Your Body

Reasons To Date A Married Man

By December 28, 2015 0
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The reason why this chapter of my eventual memoir is so pathetic is because I’m not Carrie Bradshaw and this is not Sex in the fucking City! I think I knew deep down my affair with a married man (in respect to my memoir) would be short-lived: two pages at most.

And I know exactly what you are thinking about me by the way; you are thinking exactly what I used to think about any woman who sleeps with married men.

What a whore! Total skank! How desperate must she be?

Yet these adjectives don’t apply to me.

Because NO, he wasn’t wearing a ring.

My few friends that knew about him each asked that exact same question. And no, I didn’t ask him if he was married. I made the foolish assumption that a guy that was hitting on me, kissing me, fucking me— must be available.

It’s pretty much a given that if you sleep with a guy the first night you meet him, you likely won’t hear from him again and if you do then it will probably turn into a hotline bling situation, am I right? That being the said, I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again.

I should also mention that I hadn’t had sex for a good six months when I happened upon him: I was at a party and a friend from college randomly introduced us. We were vibing from the moment we met and he eventually made his way home with me. To say the sex was incredible is an understatement. He definitely received top five status.

Following our first night together, we texted/sexted non-stop. Because it’s SO much fun! He even received top marks for calling me on the actual phone to chat. Who does that anymore nowadays? He also asked me out on a real date.

Could this actually be something?

Our mental and physical connection was undeniable, and yet something just didn’t sit right with me. Sure he was hot, employed, educated, met the height requirement for the ride (over 6 ft, thank you), but I knew something was amiss because God does not give with both hands. I’m aware this is a fairly pessimistic POV, but I’ve been severely single for a long time so, can you blame me?

Luckily, there is this thing called the internet and everyone’s information is just completely fucking out there. Including his.

I was about a week deep into the non-stop butterflies when a girlfriend of mine asked me what I knew about him. She then sent me a link to his Instagram. I’m not big on social media, but I creeped all up on it trying to decipher what I could. I was instantaneously heartbroken and filled with a zillion questions.

My eyes must be deceiving me! He has three kids?! Wait, is he married?! How did this escape me? How did I not even ask?

Oddly enough, there weren’t any pictures posted of his significant other, so I began to pray that he was perhaps divorced.

Shit, at this point, I’ll settle on him being separated.

Of course I was left with no choice but to confront him. I couldn’t confess to internet stalking him, so I phrased the question as innocuously as I possibly could, “Hi. I know this is a very belated question, but are you married?” He simply said yes, but “not to worry about it”.

Perfect, I’m going to hell.

Of course I told him to fuck off. I cried. I cried some more. I was done. I hard-deleted him from the cloud. Once I knew the truth, I knew I had to dust myself off and move the fuck on. That didn’t do away with sadness that I felt though over the fact that the first guy I had met in ages (that I was actually into) was completely not available.

But then he kept calling. Ignore. Decline call. Send to voicemail.

Did he really tell me not to worry about him being married?! WTF?! How could I not worry about that? Did he really think I would be on board with dirty mistress behavior? Ugh.

It was all I could think to myself. Mistresses are whores. Mistresses end up getting shot in the bathtub in the final scene of Fatal Attraction. I don’t eat rabbit and I don’t boil bunnies.

I’ve always done my best to live an honest and true life. I work hard, come from a good family, have zero daddy issues…but then something happened: we continued.

To be honest, I’m surprised it even lasted as long as it did. I was convinced I was going to chicken out. Shit, I even Googled why do women sleep with married men? I already had a pretty good idea why, but I just wanted to make sure. Desperation. Loneliness. Lack of self-confidence. Hello, I’m in my mid-thirties and have been single for nearly a decade, of course all of these things apply to me! And, trust me, I didn’t seek this out.I mean, who would want to date a married man?! This sort of just happened to me.

It’s funny how the mind works that way. The first time we do something bad, our conscience usually kicks in and we give ourselves a mental slap on the hand. It’s like the first time you have promiscuous sex or try a recreational drug. You know it’s wrong, but your pleasure center kicks in and it’s not like anybody died, right?

But I think a small piece of me died each time. That part of me that knows it’s better to wait for the right person versus wasting my time on the “right now” emotion. I never thought I would settle and there I was, settling. I rationalized his bad behavior until it became my bad behavior.

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My least favorite part was the underlying fear of getting caught. As much as I tried to pretend his wife didn’t exist, I knew she did. I also knew I never wanted her to find out. The idea of me being the cause of pain for someone I’ve never even met is something I could never be okay with. This clearly wasn’t a concern for him, which means either one of two things: he’s a remarkable liar or he simply doesn’t care about his family. Neither represents admirable qualities.

I had to trivialize all of it to keep my heart out of it. We’d laughed and then we’d cum and aren’t those two of everybody’s most  favorite things to do? I found myself getting lost in the fun though, multiple times over. And as much as I tried to pretend I could compartmentalize my emotions, I realized I just couldn’t.

I blame my Catholic upbringing. The guilt consumed me. Yet I can’t lie to myself; it felt good to be wanted. He added this boost of naughtiness to my typically mundane work-centric days. He brought me back to life. I had a few friends who told me I shouldn’t be the one that feels bad. He’s the one having an affair; he’s the big cheater. He’s the one living a double life. But this feeling of guilt just would not and could not go away.

He’s a real life Pinocchio, but instead of his nose growing with each lie he tells, his penis does. And with each rendezvous on Pleasure Island, I find myself turning into more of a jackass. I know this isn’t me. I want to meet a real boy. Shit, I need to meet a real man. Continuing down this path will only further prevent me from that.

What had begun as purely sexual had turned into my starting to feel something for him: the kiss of death, so to speak. Because he’s here in my bed every week so this has to be real even though every single part of it rings false.

The reasons why I stopped dating a married man are the exact reasons I started. There’s the karma aspect (obvi), but I also could feel myself contributing to the filth of society, and my last name isn’t Kardashian. While I would 100 percent look down on him, I would find myself looking in the mirror thinking I was even more pathetic than he was.

So while it was my decision to allow it to continue, and it was also my decision to end it. Because I know I deserve to be in a relationship with someone that has time to be in a relationship with me. Not on the D.L. Relationships matter. Companionship counts.

The takeaway? Although my affair was brief, it was quite memorable for various reasons. We had fun and I enjoyed his company. Just because it didn’t last, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

And while his story has already been written-mine is still a work in progress.

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