I Had Two Boyfriends for 3 Months

Just yesterday, was our first anniversary. I somewhat naively uploaded the standard ‘Happy Anniversary’ post to my Instagram feed, blissfully forgetting about the calculating eyes looming over me. I began to get messages, some jokes from close friends, some backhanded comments from near-enough strangers, about the timing of it all. Surely we weren’t together yet if I still showed up to events with my ex-boyfriend this time last year? Well, my current boyfriend and I count it from the date we professed our love to each other. The date that would’ve been our anniversary had we the freedom to decide.

If you scroll back to a year ago on my feed, yes you will see pictures of me with my ex. I’m not one to delete history. I’m not the type to delete pictures of my past whether it’s a friend or boyfriend after a fallout or break up. What was remains and it’ll be an endearing little memory for years to come. After all, social media is our generation’s photo album. I can see myself sitting with my granddaughter scrolling through an endless feed and answering her questions as she points at the unfamiliar faces of her would-be granddads.

It all started last year when I fell in love with a colleague at work whilst in a dying long-term relationship. I won’t bore you with the details as they are all mentioned in my story Cheating With My Work Husband but this involved a period of two-timing two grown men that I didn’t plan for or desire. If you think one is a handful, the weight of two feels like an army.

The reason behind the necessity of this crossover was mainly an issue with finances. A significant amount of finances. I knew that the money I was owed wouldn’t come back to me if I were to end the relationship as soon as I met my new lover. And so selfishly (or rightfully so) I kept it a secret. I had an expected date for when I was to be reunited with the lent money (ie. my goodwill in the form of pounds) but there was one thing in the way of that — a month-long expedition up the coast of Vietnam. Seems like a dream adventure with a partner right? — It is, just not when it’s with the wrong partner.

I used methods such as Slack instead of Whatsapp to keep my beloved up to date and not get caught out on my voyage. I used my period and the booking of shared room hostels over romantic private air b n b’s to get out of the other stuff. Surprisingly, I was managing it all too well. The guilt was manageable and the logistics feasible. I guess what helped me massively was the fact that one party knew. I don’t know how I’d keep it up if both of them were in the dark.

Thankfully my new love understood the situation and agreed to wait for me. After all, he ‘won’ me, didn’t he? It was him that I was doing all of this for — flattering no? Well, truth is, my previous relationship was already on its way out when he came into the picture. He just expedited the process — as well as convinced me, wholeheartedly, that my previous relationship wasn’t love. It was clear as day.

The trouble came when we arrived back in London and the date of my freedom was quickly approaching. London is a big city but my God, it is a small town. I kept getting spotted by my then-boyfriends friends, nothing too incriminating but it was causing my anxiety to go through the roof. I was questioned at times, I mean it wasn’t rocket science to know something was up, but somehow I got out of each and every question. Perhaps, he simply didn’t want to believe it.

‘Where did you go on Saturday night?’ I’d be asked. My mind would scramble to the most viable options that didn’t scream, ‘At my new boyfriend’s house.’ He’d go as far as to check the closing times of these places to align with that of my Whatsapp messages to him at the time. I mean who could blame him, I’d be the same in his position. It also helped that my new boyfriend was a colleague and so the easy option of going out for drinks after work seemed all too believable.

The most stressful it became was near the very end, when the growing love for my new boyfriend was becoming so intense I could barely conjure up the effort to reply to my ex. I was disappearing from Whatsapp at 8 pm simply because I didn’t want to face any more inevitable interrogation or come up with any more lies. It was all so exhausting. Never did I think I’d be in this situation and never did I want to be again. I was effectively breaking up with my ex-boyfriend through my awful behavior. It was sending enough subconscious signs for a fool to understand.

I’d feel an inch of guilt when I’d hear my ex ask why he was never invited to these after-work drinks. I’d brush it off as always being a spontaneous idea for our work gang. Of course — it never was. For three months I showed up at my ex’s friends birthdays, the ones unavoidably suspicious to miss. I’d stand and smile as his friends discussed forthcoming weddings that I knew I wouldn’t be attending. I felt like I was hiding an entire life, and in a way I was. I now had a completely different future in mind and this current reality wasn’t leading me down that path.

How could I lie whilst looking him dead in the eyes? My passion for my new-found love led me to have the strength to. Balancing a man in a blindfold with the excitement of a blossoming romance was as heavy as it seemed. Then the moment finally came. The transfer I was waiting for. Not only was this a transfer of a sum but a transfer of a partner — a transfer of a life. I felt elated with freedom and proceeded to tell him about my affair the next day.

What I now know is that life is limitlessly circumstantial. I was perhaps a little arrogant before all of this. I believed that if you’d give me a scenario, I could tell you exactly how I’d act. But no. Life is as predictable as London weather — and that’s not very predictable at all. I will never again judge a soul’s journey until I wear those sparkly stilettos myself.

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This post was previously published on Medium.com.

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