It is November 2006. Halfway through one of our many libidinous iterations.
His then-girlfriend/housemate is out-of-town on business, so he invites me to have a Fuck Fest with him in his heated garage on one of his wave runners that has been put away for the winter. I think: This is too much fun to pass up, so I bring in dinner after work for us and then take a shower to wash off the day.
I swaddle myself in one of his plush terry robes and meet him down in the garage. His choice of music: Enigma! He drapes one of his wave runners with a towel and the fun ensues: we both get nekked, I suck him rock hard, I ride his face, I give him a marvelous hand job, and we fuck for what seems like hours in every position that wave runner could accommodate. I come hard several times; he doesn’t. Seemed strange for what was a pretty frisky romp.
We “cool off” in his backyard hot tub under the stars and I quiz him as to why he didn’t blow his load. “Guess I just went past it,” he offers. “Maybe we went on too long. But you were fuckin’ AWESOME.”
I dress and drive home, sore but very satisfied. I’d never done anything that “out of the box” before. It was meaningful for the amount of fun it was.
Fast forward to June 2007. We are having an argument in a park near his house, and he is hurling all sorts of nastiness at me as we are breaking up (once again). As I walk towards my car to leave the scene he sneers, “Well, if you ever want to see a good video, let me know.” I dismiss it out of hand as I drive off; I know I never posed nude for photographs or videos with him. He has nothing on me, I think. I know.
Ah, but he has. Days later we are back together (will someone PLEASE tell me why I keep coming back to this guy?) and he shows me the secret videotape he made of our wave runner romp — without my knowledge and certainly without my permission. I’m seething and slack-jawed as he shows me the tape of us fucking, and I lunge for the VCR and yank out the tape, pulling and crumpling the black ribbon. We agree to destroy it, taking turns cutting it to shreds with scissors.
“Why did you tape us fucking? You could have asked me first,” I asked angrily.
“I wanted to watch myself fucking and I wanted it to be with you,” he explains rather sheepishly. “If I asked you beforehand you wouldn’t have acted naturally.” Narcissistic little brat, thinking only about himself.
Then he tells me he has a copy, and I demand he hand it over. I don’t want this thing on the Internet or, maybe worse, his private porn video to jack off to. Surprisingly, he gives it up. I vow never to see him again. He can go back to his mousy, no-fun girlfriend. I’m done after a stunt like that, I promise.
By myself, I watch it again and again, and the first few minutes are what gets me. When HE showed ME the tape he began it somewhere in the middle. But I watch it from the very first frame: The camera is on, and he is shown fiddling with its direction, making sure it is positioned just so, covering up the camera with stuff from his garage so that I wouldn’t have seen the lens or the camera itself. I catch my first glimpse of the “set-up:”
Then he steps back, admires his work, and waits for me to arrive:
At about this time, I recall, I was in his shower, freshening up for the frolic. He was down in his garage, setting me up. That’s REALLY what got to me: the set up.
It was the death of Trust. I know I could never again trust this man who so ruthlessly invaded my privacy. I did some research on this and found he’d committed a felony (though I never brought charges): there is a “reasonable expectation of privacy” in any dwelling. He violated it as well as my Trust. He got away with both.
Did he really give me the only copy he’d made of this tape? To this day I have my doubts. We ended this iteration of our affair several weeks after my discovery of the tape and I went back to B. After B. and I ended in late 2013, the porn star and I started hooking up again in February 2014. He was again cheating on his mousy girlfriend. He might have had my body, but he never again had my Trust.
My question is this: Should I have pressed charges? Should I still???
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.