Valentine’s Day 2005. B.’d taken a long lunch hour and arranged a room at the Marriott Suites. A bit unusual for him as it always fell to me to pick the places for our trysts. But this was available and close to his office.
B. often mentioned he thought Valentine’s Day and that ilk to be “artificial holidays” and he demonstrated that to me time and time again over the early years of our affair by not sending birthday, Valentine’s Day, or any other holiday cards. I didn’t let that bother me; this was an affair, after all, just randy, lusty sex. I didn’t really expect much else.
He texted me the room number and I pushed open the slightly-ajar door to find him showering off in the steamy bathroom, the room dark except for one large lit candle encased in a rusty brown, Southwest-style holder (much to my taste). Good ambience, I thought to myself. A-plus for setting the scene.
I stripped and we began fucking, first up against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. He then pinned my hands to the bathtub and in the foggy mirror I watched him take me hard from behind by the light of that one candle. Hot sex. Literally.
Afterward, B. brought the candle over to the bedside table and cheerily announced it was for me. He also gave me some fancy chocolate truffles (he ate them all!) and a little bag of Belgian chocolate hearts. I thought, “Wow! This is the first time he’s ‘celebrated’ Valentine’s Day with me, a major step up for us. Maybe he actually cares for me.”
B. reached again into his soft-sided briefcase, drew out an envelope and then…
…tossed it at me! Flung it at me on the bed with a dismissive, Frisbee-like motion.
The envelope wasn’t sealed, and the card inside — while sweet in its sentiment — wasn’t signed. B. hadn’t licked the envelope and he hadn’t signed the card. I thanked him for the gifts and the “thought” behind them, but the gesture felt empty as soon as that card slid across the hotel bed and stopped at my feet.
For weeks I pondered why B. didn’t lick and seal the envelope and why he hadn’t signed the card. The answer was immediately apparent to a gal pal to whom I confided my affair with B.: he didn’t want to leave any traces. He didn’t want the card to be able to be traced back to him by saliva/DNA nor by signature. A blank card in an unsealed envelope could be from anyone.
She was right. He was being careful. Or paranoid. But my interpretation went further: B. was intimating that he mistrusted me. He couldn’t sign off on an affectionate card, one (as you can see) that didn’t even carry the word “Love” — a word we stayed away from as vigorously as we fucked.
Was this careful or unkind? Or merely dense guy behavior?
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.