A year ago this week, he and I were vacationing together in Puerto Rico. He told his girlfriend he was on a guys’ golf getaway; I told my spouse I was traveling alone. It still drives her batshit loony to this day that he — who had just started dating her a few months prior — and I disappeared to paradise together. (Some months later, he did finally ‘fess up that he was with me. And the shit really hit the fan.)
The trip started out fine, flights and transfers to the El Conquistador/Waldorf Astoria Resort all in order, and we had a beautiful room…a casita (small apartment) overlooking the ocean:
He told me he had been battling a bad cold, wasn’t exactly feeling great, but didn’t want to cancel this chance to be alone with me. The deal was, I would spring for the hotel and he’d pick up most of the meals and drinks. Seemed fair. But early in our stay (owing to a lot of intimate spit swapping…), I came down with his cold and felt more ill with each passing day. He golfed and sunned. I stayed in bed and tried to recuperate.
At dinner one night he looked forlorn. I asked him what the matter was. “I think I’ve been found out,” he answered sheepishly. I shrugged; the “golfing with the guys ruse” was likely up. The entire week she was blowing up his phone with texts and calls, and he not-too-obviously excused himself from my side to deal with her. I overheard one phone exchange he had with her on our balcony, and I buried my head into pillows to keep from hearing more weakly-professed words of affection. The fact was: he was in tropical climes with me, fucking and trying to have a good time despite her clingy and suspicious love.
Meanwhile, both our colds worsened, mine progressed to full-blown laryngitis, and we both came down with pink eye. We desperately needed antibiotics, so I didn’t hesitate to use the resort’s on-call doctor and my boy toy pleaded with his stateside physician for help. Our intimacy came to a screening halt. We finally got our respective doctors to prescribe the right stuff and off we went in a very expensive taxi to the nearest Walgreens.
Besides our colds, the vacation was off-kilter in many ways. The sex was average. He’d return from golfing and I’d have to endure an endless photo stream of golf shots, which bored me. We played at the resort’s water park and he was more content to measure how far he could land from the water slide than to be in my quiet company. My voice was a barely-audible squeak and that made meals together awkward. No conversation. Halfway in I realized the trip had been a bad idea. Another square peg, round hole scenario.
Early on the morning of departure (couldn’t come fast enough for me) he bolted out of bed and went out to the living room to watch TV, leaving me alone. I remained still, feigning sleep because I felt an ugly vibe in the room. Something was definitely amiss. After some time I joined him, croaking, “What’s the matter? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” repeatedly. He gave no answer, instead ignoring me. I knew well this bratty, petulant side of him; many years of togetherness told me this was a battle I could not win. I left him to stew in his own juices, still not knowing what (if anything) I had done to incur his wrath.
It was barely 7 am, many long hours before our scheduled departure, so I showered, dressed and finished packing up my things. He spewed, “Were you going to leave me any hot water?” (There was plenty of hot water for his use, but he declined to shower, trying to prove some point I guess.) He started to pack his suitcase, sneering over his shoulder, “You only brought that one nightgown, right?” I nodded affirmatively. “Thought so,” he barked. WTF?
Then the nastiness rained down. He accused me of not loving him enough. He accused me of not complimenting his body, tanned and toned. He accused me of not making enough effort to initiate sex (for chrissakes, man, I felt half -dead from a cold YOU gave ME!). “Here we are in paradise,” he screamed, “And I thought nature would just take its course.” More and more spew from a 55-year-old man who was acting like a spoiled 6-year-old. The barrage seemed never-ending. I could hardly talk to begin with, so I just let his nastiness wash over me…unanswerable and unanswered. I couldn’t wait to get home.
He kept berating me the entire trip home, ignored me at the San Juan Airport, and I thanked my lucky stars that I was sitting up in First Class far away from him in Coach. I tried to soothe things during our connection in Charlotte, but all he could muster was: “I just want you to disappear.” I did just that: I was due to sit next to him in Coach on that leg, so I marched to the ticket counter, tired of him and feeling deflated, and begged the agent to change my seat.
As soon as we touched down on the O’Hare runway my phone lit up with nasty, threatening texts from him, seated several rows behind me. I ignored him. I couldn’t wait to see my husband and our son. I saw him sneer at me in baggage claim, and then we went our separate ways.
At least for a few weeks. Then our libidos got the best of us once again: We were back in the sack. His girlfriend never even suspected.
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.