Tell me about your affair.

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
21

I’d qualify, although my stupid head perceived things differently at the time and I had what I thought was a change in marital status to supposedly back it up. However, since I have lots of mental problems, I’m really not sure that want to use any of my situation to draw a composite from. Regardless, I thought you might like at least another voice of the actual ‘been there, done that’ stance.

So, here goes more might-as-well-work-through-it humiliation. Certainly if for no other reason than being a glutton for punishment. :frowning:
Oh, and no chicken I… :rolleyes:

Female and, unoriginally enough, male.

I had just lost what ended up being my last battle with true normalcy again. I quit my desk job, said “fuck it” and gained some weight and finally, embraced agoraphobia again. I’d already had two psych hospital stays, so attempting another suicide didn’t seem to be the current best option. I in turn rooted about on the internet even moreso than usual (which, I think, upped my usage from roughly 18 hours a day then to like 22 or something – it’s not like I ever got any sleep anyway) and upon said wanderings looked at the Bastion of All Evil, classmates.com. You only think I’m kidding. Anyway, my stupidity encouraged me to look for my one true first love. ::: gag ::: breather ::: gag :::

He responded with a rash of emails, a long ass phone call and an immediate visit. I fell with a resounding thud, because at that point I thought we’d discussed infinitely how we only had a marriage on paper left and I had no where to go or way to be supported and my husband didn’t want the responsibility of my demise on his shoulders. Furthermore, I had requested several times (and been granted same) the chance of an ‘emotional’ open marriage. Yes, I know that sounds stupid, but I believed even in our circumstances that should be cleared or otherwise it was cheating. Since I had no desire for sex, but rather bonding, I wanted to make positive that all was copacetic all the way around. It was.

Obviously I didn’t. He on the other hand, swore up and down that his wife was the Spawn of Satan who’d torch the kids as soon as she found out and we were only waiting a couple of months (or something) until his daughter turned 12 and he could fight for custody. This all was on the table before any bit of romance entered the picture and at that moment, since I was dating Fucking Prince Charming, The Savior of All Humankind ™, I understood and we’d all just have to do our best. For that’s what he wanted too. Really. Honestly. For shore 'nuff. Or, as I’ve lovingly termed it these days, is bullshit finds bullshit. Another story for the john.

Obviously, that wasn’t an issue with mine. As for his, he constantly said she did, but backed it up with saying she was too stupid to figure it out with all the precautions we took. All I’ve got to ask is: Wonder how he feels about that now?

On the positive side, he played me like a fiddle. :smack: Everything I’d ever wanted to hear was laid at my feet with an increased dollop of “You are the only one I’ve ever felt this way about/done this for/need/whatever!” and mucho groveling. On the negative side, they only slowly began to mount up. First it was his promise that whenever the stress became too strong, why of course he’d leave RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND, and he reneged. Next it was the lack of even the smallest amount of gifts and we’re even talking the dollar store variety. His excuse? Every spare bit of time that he could actually devote to me any in way, he’d rather spend it on the phone or in person rather than running around to some store.

My reply? I’m almost housebound, except when I cater to your sorry ass, so a trinket to remind me of “us” ( ::: gag gag splutter ::: ) would only help to make my days tolerable until we could be together. Finally, after I sold off everything I owned or meant to me (like any remaining self-respect, right?) and moved to Dallas, it was that floating of the nebulous “date.” Good Og, we were only supposed to move in together about 50 times, you definitely wouldn’t expect me to get any hints from that?? I mean all those screwy reasons and excuses explained everything. Other than that, my Super Man was damn nigh perfect until The End. And of course, being fucking married in the first place, but I digress.

Oh, don’t you fear, we had a great, iron-clad, security proofed system. :rolleyes: Dumbass was supposed to come see me. Amazingly, my knight in shining armor chose to languish his ass in bed all day, sufficiently winding up late. I called his house to speak to his brother (that excellent plan I mentioned above) and in turn, get him on the phone. The only drawback this time is there was no bit of gap in the transition and he was still groggy, allowing her to miraculously appear and ask “What is going on?” with me then replying like the novice I was “I’m in love with your husband!” and expecting him to follow suit. Anyone surprised that it didn’t quite pan out that way?

