It’s July 2005. We’re in a room at the Renaissance Hotel, splayed naked next to each other after another good, sweaty romp. B. reaches across my body and grabs his small metal pot pipe from the nightstand and begins to toke up. He was (still is) a heavy weed user. To this day the smell of burning marijuana conjures memories of B. in all our various incarnations.
We start to have That Conversation. You know that conversation you want to have involving The L Word, but skirt around the issue instead of hitting it straight on? Even at this deep point in our affair we’d never said The L Word to each other; it seemed inappropriate and just plain pointless. We were both married, and neither had designs on the other.
So the Conversation slithers instead into one about the “depth of feeling.” He says, “I love my wife.”
I reply, “Great! Absolutely! You two have been married a long time. You really have something there.”
“I love my kids,” B. says as he takes one last drag on his pipe. I quickly respond, “Fantastic. And you are a great father to those four kids.”
“I love my dogs,” B. says, staring blankly at the ceiling. I’m now sitting astride his hips with a sheet pulled up to my chin, shielding my nakedness from a conversation that is obviously getting uncomfortable for him. I look at him quizzically and say, “Well, that’s great. I love my dog, too, but it’s different.”
He is massively stoned. The room reeks of pot and I wonder if I’m on a contact high because I ask the unthinkable, the impossibly stupid question I fear I already know the answer to:
“Do you have any love for me?”
“No, I don’t.” I feel the air immediately leave my lungs. In the now 20 years I have been his mistress I had hoped he’d developed some feelings for me. But, no, it was his Irish and Gordon Setters over me, paws down.
I leap from the bed and start gathering my things; B. heads into the shower. I dress as quickly as I can — the black lace top, claret-colored sweater, the swishy tulle skirt, all bought for this particular assignation — wanting to bolt from the room before B. emerged from the bathroom. But I was too slow.
“You look so pretty,” he said as he toweled off beside me. Maybe he is trying to calm the waters. Or maybe it’s the pot talking. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stride purposefully to the door, never looking at him. He grazes my right elbow as if making a gesture to stay. Stay. Sit. Come.
“Just give me some space,” I sneer, opening and then pulling the door closed behind me. Down the elevator, past the hotel’s registration desk, and into the parking garage I still could not catch a breath. And that’s when it happened:
I broke down into tears. Had I just given up on B.? Ended an affair I thought I’d never quit?
B. and Molly. What do you do with a man who loves his dogs more than he loves you?
Fiona: The other dog I apparently didn’t measure up to.
Categories: Affairs Infidelity Marriage Relationships Uncategorized
A former mistress (26 years, on-and-off) describes the good, the bad, and the ugly of her long-term affair. Conclusion: Affairs aren't necessarily destructive if kept in the correct perspective. Our experience enhanced BOTH our marriages.
That is, until his marriage ended and we began to love each other. When the affair morphed into a relationship, well, that's when it stopped being fun for me. We have now irrevocably split.
Lately I've been writing about the man who took his place in the "off" years of that 26-year-long affair. He was a dynamic sexual partner but we, too, now have irrevocably split.
These are our stories.