“You made a difference in my life,” I texted my ex.
He didn’t answer.
It was over.
The years together. All the secret texts. My first lover, gone.
How could I cope? I learned my worth now. I wouldn’t have without your love and desire — you coaxed me in the beginning. You saw how guilty and torn I was.
“Your husband doesn’t appreciate you. You deserve someone who does.”
“I do?” I thought. It didn’t seem so.
“You just want in my pants,” I joked.
“No, I really care. I’ve wanted you for years,” my lover said.
“Years?” I couldn’t believe it; he had to be exaggerating.
This would not end well.
And it hadn’t.
“You’re the one who told me, ‘Life is short. Enjoy it. Make every day count,’” I wrote to my ex. I’m finally making every day count. Believe me, I thought. I’ve required a few men to assuage this endless need. Going back to celibacy was undoable. I was far too sexual to have only one affair partner.
“I’m counting every day now, but because I’m sad,” my ex texted.
Ugh. I should just block him.
“Stay with your husband,” he said. “You are married.”
I didn’t answer.
He didn’t know about my other men. My multiple lovers. I could never tell him. He was as dogmatic and inflexible as my hubby, in so many ways. The two were more alike than I cared to admit.
“I made another mistake. That’s my life,” he wrote.
It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have opened pandora’s box and started cheating. I would never be yours. I wasn’t faithful to my husband, let alone to any lover. Another blunder. I made so many.
“I know I’m not the perfect guy for you, baby, but you are the only one who is for me,” my lover said, on one of our last meets.
What did I say?
Nothing.
I turned away.
I’m not perfect for you. I never was.
The only puzzle piece I craved was my new lover. Not my ex. He fit inside me flawlessly.
I was so quick to swap my ex out.
“I wish you the best anyway,” my former lover wrote. I knew it wouldn’t stay civil for long. Why haven’t I blocked him on every secret chat? Why did I keep the branch outstretched? The masochist in me chose to read the increasingly nasty texts.
“I left another woman who really loved me for you.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t care about me at all.”
“I’m not going to text you anymore.”
And the following day:
“What did I do wrong?”
What could I say? It tired me. Done. Three years of ups and downs. The drama. I was over all of it. I wanted to be truthful, finally. Not to my husband, of course. To a lover. To be honest about my desires, for once.
Couldn’t one man accept me for what I was?
It seemed like one guy could, after all. That one-in-a-million guy. Not purely possessive or jealous. He encouraged my desires for other men, my fantasies, my unbridled lust.
“I like how sexual you are. Why would I want to discourage it?” this new man said.
“You’d want to hear about other men?” I asked, my voice rising.
“Sure, if you’d want to share.”
“I’d never want to hear about your women. I’d be jealous,” I exclaimed.
“Then, I wouldn’t tell you.”
This was unchartered territory. It was exactly what I hoped for, but it terrified me. A man offering me freedom with my fucking. I could have a stable affair partner and not hide my side liaisons.
Bliss.
“Why can’t we talk about it?” my ex texted.
Talking would not solve his jealousy or his possessiveness or thwart my willingness to cheat. It was just prolonging the inevitable because of my cowardice. I didn’t want to upset him, but I already had.
“You did hurt me. I trusted you,” my ex wrote.
I didn’t need to be reminded.
“This is the worst Christmas. I miss you.”
“It wasn’t a great holiday for me either,” I wanted to write, but I didn’t.
Just let me go. You’ll forget about me. Another woman will take my place in your bed. You’ll be happy again soon, you’ll see. I wasn’t right for you.
He might think I’m perfect, but I’m perfect for someone else.
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Previously published on medium
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