The beginning of it being over. The reason it wasn’t completely is because my mind just couldn’t wrap itself around the fact that he wasn’t how he presented himself to be. If I ignored the warning signs, which (to me) had been pretty small until I moved, he still was what I thought. But that rapidly began to change. Unfortunately, I apparently like to be abused out of affairs before I backed away from the fire, so I let it still go on with increasingly far less delusions. Which, bass akward that it seems, actually helped. What can I say? Don’t ask unless you just want a headache. There was not nearly as many meetings (before of which were probably 4 - 5 times a week), phone calls no longer made much from his lovely place of employ and I no longer was able to happily chat with his family, friends and cow-orkers. See? I did get to talk and see them regularly, which ended up being another part of his ruse to paint her as The Devil (and what sorts of pictures or illegal events did he have on everyone anyway??) and to ingratiate me into the circle as one of the group who Never Spoke A Bad Word (like there was one, duh!) about him. Last of all, when he started standing me up in ways that he didn’t dare have before, I finally got it. I was a pathetic idiot of the highest order and it wasn’t worth living. Hmph. Even after being apprised of another round with a desire for the other side (read: trying to kill myself), a friend in the midst of all this (with his group too – and one that I could have immediately killed following this stunt) spilled the beans and he ( ::: drum roll ::: ) passed on any involvement. And we were still technically a couple then. Yeah, morons.
So I gave up and (still, stupidly) just let him meander in and out of my life from a distance. I gave away (on this very board too – whee!) my “engagement” ring.

::: SNORT SNORT SNORT SNORT :::

I changed my cell phone number for good and gave it out to no one but the long-suffering folks in my life. Didn’t lift a finger to go to him. And that ended up being that. Well, after I degraded myself for one last go around by begging him to berate me (hoping to find a ‘switch’ that would completely shut me off forever – and he nailed it too – “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”), I finally walked away. Yep, that’s right. On my own, quickly, with no mental drama and my self-esteem replaced. I only wish. :rolleyes: But hey, he gave me some poems, a stuffed monkey and some antique jewelry I got to pick out (like the ring), I really don’t understand how I can no longer feel he’s a keeper? I mean, this man probably gave me an STD too. Who knows? I should’ve just felt the pain of the first Other Woman who wasn’t able to snag this exemplary product of man flesh. I should weep, I’m sure.

I could’ve only hoped. Og knows Opal undoubtedly has scruples, concern for others and a desire not to eradicate anyone’s existence as they know it. Hell, no matter how lame my life is, I at the very least had eBay, my puppy and The Food Network untainted. Why anyone would want that to go, I have no idea. Surely, a relationship with her would have room for those things too. :slight_smile:
Last of all, I believe I’ve been describe as likeable and the reasons my relationship had become what it had was due to mental illness. Otherwise, it, even then, was awesome on a friendship level. Except talking to my husband about my husband. Other than that… well, I’m sure you’ve heard all this before by now. :wink: And thankfully (for everyone), that’s all.

22

Whoops! Also meant to add (ya take one step forward and one step back) that I somehow hope this inanity helps.

23

These responses are more in depth than I expected. (That’s a good thing.) Thank you all! I’m still in the research phase so keep them coming if the mood strikes.

Faithfool, Thank you. That was immensely personal and could not have been easy to share. Those events in your life actually will help me more than you know.

