I guess I never did a final post, huh? It felt presumptuous, believing that enough people read this to warrant a farewell. But now I’m drunk enough to believe I’m a demigod of blogging, and I owe you a histrionic exit.
What better way to say bye than to tell you what really happened?
I slept with a married man. I joined the Dirty Mistress Club. He made me sign a spoken waiver of trust, of promised fidelity to our infidelity by way of cheating on this blog.
He didn’t need to ask me; by the time I was on top of him, my head thrown back with a moan, I wasn’t about to write any of it. I may be the most sinful Baptist-turned-vixen of them all, but even I wasn’t about to announce that I was having an affair. Oh, the judgment!
Anyway, I’m not sure why I cared. The thought of judgment bothers me, yes, but only because I want to be respected as a feminist, a writer, a woman, a vixen, a sinner and a saint. It sounds paradoxical, but it isn’t really. Sleeping with a married man hasn’t made me less of a feminist or a writer and certainly not less of a vixen or a sinner. Perhaps less of a saint, but I hear they only like it in missionary anyway.
Somewhere along the way, after the first time we had sex, and that took a while (just to affirm my goodness and all), I stopped trying to feel guilty and accepted that I didn’t, I don’t, at all. The whole thing made me think about marriage, about relationships, about commitment, about adultery, about monogamy, about the concept of “the other woman,” in ways I’d never needed to before.
What came out of it was a resounding: “Fuck that noise.” A relationship is between the people in it, including their problems and their decisions. If he wants to cheat, if he wants to betray and lie, then my only role in that is to decide if I can look past that kind of dickishness and still want to sleep with him.
I could, I did.
I liked sleeping with him. I liked the way he always got me off, no matter what. It was never a question. Never. It’s the first time ever I can say that I’ve had an orgasm every single time I’ve had sex with someone. He made sure of it. Mostly with his tongue.
He was flirty when in person, especially in a crowd. He’d catch my eye and give me this look that simultaneously said, “I’ve seen you naked” and “I can’t wait to see you naked again.” It was sexy and made my lady bits salivate for more.
And yes, I liked the scandal, I liked the secrecy, I liked having something so forbidden that even I, shamelessest, wasn’t going to write about it. I liked the way it made me feel like I had this thing that was all mine, like a daydream fantasy gone real wild.
And, of course, I loved the boundaries. I loved that we could never get too close. At a certain point, I closed myself off to him, never showed all that I am to him. We’re funny together, and personable and have great conversation, but it ended at this invisible barrier. And it felt so good, so safe, so addictive, to know that I couldn’t get hurt.
He didn’t hurt me – not because he cared so much, but because I didn’t care so much. You can only get hurt if you care enough to hurt. It was perfect. And fucked up – I just heard it. But it was liberating, too – acknowledging my flaws. seeing my shortcomings and accepting those limitations. And embracing them doggy style.
It wasn’t all orgasms and rainbows, though. While I couldn’t quite summon guilt, I hated the thought that if she found out, there’s a possibility she’d feel stupid. I’m not worried about betrayal but feeling stupid. Typical. Then again, I don’t assume ignorance on her part.
Anyway, romanticizing and debating the morality of affairs isn’t the goal of this post.
This post is to say that I cheated. I slept with a married man, and somehow, most paradoxically of it all, it has made me acutely aware that when it comes to sex and the L Word and relationships, I should be entitled as shit.
These assholes for whom I’ve put on makeup and exerted energy, ew, just, ew, what was I thinking? I could name them off, one by one, and link to entries about them – but I think a resounding “ew” just sums it up a lot faster. Take your pick, they’re all idiots.
Let me be clear – it’s not about “realizing my worth” – that’s puritanical bible-school nonsense. It’s about entitlement. I have a degree, a good job, clearly sex appeal isn’t a problem, I’m charming and have a killer personality. I’m entitled to the same. So it’s basically like the bullshit worth thing but bitchier with better shoes.
So the blog has halted because my dating life has halted. I have a career and a puppy and friends and things about which I actually care for which I want to make time. Lame dates playing fucking putt putt at the goddamn H Street Country Club just don’t make the cut. Which unfortunately means they don’t make the blog. Which means there’s no material and… thus, no blog.
So sleeping with a married man liberated me by allowing me to keep a secret. I needed some time within myself (and him within me?) to sort it out. I don’t want to date idiots, and a dating blog in a city like DC demands you date 100 proof idiots for fodder.
And plus, the puppy is a better cuddler.
—- The sober farewell—
This year, writing this blog, taught me more about myself than I could have hoped and brought more incredible people into my life than I could have dreamed possible. I loved every single experience, good, crazy, weird or just funny. And please, you know I’ll still be dating. I’m the tall redhead in boots with a big smile. Ask me out. Just don’t be an idiot.
I’m working on a new project – 27 Before 27. Clearly, it’s nothing more than a template with a list right now, but I’m working on getting it started. It’s 100% copycatted from one of my favorite blogs on the whole of the interwebs – The 30 Before 30 Project. I have a handful of entries written that I hope to post soon. I hope you’ll follow that journey.
Thanks for reading, and go forth and give orgasms.