In Wine is Truth...

In vino est veritas...and the truth is I am a whore. My mouth is almost always five steps ahead of my brain - subtlety is not my best event. So, take that predisposition, sprinkle liberally with medication, and pour a bunch of wine over it. You can imagine the results.

There is a very fine line between sexy flirty and stumbly tragic and last night I got my heel caught on the line and cascaded over it in a sloppy, sloppy way - as fucking usual, I might add.

As my friend in my morning class mocked my hangover and embarrassment this morning he said: "when you poked me in class yesterday and were all giggly I thought, ah, Kimberly wants to put her hands on someone." I managed to do a minimum of hand putting - and nowhere naughty - I swear - but, yeah, he nailed that one on the head.

I flirted excessively with the old friend, probably to the point where it was over the line and made him uncomfortable. Good rule of thumb: when someone thinks you are hitting on them to the degree where they feel the need to point out they are monogamous several times - that may be a hint and you may want to pick up on it. But, being an old friend he elected to not put me in my place.

Was there touching? No, not exactly - there was arm touching, maybe knee or leg touching. There was nothing beyond that, nothing definitively inappropriate. Although I think I may have attempted to get a round of the "but would this be over the line" game going. I gave him the impression there could definitely have been more - which I swore I would not do, I even did not shave my legs as a form of insurance - and I would NOT have left with him last night had he asked BUT I was...myself - over the top and unsubtle, offering sex - although not in that many words - even though I knew I wouldn't, knew I shouldn't.

Things I did do:

-Made an utter ass of myself.
-Overshared, overtalked, over-giggled, over played my hand.
-Inadvertently tied my mittens together and needed the old friend to untangle me.
-Changed my facebook status, accepted all outstanding friend requests of people that I kinda know and sent messages to those I did not recognize inquiring as to who the hell they were.
-Possibly forgot to sign the credit card receipt and tip the waitress. (Yes, I am checking back.)
-Fell for the curse of the over-arrogant, over-confident drunk: "But he wanted it." Yeah, because there is NOTHING hotter than a sloppy drunk.

Things I did NOT do:

-Take off my panties
-Cross the husband's fucking around with someone else line.
-Email the emotional slut and ask him whether he ended it for his own reasons or did he just not find me that appealing.
-Email the high school boyfriend and tell him I facebook stalked pictures of his daughter's first birthday party and that it weirds me out that he named her 'our' baby name.
-Email hot class guy a seductive email.


For the record I will never be speaking to him again, will be moving to another city and changing my name. New name: Ginger Rogers.

Kimberly will not blog while drinking...

Kimberly will not blog while drinking. Kimberly will not blog while drinking.

Although, blogging is probably much better than emailing...at least this morning I don't have a trail of awkward email to old boyfriends that I need to clean up.

I am going to have a handful of Tylenol, a huge mug of tea and try not to vomit. Then I am going to tell you everything I did (tragic, really - not that interesting), everything I did not do and how I made an arse out of myself.

I want you to fuck me hard!

For the record I am drunk and the world is slightly blurry around the edges.

I had drinks (multiple) with the old friend tonight and here is the long and short of it: I am not monogamous by nature. Although the old friend is involved again with the woman he was involved with before which caused him to stop seeing me and although that relationship seems to have a shelf life, he is 'monogamous' right now.

But he wanted me. He said to me "I like to think that we have a flexible relationship that we can go between being friends and lovers when we are both available." Was he letting me down gently? Who fucking knows? I sure don't. I choose to think I am hot and doable.

For the record, all of y'all, could you take off my fucking pants and do me now?

My husband wants me to keep my pants on, he really does, but FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK, I want to stray, I want you to fuck me hard (and I mean all of you, not just him). I want to have a glass of wine and look at you seductively over the edge and then I want you to GIVE IT TO ME. Yeah, like that baby. Is that too much to ask?

It is not that I don't value the relationship I have, especially now that those anti-depressants have kicked in, but really, honestly, truthfully, I am not a monogamist. Not at my core, not in my soul. I will come home to you, I will live my life with you - but I really want to suck him off...is that ok?

Fuck fuck fuck. Yes you, how about now?

Dirty Little Secret

I like being your dirty little secret.

I like that you don't share me with the world. That when I am with you in those stolen moments I am just yours. There is something about knowing that we only exist in our own space, in our own minds, that draws me in completely.

I like that I am in your head, that you think of me and smile to yourself, that during the day I come to you in fleeting moments. I like stealing into the fringes of a life that I will never be a part of: smiling at you from the outside, whispering dirty nothings in your ear, distracting you from your life with my fantasies for us.