24

My affair started in my 7th year of marriage. I was running my own computer system integrator and networking biz, and we had opened a second location. Due to staffing issues, and needing to get the staff up to speed, I spent a great deal of time at the second location, filling in during late hours and such, since we required two persons be on-site at all times to handle the walk-in retail activity and cover for the other one if they needed to go to the restroom or somesuch. Finding qualified people was also an issue but a ready-made solution for at least one of the staff positions was the wife of a friend, whom I had known for about a year. As a result, I was in the store in the evenings when “Kristi” was there and it was just the two of us. Naturally, over the course of time, we talked a lot and got fairly close.
During this time, I was still hanging out with my friend sometimes, and as guys are sometimes apt to do when there is beer and pool involved, the conversation turned to women. We discussed women in our past and what types of women we were physically attracted to, and I casually mentioned that Kristi was not too far off the mark, in general terms. I didn’t really mean much by it at the time, as my goal was merely to give my friend a clearer picture of the body-type I was attempting to describe. The comment was actually along the lines of, “Well, someone that’s built kinda like Kristi would be pretty close.” That was actually the first mistake. The second mistake was made by him, when he promptly went home and said to Kristi, “Hey, you wanna know what Dirk said…?” This is the statement that opened the barn door.
Turns out that my friend was something of an asshole at home and was emotionally and verbally abusive. Of course, I didn’t know this at the time, and didn’t realize how my tiny statement, from a distance, through a third party, would impact her and her need for validation.
As the next couple of weeks went by, she continued to get closer to me, making efforts to carry on longer, deeper, and very flirtatious conversations, and I admit, I was flattered by it. Not only that, but I, too, was in a vulnerable place that made me susceptible to the attention she was giving me. Normally, the reasons why I would have been vulnerable aren’t important, but in this case, since this is for research, I’ll give my home background for a more thorough picture.
As stated, I was working a lot of hours, and I was essentially managing two locations, as well as handling my regular service-call work. Naturally, this created a lot of personal stress for me, which was not being helped at home. At home, my wife had grown cold in the bedroom, partially because of my poor hours, and also partially due to fear of another pregnancy. She wasn’t merely cold in the bedroom, though, which made it even worse. She had pretty much pulled out all of the other emotional support I had. If I needed to talk about work, she didn’t want to hear it. I understood that she was tired, too, from wrangling two kids all day (one 5, and one 3), but it didn’t change the fact that we were not connecting at home. All of this stacked up to make me vulnerable to someone who was fascinated by what I had to say, shared conversations with me, solved problems, worked with me, and generally made my day pleasant when I was around her.
Eventually, she made the move that would start the whole physical affair. She arranged for me to come by, on her day off, when her husband was at work, to look at their computer, which had been acting up and was in serious need of some upgrades. I suspected this was a setup, but I went along anyway, figuring I would either find my way out of it, or that I was actually being a big rube and her computer concerns were her only motivation. I was also horribly curious as to whether it was really a setup or not.
I arrived at the house and had a nice conversation, with a little harmless flirtation thrown in for good measure while I was checking out the computer.
After I was finished, she said, “Hey, why don’t you come check out the wallpaper job I did in the bathroom that I was telling you about yesterday.” I agreed, and followed her into the bathroom.
When we entered, she gestured to the wall and said, “See? I think it turned out great!” I was going to reply, when she turned around abruptly, threw her arms around my neck and pulled me into a kiss. In the first half-second I was stunned, but then I kissed back and I will admit that I enjoyed it, because I hadn’t felt a passionate kiss in a couple of years, and this kiss was very intense, and very passionate.
After a few moments, she pulled back and said, “I’ve been dying to do that, ever since Mark told me I was your type.”
I was flabbergasted but flattered, and my blood was boiling at this point. She invited me to sit with her on the couch, and I did. She kissed me again, and I didn’t hesitate this time. The short of it is, that’s how it started, and we got completely physical.
The affair lasted about four months. It was very torrid, but added more stress to my already stressful life. Finding the time to fit in the physical part was trying. I had to leave the house at 5 in the morning sometimes, to go “work out,” and sometimes, I would steal away at lunch and go without eating the entire day. This had an impact on my health that I’m still dealing with today, as I developed a chronic bowel condition during this time that the stress helped to excacerbate.
Eventually, we were found out by her husband, who had started snooping through some IRC chat logs. The silly woman had saved them, instead of clearing them, and he had the printouts of the evidence in his hot little hands. He threatened to expose the affair to my wife, but I chose instead to tell her, myself. I figured it would be better for me to confess to her and deal with it all than to have Mark come by when I wasn’t around and do it himself.
I am still married to my wife, 10 years later, and we came through it with some scars, but we still came through it. We have our issues, which is a discussion for another thread someday.
Kristi divorced Mark a few months after the affair was exposed. I learned later that she’d had an affair previously. She has since had one common-law husband, had two kids with him, left him, met and married another man, had a child by him, and is going through a divorce with him, after meeting at least two other men during that marriage.
I can’t judge her for her choices, but I will say that I’m glad I made the choice to stay home and work things out, instead of divorcing and chasing Kristi.

25

I’ve recently come out of an emotional affair with my marriage intact.

