My Confession

He persued me ardently.  I can't say relentlessly, because, ever the gentleman, he'd have humbly accepted any "no" I'd give him.  His goal was to make sure I didn't want to say "no."

We met in an online community, spurred along by a well-meaning "friend" who wanted to see his romantic dreams (i.e., a relationship with me) come true.  Months of chatting gave way to phone calls and texts, eventually leading up to a meet and some nights together out of town.  We lasted just a hair over a year, start to finish, but circumstances were such that our last face-to-face was months before we ended.

My dear friend Rio posits that adultery is an affair with the self.  Looking back, I can certainly see how that could be.  Where was I then?  I was in a painfully stressful job at a hospice agency (not a job that should be stressful for someone called to do crisis care), beginning to dodge barbs by my politically-motivated bitch boss.  Things with my husband had been strained.  We still did all the usual husband-wife things, but he was closed to me and between the job and making sure his needs were met, I was empty.  Then, add on a then three-year-old little girl.  For those of you who haven't experienced this age of childhood, yet, believe me when I tell you that three makes the terrible twos look like orgasmic sex while eating chocolate cheesecake by comparison.  Yeah, three's that rough.

The gentleman had his daily activities - carpool, work, community activities, property owners' association presidential duties - plus his own family.  At the age of 50, his wife felt they were "past the point" of needing physical - and, I later found out, emotional - intimacy.  Their grown daughter, knowing how, um, dehydrated her parents' love life was, told her father that if he left her mom, then she'd cut him out of her life.  Emotional blackmail at its finest.  The gent seemingly had it all - beautiful family, grandchildren by his children from his first marriage, six-figure job, nice house in the DC suburbs, peer esteem - but his romantic heart was withering in his chest and he was stuck.

It was in being together that we experienced our individual self-doms again, and how glorious it was!  Being in a relationship like that is like experiencing the blush of teenage love without the hormones, acne and awkwardness of the teen years.  It feels like a return to the freedom of life before marriage, before children and before a profession.  We had our song(s), our pet names, our secrets...  All the juicy fun parts of being "in love."

I was composing an email to my best friend Jeff (yes, the hero from many of my stories) earlier in the week and described that relationship as looking for someone to mend the brokenness.  All people are broken, but when parts of your life are broken worse than usual, we seek a way to fix them.  For some people, it could be through turning to drugs or alcohol.  Others turn to religion to the exclusion of all else.  Still others turn toward another person.  That's what the Gent and I did.

I've described the areas of my brokenness at that time - job troubles and a disconnect in my marriage.  The Gent's brokenness was two-part.  One, he once described himself as "broken" physically.  Too many nights DJ'ing in clubs with black lights permanently damaged his night vision, a fall on ice in Winter '05 had left him with some residual shoulder pain, and he also has osteoporosis in his hip, either from age or resulting from that same fall.  He also was dealing with emotional and social brokenness, deprived of the most basic of intimacies from his family - caring and unconditional love and acceptance.  We sought mending in the other, using our relationship to help us heal the broken places in our lives.

The end began as I started to mend my brokenness apart from our relationship.  I was unjustifiably terminated from my job, relieving me of that stress and giving me time and opportunity to nurture and grow my own business.  Months of gazing at my sleeping husband after chatting with my Gent for hours a night, wishing my lawfully wedded husband would romance me as the Gentleman did, finally came to fruition when he began to give back what I'd been needing from him, beginning with his forgiveness for my infidelity.  Our daughter turned four and the sun came out again.

As my husband and I talked about it afterwards, I said, "I wouldn't do it again, but I can't honestly say I regret it."  Reading me perfectly, able to speak the words for which I was searching, he said, "Because it brought me back to you."  That was it exactly.  No way in the world would I do it again.  Ironically, that one act did more for our marriage than all the Christian marriage counseling books and seminars could've ever done. 

This week, I've been watching the romance between two people on Twitter.  My instincts and some subtle nuances in their Tweets seem to indicate that at least he is married in real life and their relationship is beginning online.  These are exciting times for these two as they delve into the joy and excitement of  being "in love."  Yes, I put those words in quotes, because "in love" has an average life span of 2 years.  It takes going through life's trials and tribulations with someone right there by your side - all the way down to holding their head while they're puking their guts out from a GI virus - for the blush of "in love" to give way to the deep richness of true love.  I hope these two are able to wake up and realize all they're at risk of losing before it's too late.  I got lucky, but not all spouses are as forgiving as mine.