I like having a dirty little secret. Something that belongs to me. Something that I don't need to share. Something to amuse my mind and make me smile...something to plan for and imagine while life whirls around me. I revel in the the clandestine moments of connection: the brief email and text - and in the long delayed, long imagined rendez-vous, the pure escapism of removing myself briefly from my life.

I like that we don't exist in reality. That we are fantasy alone. It is magic, isn't it? It is almost too simple to feel bliss in spaces that are separate from the mundane and the routine - that are uncomplicated. It is easy to get excited at the prospect of a stolen afternoon, a stolen moment, a stolen kiss. There is nothing here that is real: it is pretend, it is imaginary - a place for desire to be fulfilled and secrets to be shared.

In your bed I am not your partner, I am not mother to your children, I do not share bills, history, obligations, housework or routine.

In your bed I am your mistress, your concubine, your confidant and your whore. Something you could not resist, the woman you just had to have - reality be damned. In your bed I am your lover, your fiction, your dirty little secret.

Trespass

left hand envy - www.everystockphoto.com

I curled on my side, hair mussed - bra and panties previously discarded and now replaced during an interlude in our long afternoon together. He lay behind me kissing the back of my neck, running his hands on my chest, over the top of my lacy little bra. I arched my chest forward, urging him to touch me.

You want more, do you? his mouth teased into my shoulder as his lips and tongue travelled their delightful path. Yes, I sighed. Yes, more.

I could feel the smile his lips made on my neck as he slipped his warm fingers inside my bra. Mmmm, like that I breathed.

What else? He asked, smiling again.

What else do you have for me? I said, stretching back into him like a cat. Telling him without words: I want you...

He rolled me back toward him and looked at me, giving me one of those dirty smiles of his, those smiles that promise, the ones where the corner of his mouth turns up a little and you can see the mischief in those dark eyes. He reached his hand forward and took mine, linking our fingers - he held our hands up so that we could see them and smiled at the wedding rings there.

Rings that do not bind us to each other, rings that demonstrate to the world that we are not accessible, that we are taken, untouchable - that we belong to someone else.

He squeezed my fingers so I felt our rings pinch my skin. In that moment I could see in his eyes: I like it that this is dirty - forbidden, I like that you are not mine beyond these stolen moments, I like the trespass.

As he slowly slid into me I could feel the rings on our hands touching...I smiled as I closed my eyes.

Sex, Lies and...Blogging

Been clicking refresh and waiting for this one?


Truth is a funny thing, isn't is? Most of us infidelity bloggers have what could gently be called a flexible relationship with honesty. We are honest with each other, with our readers...sometimes even with ourselves - but often not with our spouses, our other halves - the ones with whom we share our lives. I might be an exception to this in that my husband has read the vast majority of what I have posted: initially without my knowledge and later with my consent. My truth, ugly and slutty and naked as it is, has also become the truth that we share. He tells me he does not read my blog without permission and I do believe him. Would I prefer to go back to before my unveiling and have a truly secret life? Sometimes. But now that he knows how close it was to over we have both re-committed in a very satisfying way. The waters are less choppy, almost smooth at times.


But this post isn't about me.


This morning our dear Ms. Hepatica was at the home of the man she seemingly cannot resist, the one that she is with and then without and with and then without...seemingly in an endless string of ends and beginnings lately. She goes to check her email and finds in his bookmarks...this blog.


Now, this gentleman friend knows I blog - has in fact known since the fall that I blog, he knows some of my situation - and he knows my darling father. I trust him to respect my privacy and my space - I do not have a problem with him reading. But, I do blog about Hepatica and her adventures from time to time - a fact that having read this he would well know. Raises questions, don't it?


How long as he known? How did he find it? And, perhaps the most crucial one of all, why didn't he tell us - more importantly her - the truth? If he was reading in innocence why not confess?

What I Love

photo: thesyemism, Flickr.com

My husband: despite our problems, and for all his faults and mine.

My children: beyond all reason, for their delightful selves.

My friends: Hepatica, Tallulah and the redhead (who behaves herself and therefore gets no screen time at all) for who they are and for the unquestioning and, when needed, questioning support. For the fact that I can tell them every detail of my life and they don't judge - they listen and they love.

Myself: unapologetically.

Today, my darlings, you should be your own valentine. Roses from a sweetheart - either the one you married or the one you fuck - no matter how delightful they are, should be icing on the cake. You should complete your own life.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Soundtrack to the Affair...

I have been dancing around my kitchen and singing this for a few days...I thought you might enjoy.