Me, female, him, male
Yes, we were co-workers
We had been friends for about 2 years.
I was unhappy in a “I love my husband more than life, but he doesn’t notice me.” kind of way.
From the beginning of our friendship, we were advice buddies. He got promoted over his head and would come to me for advice.

Something changed. I think it was me. I had never looked at another man. Here I was having a friendship that was giving me more emotional support than my marriage. This time though, it was with a guy with a pulse. We acknowledged that something had changed and said we felt better about discussing it and getting it out there so we wouldn’t trip and fall into something wrong.

So much for that theory.

Much, much drama later. He is with his wife, I am with my husband. Things are the way they were supposed to be. I think of him now as my friend, as a friend who opened my eyes to what I really needed to be getting from my husband and who gave me the confidence to ask for it.

There is a part of me that loves him. That part isn’t the most important part. What I miss is my friend. Now, he’ll never be the friend we have always wanted to be, because we went too far.

My posts here have gone over it quite a bit as well as some back story. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but I am working my ass off to make my marriage what it should have been all along and not letting my husband getting away with less than I deserve.

So most is right on the home front. But I miss my friend.

26

I’ve never had an affair, but I was the wronged partner of an affair once.

A goodly many years ago, I was living with my SO and my best friend in a house we’d jointly rented. The original plan had been for my SO and I to live there (I’d just graduated from college and was working and heading off to another local institute of higher education to start my MS), but my best friend had recently separated from her fiancee so she moved into our second bedroom (which was originally intended to be my office - I figured giving up my office to help a friend was the right thing to do). Seeing as my best friend was also my boss, I wasn’t worried about her ability to pay her share of the rent.

My SO at that time was… problematic. He and I had been together for several years at that point, and our relationship was starting to have some issues. The issues it was starting to have would eventually kill it deader than the dinosaurs. The Reader’s Digest Condensed version is that he was self-destructive, clinically depressed, narcissistic, and of the mindset that if he were going to be miserable, so was everyone else. As I was closest to him at the time, I was the one he was bound and determined to make me as miserable as he was. In his mind he’d turned it into some form of contest - he won if he could break my spirit.

Suffice it to say, he was an imcomparable asshole - always in small ways, always pushing the limits of acceptable behavior. His pattern was to do something that was just over the line of what I’d accept, apologize profusely, rinse and repeat until the line moved and then repeat the process.

My best friend was at that time easy prey for him. She’d just broken up with her fiancee (who was the second fiancee she’d had in the last 18 months). She was having some fairly epic self-worth issues and was using the time-honored method of “sex with anyone who she could entice” to shore up her self-worth, with the customary lack of positive results. My SO wasn’t her only questionable partner - there were several married men, a married woman, the occasional acquaintance, and generally everyone she knew.

The long and short is they hooked up a number of times over the year we all lived together until she moved - in large part because she’d managed to make a mess of her life of Biblical proportions and realized that the only way for her to start over again was to make a clean break in another place. She was disgusted with herself, her behavior, and the choices she’d made out of her hurt and damage. At this point, I didn’t know about her and my SO - I suspected, but there was just so much else going on I never really followed up. A mistake on my part. Her guilt over that situation was a big part of her decision to move away.

She eventually broke down and told me about the whole thing some while later - we’d stayed close and she couldn’t live with the guilt anymore, felt she was wronging me every day she didn’t tell me about it. There’s a reason they say confession is good for the soul, I suppose.

We’re still best friends. I forgave her her indiscretion and we went on about our lives - I poke gentle fun of her misdeed once in a while, although she brings it up more than I do (to poke fun of herself). The SO and I parted ways before she told me - for unrelated reasons. I do not regret the ending of that relationship in even the tiniest of ways, but I would have missed my friend a great deal.

27

Ah, memories…

This may or may not be of any value to the OP, but having read tdn’s post, I perceive a kindred spirit connection, at least between the shallow people we both likely used to be. You see, I didn’t marry until I was 40 years old, thus enabling me to woo women for multiple decades—time enough for me to perfect my role as philanderer extraordinaire, or in the vernacular of today’s youth, a playa.

