thrust (verb) – /THrəst/ – push (something or someone) suddenly in the specified direction

According to Newton’s first law of motion, a body at rest tends to stay at rest, and a body in motion tends to stay in motion.

In other words, I could’ve let things rest. He could’ve let things rest. Instead, we both put this thing into motion, and it would remain in motion for 5 years.

For him, the thrust to get the ball rolling may have been any number of things. Maybe it was boredom or feeling unappreciated at home. Maybe he needed to feel like a young man again, virile and on the hunt for conquest. Maybe he was just a cad, womanizing for sex or ego’s sake.

For me, the thrust was purely emotional. I needed to be needed. I know that’s an awful reason to become involved with a married man. However, I am here to tell the truth. I was feeling incredibly rejected and unworthy. I still had a 2 foot scratch down my back from being assaulted. I needed refuge. I needed to be rescued.

For us, once the ball began rolling, it was hard to stop. He took me on business trips. He attended concerts in my town. He planned “boys trips” that so happened to include me. He bent over backwards to find ways to see me. At any point, I could have said “no”. I could have walked away. But when you are feeling out of control, that’s easier said than done.




sex (noun) – /seks/ –  sexual activity, including specifically sexual intercourse

This is my story, the story of a woman involved with a married man for 5 years. So yes, there was lots of sex involved. Why else would a man cheat, right? Of course as a home-wrecking whore, I also had to be in it for the sex… and power, naturally. So let’s do this. Let’s get the gratuitous sex out of the way…

The weekend we escalated, there was lots and lots of sex. Sex on the bed, on the floor, on the couch, against the wall, in a chair, and in the shower. There was manual, oral, vaginal, and anal sex. There was missionary, doggy, reverse cowgirl, and scissoring sex. There was mind-blowing, exhausting, multi-orgasmic, all-nighter sex. From Thursday night to Sunday afternoon, I don’t think we spent much time outside of his hotel room. It all had to be about sex, right? Why else would either of us risk ruining his marriage?

Believe it or not, somewhere squeezed into all of that sex, a connection formed. I know you think I’m deluding myself. Hell, I’m sure I am. But when I was on the cusp of leaving for home, planning to never see him again, he asked me to stay. He wanted one more day, one more night. And the sex took a backseat to whatever had driven him to ask me to stay.

In that extra 24 hours, we walked around town, sharing our secrets, our stories. We laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, laughing like kids up past their bedtime. We held hands and curled into each other. And when it came time to say goodbye, he couldn’t. He asked if and when he could be with me again. And when it came time to say goodbye, I couldn’t. I agreed and said as soon as possible.




escalate (verb) – /ˈeskəˌlāt/ – become or cause to become more intense or serious

So here we are, the point where our paths crossed. As I said, they had brushed past each other months before. Now, they were about to collide. I was not in the best spot. Not that I use that as an excuse for my actions. It’s just the truth, and that’s what I am here to tell.

At the suggestion of a friend, I had decided to join an online music forum. She thought it would be a good way for me to make friends who shared my interests and tastes in music. She was a member, and several of our mutual friends were as well. Turns out, he was a member, too.

I remember the first time we “spoke.” Shortly after joining the music forum, I received a private message. It read, “How YOU doin’?!” It made me laugh. I could hear the fake Jersey accent in my head as I read it. Innocently enough, I responded back, “Good, thanks. And you?” And that’s how it began. Silly right? That a 5-year-long affair could begin from such a simple exchange…

From there, things began to escalate…

Have you ever ridden a bike down a big hill? You begin to pick up speed at an alarming rate. You don’t know if you can hang on to the handlebars. The fear of crashing creeps up into your chest. But, it’s also exhilarating. You feel free. That’s how it felt, as things began to escalate between the two of us. That simple, silly question started short online conversations. Short conversations turned to long emails. Long emails turned into swapping numbers. Swapping numbers turned into a phone call. A phone call turned into a plan… a plan to meet each other in person at an upcoming weekend music festival we both happened to be attending soon.

Let me stop here for a minute. I knew he was married. I’d like to say I wasn’t planning on any of this. That’s only partially true. I wasn’t planning on a long-term affair. However, I will freely admit I was planning on a weekend fling with a married man. I won’t make excuses by blaming it on my low self-esteem, or my emotional and physical traumas. But, I will blame it on my need to feel… alive. I wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel anything other than shit. I naively convinced myself this was the solution.

At the music festival, we met for a drink. We did not make it to the opening show. We escalated quickly – clothes torn off, insanely intense sex, and not one look back.





before (adverb or adjective) – \bi-ˈfȯr, bē-\ – at an earlier time

He was a doctor, a “family man”. He liked to grill and ride his motorcycle. He drank beer and bourbon, smoked the occasional cigar. He watched football and hockey and porn. He was pretty much an average man, nothing particularly special or different about him. This was him before the affair. If I had to wager, this is him now.

Me? I was pretty average myself… to a degree. I had a very solid professional life. I was a wife and mother. My then husband was starting a business, which about to become very successful. We had just bought a new house. We were talking about having another child. I was on the brink of a grand new chapter. Then, everything went to shit… fast.

In July of 2008, my husband went through a mental health crisis. He had an affair and began drinking, using drugs. He left me for his secretary. I was devastated. I made poor choices to fill in the voids engulfing my life. One of those choices led to date rape. I became ill, physically and emoitionally from the trauma. I lost my job because I was a wreck. By the same time the next year, everything had spiraled and spiraled and spiraled…

And that’s when we arrived at the same spot on our crossed paths, July of 2009… We’d actually met several months before, although I didn’t realize it at the time. He was of no consequence to me before the spiral. He was just some dorky guy in a Hawaiian shirt at a party we both attended. I made a joke about him to a friend, maybe he smiled at me as we both grabbed beers. Our paths brushed against each other. But once they crossed, everything changed again.



compelled (adjective) – /kəmˈpeld/ – having to do something, because you are forced to or feel it is necessary

I am not looking for revenge, or to ruin my former lover. I am fully aware that I have hurt people. I don’t wish to hurt anyone further.

I am not looking for punishment. I don’t need your judgement. I face my own judgement every day when I look in the mirror.

I am not looking for validation. I don’t need to know your story, however similar it is to mine. I don’t need your understanding or empathy.

I’m not looking for redemption. My actions were unacceptable. I am aware of that. But, I know that I have grown from this, and therefore found my own redemption.

I am writing this because I felt compelled to tell the story. I wanted to set the story free… because not all secrets should be taken to the grave.

This is my story… the mistress’s story.