Addiction

I can't describe how much I want it emphatically enough...there are no words that can possibly make you understand how much I crave it, how badly I need it and how hard it is for me to resist it. The adrenaline pay off is intense and captures me the way nothing else can.

My eyes run, constantly, over strangers...assessing, wondering, my mind occupied with what I could do to them. I see a group of men at a bar...and I immediately group them into fuckable and unfuckable and proceed from there.

I am, at worst and at best, a predator of sorts. Operating on instinct...rational thoughts to the wayside.

I want you to take me home, take off my clothes and fuck me. Yes you, fuck me. Now and hard. And then again. I want to be wet and naked and yours...at least for the evening.

I crave, I want, I need - beyond all reason, all sense and any sense of self-preservation.

Instinctually I pursue, I always have...but it occurs to me, as I look into my husband's eyes and see him wishing he had the strength and courage to ask me to stop, wishing that I had the dignity and feeling to stop for him, that I am doing him a real injustice.

Maybe the relationship is not perfect, but really, in or out. These half measures won't do anymore and are serving to make a de facto decision for me. Not yet, but soon, the damage will be undo-able. Irredeemable. Lost to lust, as it were.

If I am going to torpedo my life, don't you think it should be a reasoned decision, made with pen and paper in hand, thought out and logical? Instead I am lurching, heedlessly, irrepressibly, thoughtlessly, toward a late arrival home, hair mussed, panties in purse and a declaration of enough!

Maybe I am doing this because I don't have the strength to call it for what it is: over. Maybe I am doing this because I don't care to stop, because I haven't been told I have to stop yet. Maybe I am doing this because I can't stop. Maybe I should find out which it is...

Emotional Toothache

Well, the Emotional Slut talked a good game - and that is certainly what it was: talk. But I ate the emotional candy: it was sweet, it was forbidden, it had pink icing and a cherry on top. I ate it up and I savoured it, rolling it over my tongue and holding it in my mouth until it dissolved...waiting for more.

Now I have an emotional toothache. A rapidly fading but still sore spot on my heart that says stupid stupid stupid...not for allowing him near me - I don't think his intent was to hurt, but stupid for reaching for the candy. I knew better. I was clear at the beginning: no, I am not in the game for that. But I slipped, seduced by the pretty words and the sweet taste of someone wanting me...

And that, my friends, is the end of the Emotional Slut. I remove him from my thoughts, my time and any future posts.

The candy was too sweet, time for a new diet methinks.

Emotionally Vomiting

I couldn't stand the wall of silence without asking about it...and I am not one to not pick at a scab, so I sent a message.


Me: Afraid you gave it up to soon? Playing hard to get?
Emotional Slut: LOL. No. I just...I don't know. I am having...fear. I am freaked out. The phone rang last night and (my wife) was silent for a long time just listening...and my heart dropped. I didn't know what was going on. I feel like such a cock for doing that to (my wife), she is so great.
Me: I hear you.
Emotional Slut: I am freaking out. What if you get pregnant? Oh my god, are you pregnant?
Me: No.
ES: What happens if you get pregnant?
Me: Are you seriously asking me that?
Him: Yes.
Me: I am done having babies. End of story.
I am really sorry that you are feeling bad. Look, let me be clear with you: this can be over now with no hard feelings, no drama and I will never tell anyone.

Then, typical man, he closed down - laughed it off. And then the occasional message...but certainly not the talking and intensity of before. We have gone from an hour every day to five minutes twice a week. Clearly, something is amiss - why he is pretending it is not is beyond me.

A week later...


ES: Hey. Are you still coming to town next week?
Me: Yes.
ES: I am going to be in town.
(and I leave it alone...I am ambiguous about continuing for my own reasons, and also uninterested in begging him to like me)
ES: So...do you want to hook up?
Me: Do you have time to hook up?
ES: I may...
Me: I think you are unsure
ES: I don't know really...
Me: Don't know really...
(long silence)
Me: I am going to try that again...don't know really?
ES: I have to figure out scheduling, if I have time. WTF I am doing.
Me: As in...us?
ES: Yes
Me: Thank you for finally telling me that! I am feeling the same way. Feeling guilty?
ES: No
Me: What are you feeling?
ES: This is nothing personal..but there is nothing on earth worth losing my wife and kid for, nothing.
Me: I hear you. I have been reflecting on that as well. One more miss-step and I think that may be it. I am trying to be a good girl and colour between the lines...but I wonder if I am capable.
(long silence)
Me: Look, I am not pressuring you. I am not sure what I want. Either way, no hard feelings.
ES: Thanks...try to colour between those lines.
Me: I am...I am.
E.S: We can be our own little support group!

Now, he had told me he had done this before...anyone else think he was shitting me?