I am delighted to have it so easy...

Hunter: You do want to do around your butt, too, right?

Um...I nod.

Hunter: Okay, for this part, you need to get into a position called the Cannonball [giggle].

Great. Now I'm getting flashbacks of labor and delivery.

But the cannonball is over quickly, and I am free to rerobe and go. I'm told that I have "a little bit of hystamine going on," and that it will fade in a few hours. What that means is that each of the now empty hair follicles has gotten so swollen, they blend together into a puffy pink mess.

My parting gift is a ziplock baggie with instructions, a neon green exfoliating glove, and a box of Dots candy. You know that as soon as I walk through my front door, my kids promptly relieve me of the Dots. From my brazilian wax. For my lover. Weird.

The Prequel

A lot of my misspent youth was spent flexing my sex appeal. My journal carefully listed every boy I'd kissed, then graduated to every boy I'd slept with. At some point in college, I became more discriminate, stating that I had to be "in love" with the boy in order to "go all the way." Hubby was intimidated when he told me I was #4 for him, and I told him he was Sweet 16 for me.

I loved the chase. Loved the flirting, the reeling in, the mind fuck that told me everything about the boy so that he was hooked. It was powerful. The best ones were ones like FB - confidently playing the game with almost equal prowess. At 22 I stole the virginity of my buddy's 17 year-old cousin because he was such a smart ass during our beer pong rivalry. He deserved it. I also seduced the 35 year-old restaurant owner where I waited tables in college. Equal opportunity offender.

I had serial monogamous relationships, don't get me wrong. I didn't cheat on my boyfriends. And I stayed with each one until I knew he was not husband material. The dalliances came in between the boyfriends, then I'd find a new one.

When Hubby and I hooked up the first time, he was engaged to a girl who ran in our circle of friends. I had had it with the guy I'd been on-again-off-again for 5 years, telling him we were off-again for good. I rented a hot tub for a party, and since the fiance was in graduate school out of town, he came to the party stag. I remember being drunk and kissing him in the doorway to the kitchen. He was the last to leave, and we talked about things that interested me. I remember reading him a John Donne poem and being impressed by his enthusiasm.

Turns out he doesn't really like poetry, he just wanted me to be impressed by his enthusiasm.

He broke off his engagement, and I decided that I was done chasing boys. I was ready to settle down. He was perfect Hubby material, and still is. He confessed to the priest who married us about how we started out on such sinful terms. The priest told him God works all things for good. Conscience cleansed.

I was working my first grown-up job. No sooner had I put the band on my finger than a hottie at work started flirting with me. I had nerves of steel. I liked the attention, but firmly attested my devotion to my new Hubby. Gradually, I either stopped noticing men flirting with me, or I began working a vibe that was completely asexual. I amassed girlfriends and focused on my professional image. I decorated the house, visited family, and got bit by the Baby bug. Again. And again.

Ages 4, 2, and 0 was the hardest year. I remember sitting on my bed asking God why I wasn't happy in my beautiful home with my beautiful children and my beautiful marriage. Hubby and I worked through the bullshit of, "I expected you to be a SAHM," "Yeah, so did I, but I'm losing my mind. I need to work." After 5 years of SAHM, I started my first business with a girlfriend. It was so exciting to have a creative outlet! Hubby made sure that I knew that our family money and time were not to be used for this business. I worked while kids were in preschool, and funded the business as profits came in.

AND, I got to dress up again! I remember asking some girlfriends if they thought it was wrong of me to enjoy getting dressed up - how fucked up is that?!

I also started networking, which put me in the presence of other men regularly. I realized I could banter wittily with these guys and it felt like flirting. Secret thrill. But no desire to go beyond that. Perfectly happy to go home to Hubby and kids.

Didn't see it coming

I never thought I would have an affair. 

I think some people have a lingering desire in the back of their minds, maybe even as they fly to their honeymoon, that keeps them from never saying never. Not me.

I'm a great wife.

I have a great life.

So why am I fucking another man?

One random night, a switch was flipped in my brain and my body. 'Never' skipped right over 'maybe' and went to 'hell yes'. And this is a shocker because... I have been happily married for 14 years. My kids are 10, 8, and 6. Strangers tell me what a wonderful mother I am and how smart, well-behaved, and attractive my children are. Friends, hell even my parents, come to my husband and me for advice on relationships. We, he and I, have a rock solid union that will last a lifetime.

Or so I thought.

I have fallen into every cliche there is about cheating:

"I feel so alive when I'm with him."

"He gives me what I can't get at home."

"It really doesn't hurt anybody."

It's like having a baby. People can tell you all day long what it's like, but until it happens to you, you can't imagine it. And when it does, you know exactly what they meant.

Hubby is the envy of most wives. He's sensitive, intelligent, and a Family Man. So much so that my mom lives with us. He meets with 5 other Christian men every Thursday morning at 6 a.m., as he's done for the past 4 years. He can build, fix, design anything. He earns a great living at a very stable corporate job. And he tells me he loves me every day.

Hating me yet?

He's also 5'10", 294 lbs. He snores so loudly that we haven't slept in the same bed for at least 2 years. My hands don't meet when I wrap my arms around him. I can't lie next to him on the sofa or in bed because he gets too hot and starts to sweat. When I'm on top of him in bed, my knees don't touch the mattress. It's like fucking a pommel horse. For 14 years.

How about now?

Fun Boy is what you would expect: the anti-hubby. Tight, flirtatious, and cocky (in mind and body.) I laugh when he tells me his dick is bigger than 98% of the rest of them, "and most of those are black guys." I don't really care. I just love touching his tummy and lying against him. Well, okay, the big dick is fun, too.

It's oh-so surprisingly easy to engineer. Hubby is very self-conscious about his weight, and despises social situations outside of family and close friends. I have always been extroverted and like nothing better than to meet new people, network, and party. I own and run a business, so I am out-and-about a lot drumming up new customers and making alliances with other business owners. So there's always an excuse for an evening out, and days are virtually untraceable.

FB also owns a business, and we run in the same networking circles. His name slips off my tongue effortlessly in conversations about how my day went.

The lying does suck. Somehow if I just don't have to say anything, I feel less convicted than if I have to lie to cover my tracks. Like last night. Hubby is out of town. Mom babysits. Piece of cake. Except FB wants me to bring a movie over. Hmmm...there's no DVD player at our house. We watch movies on demand. So I decide to do Red Box. But that requires a credit card. Hubby does QuickBooks for my business, so I can't use that card. He scrutinizes our personal card statements, so I can't use them. I end up opening the account with my Target VISA, which I never use. I figure I can intercept the bill when it arrives. 

How am I going to pay the bill? I still don't know. 

Do I need to open a separate checking account?

Can they send me an e-statement to a bogus email account so that it doesn't come in the mail?

Should I get a P.O. box, too?

All of this for $4 in movie rentals!

One time FB asks me to pick up dinner and some beer. I tell him I have enough cash to get the dinner, but can't get the beer because I can't put it on a card. Guess I need more monetary freedom. I NEVER carry cash. That will have to change.