Case in point:

Period: Late ‘80’s—Decade of Hedonistic Desires.
Place: Sultry, sweaty Florida—State of Sin.
Primary Characters: Martha (pseudonym), Trudy (pseudonym), Dr. PoopiePants (realnym)

Situation: When not engaged in humanitarian affairs, the 1980’s found me boinking a bevy of bodacious babes. While normally a serial copulator, when the opportunity presented itself, I assumed the role of mass fornicator. Trudy and Martha were two, among many, helpless victims of my libidinous desires. With both fair maidens, I was engaged in contemporaneous flagrante delicti. In the hands of an amateur, simultaneous affairs of the heart are fraught with risk and danger. I was a pro—doing my duty, and doing it well.

Situation Expressed Chromosomally: XX + XX + XY = Trouble (of the *zip up your pants and get the hell out of Dodge * variety).

Mom and Dad were visiting from New Jersey, the picturesque state of my upbringing. They were to join date #1 and I for dinner on Friday and join date #2 and I for dinner on Saturday. (Note: By the ‘80’s, my parents were used to my erratic (erotic?) dating paradigm, and simply rolled with the punches).

Friday Evening: Trudy, my parents and I go out for dinner at a fine seafood restaurant—a pleasant evening, rife with engaging conversation and good humor ensues, capped off with strawberry cheesecake for all. The evening went well, but Trudy, being a little nervous about meeting my folks for the first time, drank perhaps one or five too many glasses of Chardonnay, leading to one or five inebriated faux pax’s. Upon sobering up a bit, Trudy was convinced that she offended my parents (a false assumption, mom and dad are about as easy going as they come). Since my pre-marital psyche was often infected with mischievous gremlins, I did not feel compelled to dissuade Trudy from her erroneous belief. Vacillating between wanting to apologize to my folks as soon as possible, and committing hara-kiri, Trudy agreed on plans to get together again on Sunday (typically a fine day for redemption). She thought that it was commendable that my parents and I were planning to spend a quiet evening home alone Saturday evening.

Saturday Evening: Martha, my parents and I go out for dinner at a fine Italian restaurant—a pleasant evening, rife with engaging conversation and good humor ensues, capped off with cappuccinos for all. Deciding to forgo the house canolies, we opted instead for ice cream back at my house.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch: Arriving home from the restaurant, Martha, my parents and I served ourselves dessert from the kitchen and migrated to the living room. I slumped down on the easternmost end of my L-shaped couch, Martha sat next to me; Mom took the southernmost end of the couch, dad sat next to her. A creature of habit, I always take the easternmost end of my couch, since it’s the only seat in exact alignment with the door from the living room to the kitchen and the door from the kitchen to the garage. This gives me an ideal view of anyone entering the kitchen from the garage—the route most of my friends take when paying me unannounced visits (telephones, doorbells and front entranceways are for sissies, I suppose). Since someone is always traipsing into my kitchen, I want to see them doing so, before they get a chance to raid my refrigerator.

Between mouthfuls of Spumoni, I look up to see the door opening into the dark abyss of the garage. Fabulous—which one of my nutty buddies has decided to interrupt my *girlfriend-meets-parents-for-the-first-time * date? I begin to focus on a biological lifeform emerging cautiously from the inky blackness…*Is it Jimbo? Nope, too short…Ernie? Nope, too much hair (?)…too much mascara (!)…too much lipstick (!!)…too many boobs (!!!). *
A millisecond after my last spoonful of Spumoni took a U-turn halfway down my esophagus, I made a mental note that the person now walking through my kitchen door would be placed near the top of a long list of people whom I would least like to have walking through my kitchen door at this moment—in between Osama bin Laden and a rabid IRS auditor. Could this be Osama bin Laden wearing a Trudy mask? No, no such luck. Well jolly good then, Trudy must have had misgivings about waiting until Sunday to apologize to my parents about her bad behavior. I wonder if she will still feel the same way in about, hmm, 10 more steps. I would have the answer to that question if I didn’t act quickly, as quickly as a cheetah on the hunt.

Predator and prey make eye contact. She smiles at me and continues toward the door to the living room (which may soon be renamed, the carnage room). I nod and hope that my grimace can somehow be mistaken for some semblance of a pleasant facial greeting.