Last thoughts...

Like Rio's other friends she mentions in her article, I'd never have married the guy.  He considered me the wife of his heart and dreamily reflected on how nice it'd be if we could have children, but I knew early on that, even if we were free to marry each other, I'd have reservations.  The biggest one?  He doesn't cook.  He said one time, "I could cook.  I could read a recipe and figure out what to do.  I just choose not to."  I know it seems like a little thing, as well as being particularly feminist, but my husband and I rotate nights cooking dinner, and he likes to be as creative in the kitchen as I do.  Given that the Gentleman retires this year, I was seeing him sitting at home while I worked, then have to come home, tend to kids and fix dinner - every night.  No, thank you!

At the time we were together, given the Gentleman's travel schedule, I strongly suspected that his wife wasn't "past the point" of getting sex from someone else; she just didn't want it from him.  Granted, he wasn't the same dark-haired, physically fit specimen from the early years of their marriage (he showed me pictures), but I'm sure she wasn't as lovely as she was when they first met and married, but he still loved her and wanted the fulness of married life with her.  I still maintain that she was stepping out on him.

The so-called "friend" who was so hot to get us together had motives far from the Gentleman's love life in mind.  This friend, who we believed the whole time was a bisexual female, ended up being a male.  For some unknown reason, he/she targeted me, wanting to break my husband and me up, and was using the Gentleman to do it so he'd get the blame for it.  Now that person is posing as the "woman's" sister (supposedly the "woman" died in a boating accident off Florida two years ago.  Uh huh... Whatever).

I know this confession will come as a shock to those of you who know me personally - or semi-personally - especially how I am now.  I have my life back, and it's the life that's a fabulous fit for me.  I won't say I'm in love with my husband.  I remember feeling that way a couple of years ago and thinking, Darn!  These feelings are going to eventually go away.  And they did, and that's OK, because now we're a unit.  When you're "in love," the other person has no faults.  Trust me, my husband has just as many faults as I do.  He's no more perfect than I am, but he's perfect for me, and I have true love with him.  A few guys in the past two years have spoken sweet words of love, desire and devotion to me, but I just gently tell them how much I appreciate their friendship, subtly making it clear that I'm not interested in more.  I have my guy friends, boundaries in place, and we wouldn't change a thing about our friendships, including how much they respect my marriage relationship.

This was reprinted with permission by Rio Denali, along with an epilogue.  You can find it here on her blog, Rio Dances on the Sand.

The Massage

His eyes pierced me, his green eyes gazing into my soul as he poured the massage oil into his hand, watching me hotly as he warmed the cool liquid before letting it slowly drip from his hands onto my skin. My lips parted on a moan and my eyes fluttered shut at the first sensual caress, the oil making his hands glide effortlessly over the dips and mounds of my waist before they moved up to cup and rub my full, aching breasts. He kneaded the pale globes, his fingers occasionally brushing the darkened aureolae, taunting the sensitive peaks with the touch they were craving.


Leaving my breasts, he slicked the oil down to my belly, softly caressing the firm mound where the baby grew. Responding to his touch, the baby kicked against his hand. With a soft chuckle, he continued to rub oil over the taut skin before moving his hand down to my bare woman's mound. Oil-slickened fingers parted my folds, finding the hard nubbin hidden in their depths, before venturing further down to my slit. The oil mixed with my juices as he teasingly slid just the tip of his finger into my hole.

He left my core to refresh the oil in his hands before slicking the oil down my legs, rubbing and caressing the muscular, curvy limbs. I rolled to my side on his request so he could work his magic on the back of my body. Fireworks went off as he rubbed the sensitive bottoms of my feet, his fingers slipping in between my toes. His hands kneaded my calves, then teased the hollows behind my knees, soliciting a groan of pleasure. Strong fingers lightly massaged the backs of my thighs, working up to the soft, firm globes of my ass. A single digit dipped in the valley, teasing the tight pucker.

Unable to bear the teasing any longer, I rolled over suddenly, taking advantage of his momentary surprise to grab the bottle of massage oil.