A brain under duress is capable of fast mathematical calculations. (Unsheathes imaginary slide rule). Ok, Trudy has 10 steps before reaching the living room to my 12 steps to cutting her off at the pass. She is a body in motion; I’m a body at rest, with a bowl of spumoni on my lap. Her stride is smaller due to shorter legs. I think I may have more fast-twitch muscle fibers. Hmm…carry the 7…take the square root of…wait a minute…Eureka! I just remembered that which will surely put this scenario firmly in my favor—the doomsday coefficient: when norepinepherin and gastric hydrochloric acid combine in my body, a type of muscular rocket fuel is synthesized. Bam! I’m in the kitchen before I even rose from the couch (don’t ask, it has something to do with General relativity and time-dilation).

(Finger to mouth) I whisper, *Shhhh…parents are in there. * (Cocks head back toward living room door). *Come with me, Trudy. * (Grabs upper arm and gently turns Trudy back toward, and into, the garage…then out the garage door and onto the driveway). Speaking at normal volume now, I proceed to spin a tale of my parents still being upset and suggest another cooling off day before reengaging the enemy. Walking down the driveway, I turn, embrace my crestfallen girlfriend and give her a deep kiss to remember on nights alone. (Generous to a fault? Guilty as charged). *“Sure, I’ll come back tomorrow and make things right, sweetie”, * said Trudy. “If you happen to come with pie, I wouldn’t complain”, I replied. We dis-embrace and go separate ways—me back up the driveway, Trudy down the driveway toward her car, which is parked on the street, a good 25 yards away.

Ambling cocksurely back to what could have been ground zero, I can’t help but give myself a mental pat on the back. *Damn, I’m good. Got more Teflon than Clinton. Should write the defacto manual on women juggling. Hmm, what excuse should I give Martha for my hasty departure? How about, “I had to roll up the windows on my car, it’s supposed to rain”? Yeah, she’ll buy that. *

Clearing the door to the living room and about to verbalize my excuse for leaving, I was struck by the vacuous feeling of a biological void in the room. Interesting, someone who was present when I left the room clearly isn’t present, presently. Mental accounting: mom, present; dad, present; Martha…not present. Hmm, I did not anticipated this turn of events. This may not necessarily be in my best interest. In fact, this could be a big, dirty fly in my womanizing ointment! I felt my systolic pressure rising, but it petered back downward the instant I realized that Martha was most assuredly relieving herself in the bathroom down the hall. (Lot’s of wine + small bladder = “Pardon me while I powder my nose”).

“Martha in the can, mom?” I asked, and waited for the affirmative reply. Mom looked up from the TV and (way too casually) said, “No, she went that way”, while thrusting her extended thumb over her shoulder. Hmmm, now that’s an interesting arrhythmia playing in my chest–sort of a syncopated rhythm, I do believe. Out of the half dozen or so directions mom’s thumb could have pointed toward, over her shoulder is the only one that may potentially have direct causation to my untimely and unwelcomed castration. I’m sure I read in last months JAMA that blood pressure rising as quickly as mine is at this very moment has an excellent chance of causing a blow-out in of one of my important arteries—think of a gorilla on methamphetamine pumping an oversized air-pump attached to a bicycle inner-tube…one that’s surgically implanted in my brain).

Clinging to the desperate and foolish hope that I misheard mom, or that her thumb is out of alignment, I point to the hallway that leads to the library on the left and terminates at the front door directly ahead. My library has a large bay window, ideal for viewing the tropical landscaping in my front yard while reading [del]pornography[/del]classical literature on the recliner. Of course it is also the best window for viewing cars parked on the street and, with a slight crane of the neck, even the distal end of my driveway. Question to self: *how far down the driveway was I when I locked jaws with Trudy? Ah, yes, the distal end, of course. “Martha went that way, you say?” * I asked. *“Yes, she did”, * replied mom. “Been back there a long time, too”, dad added, as if to drive the stake in my chest further. The devil you say.

Let me be perfectly clear: I am not a wimp. If there’s trouble, I meet it head on. If there are consequences to pay, I’ll pay them with interest. Despite the TIA’s bursting forth in my head like Disney World’s firework show finale, I marched myself right through the front hall way and took a hard left into the library. It could have been good news: I could have turned my head left to find Martha reaching for a cookbook on my bookshelf with her back to both me and that infernal bay window. *“I’m looking for a good blackened redfish recipe to make you, honey” * would indeed have been music to my ears. It could have been bad news: I could have turned my head right to find Martha, red in face, arms on hips, stamping her foot, shifting eyes between me and that infernal bay window. “Who the hell is she, and why were you probing her lungs with your tongue?” would have been like fingernails on a blackboard to my ears. (I look left). Damn. (I look right). *Wha? *
As if God didn’t think I’ve had enough traumatic surprises for one day, he hit me with the Coup de grâce. Unless Martha was shrunken with love or invisible with rage, she was clearly not in this room. What does this mean? This wasn’t good news and it wasn’t bad news. What other kind of news is there?…Oh. No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Naw. Sure, I haven’t been to church for a couple of decades, but the Big Guy in the Sky wouldn’t do that to me. Even if he doesn’t exist, he wouldn’t stoop that low—he’d have to be omniprickish. I took a few more steps into the room, aligning my eyes 90 degrees to that infernal bay window. Predictably, my eyes refused to open at this point—did I mention that I was a wimp?

After recalling the old adage about things never being as bad as one imagines, I opened my eyes and lo and behold, I vowed never to believe old adages again. An epiphany light bulb instantly lit above my head (or maybe is was just dad flipping on the light switch), and I understood that, indeed, there was something besides *good news * and bad news—there was the worst possible news, and it was playing out before my eyes. I won’t go into the gory details. Suffice it to say that the old adage about women fighting like cats (desperate, demon-cats from hell, in this case) happens to be one old adage that is correct. After assessing the situation, I concluded that, since my life, as I knew it, would essentially be over in the very near future, I might as well enjoy the show. Should I enter the fray and attempt to break up this brawl? Perhaps, on some miniscule level, it could be argued that I bore some responsibility in this matter…but no, my place is most assuredly behind the bay window glass, in spectator mode only. I you can feel empathy for the two tattered tomcats mixing it up on my front lawn, think how you would mourn the poor mouse, wearing catnip cologne, foolish enough to saunter between them. Squeak squeak.

In a manner of speaking, my life was over shortly after that evening—my life as a devil-may-care bachelor, that is. The dating scene was simply becoming too painful (mentally and physically) for a nice guy approaching forty. And, well, maybe some form of redemption was called for. I got married and had a couple of bambinos. No, I didn’t marry Trudy or Martha (we all complied with the various restraining orders). I’m now in my seventh year of marriage now and I can honestly say that I I’ve never strayed from my vows and, in fact, never once had an urge to do so. Whatever drove me to bed vast quantities of women as a single man was now depleted. Some say it was the depletion of testosterone from my bloodstream following traumatically induced hypogonadism (ladies, please, take your pound of flesh from elsewhere on my body, but leave those alone—ouch!) that was responsible for my new found faithfulness, but I like to think that I simply matured and found true relationship enlightenment. I’m now a loving father and a faithful husband who trusts himself and his wife implicitly—a lesser man may question may wife’s coming home late from work every Friday evening…with disheveled hair…smelling vaguely like Hai Karate aftershave, but not me!

I’d like to apologize to any young ladies who may have suffered mental anguish from my former wanton ways. (Don’t hate me for what I was; love me for what I have become). Hurting feelings was never an intention of mine and I feel remorse for the fact that I may have done so. I certainly don’t like to brag or feel pride in past conquests…Well, I suppose there is one accomplishment that I’m a wee bit proud of. *What’s that, you say? It wouldn’t be fair for me not to tell you? * OK, you forced it out of me: Fact—I once had sexual congress with three different women in three different states, in one day. Yeah, baby, I was a playa.

Someday, I may write a book about my days as a single guy. Other chapters would include:

*I knew Sally had borderline personality disorder; the 38-Special in her pocketbook was a surprise.

Shannon wanted to inflict Great Pain on me, Luckily, she took it out on the cat.

Juanita liked us to do it in her room with a slightly ajar door between us and her parents (aka: How I came to have a Santeria Curse on my Genitals).

Girls with lobster hand and feet really exist, one was my blind date. .

Cubit zirconium, eh? Sorry, I’m as surprised as you are.

Are you swollen From a Neisseria gonorrhoeae infection, or are you just happy to see me?*
Glad to be of assistance, OP :slight_smile: