At 39, I never imagined I’d do the “walk of shame” — especially not in front of $17 million waterfront mansions, while their likely more functional inhabitants kept a watchful eye over their yachts docked across the way at Balboa Island. Yet, here I was, a stranger to this part of my neighborhood, acting like a suspicious spy casing the mega-rich’s estates while reeling from the morning’s shocking events.
Tourists and criminals peered into these homes looking for easy-to-grab valuables, 8-figure views, and vulnerable entry points. I, on the other hand, squinted through the narrow sheets of exposed glass looking for something very different: sex. Well, to be more specific — and honest — I was looking for romance. Is that weird?
Having coexisted with my husband in a marriage that reads more like sexual servitude on my part and financial provisions on his, I wondered how many of our neighboring ultra rich couples enjoyed a partnership more reminiscent of…normalcy. Judging by the 80-year-old pulling out in his red Ferrari and the 20-something Kardashian-esque woman carrying a small dog to their ocean view infinity pool, I assumed “few to none” was my answer. While she might be his sex slave, at least she doesn’t have to worry about getting traded in for a younger, hotter model.
This morning, half-naked and ready for chains and the camera, I received the most humiliating, frightening rejection of my life. Without saying it directly, Hubby’s limp libido let me know my days are numbered — and he may know more than I thought he did…
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Does this make me a prostitute?
Ever since coming face-to-face with my husband’s lucky mistresses — just a handful of the dozens who’ve infiltrated our marriage and our finances — my definition of a “prostitute” has been challenged to no end.
The prostitutes — or high-end escorts, cam girls, and virtual sex workers — my husband patronizes aren’t the average junkie turning tricks on the corner for their next re-up. Between the slew of cam girls squatting in our $1.5M Laguna Beach bungalow and the $460k of receipts from Hubby’s “entertainment” expenditures, I can assure you they aren’t exactly strapped for cash. These women are glamorous, young, and unapologetically rolling in someone else’s dough…
Looking down on them from up here on our California King bed, I adjusted my La Perla bustier and tousled my hair, as his footsteps reverberated up the marble stairs. We had an unspoken understanding that this was just one of my few, but mandatory obligations as a non-financially-contributing wife living under this $8 million roof. Thus, obligatory sex with a man you distrust — and at times, even despise — starts to feel more like a chore. One performed best under the influence and promptly wiped from my memory with some more post-sex intoxication.
Today, however, I approached my scheduled in-house prostitution booking sober; I came with a strategy — and one other than “just get through it”. I’ve never been a call girl, so I’m not sure exactly how it works — but I assume they request the money upfront. That was unfortunately my first and last mistake — but Hubby was onto me before a word could escape my red-stained lips.
I swear, the second he walked in, he could tell I was lucid; something felt off. Maybe I tried too hard, looked too good, or came off too enthusiastic…Or maybe on the heels of my return from a week of marital exile and the explosive fight regarding Hubby’s enabling of our daughter’s underage romance, he’d been building up his revenge arsenal all along.
A nagging voice had me wondering if I’d somehow been bugged or followed during my stay at Rancho Valencia. Was it a little too coincidental that another woman celebrating her 9-figure divorce victory gained my trust within our first few hours of meeting? Intrusive worries like these are almost reassuring, since they convince me that therapist must have been right — maybe I am just suffering from extreme and unwarranted paranoia…
Either way, something was different upon my return, and my husband’s dried up thirst for the weekly sex video he’d requested for the past 16 years was a major red flag.
Somewhere between “hey babe” and his reaching for a towel from our bedside dresser’s drawer, I opened my mouth — and not for the reasons he’d been hoping. I figured post-foreplay, pre-finish was a good time to weave in a small request — and maximize the likelihood of an affirmative response. In case you’ve ever thought about using sex as a marital bribe, let me tell you this is a perfect playbook of “what not to do”. Though perhaps marrying someone whose lack of morals repulses you would have been step number 1.
My request wasn’t just met with rejection; it was met with condescension, contempt, and a tiny spark of anger. I’m not sure if he was angry that I ruined the mood, or perhaps that my ask indicated that I might be pursuing his worst fear. I didn’t ask for money — at least, not directly. All I asked for was permission, really. Permission to regain a shred of dignity by embarking on the one dream I’d put off for over 16 years now.
This ask ignited something unfamiliar in him — signified by a flare of his nostrils and an annoyed downward twitch of both corners of his mouth. He pulled out, turned off the camera, and stormed out. I would take that as a “no”…
Stripped down with my hands tied
The room shook as the Bentley’s engine in the garage below revved up; within minutes, he was gone. I sprung to collect my undergarments, mortified by the exchange that just took place in my very own bedroom.
For the entirety of my marriage, I’ve played the good, obedient wife and mother — and the weekly sex slave to his off-color fetishes. I’ve swallowed every pill that comes with playing second fiddle to an older, established, breadwinning, business-owning spouse. And I’ve been the faithful, loyal distraction and coverup for his not-so-Kosher engagements, turning a blind eye to some, taking the blame as the scapegoat for others. I’ve protected his reputation — and his ego, even at the expense of my own.
Today, after 16+ years, three kids, and a house full of secrets I’ve sworn I’ll take to my grave, I sent him over the edge with the one forbidden subject I dare not broach: my own career. For the first time, I put my request bluntly: I want to get a job. Or an apprenticeship — or perhaps start with an online course. I wasn’t asking him for funding to start a business or connections to get me in the door with a top fashion house. I simply sought out his blessing in my decision to carve out a bit of time to pursue the career I put off at his request.
His response, the one of dismissive disgust and annoyance, followed by a volatile exodus reminiscent of a petulant child who didn’t get his way, was the unwelcome foreshadowing I didn’t expect. For some reason, I thought sex could win him over. Maybe I was naïve — or maybe I’m just not that good — but the disrespect and humiliation he tossed my way this morning may be the very eye-opener I needed.
If he’s this hell-bent on owning my time and engagements, tying my hands and keeping me from forming a career or identity of my own, there’s no way he’ll surrender to a peaceful divorce and grant me any semblance of victory. Forget victory or peace; it won’t be anything less than a bloodbath, and he may make a public stink of it just to rub salt in the wound. I never thought I’d want a divorce, much less an adversarial one; however, I’m starting to think this may be my only option.
What if Sherlock is playing for both sides?
I’ve confided in one person up to this point, and as incredulous as my reality has become, this person has always been just one step ahead in paranoia — despite never having met my husband. As much as I’d like to chalk up their fears to overreactions, I can’t help but wonder if they’re right…it wouldn’t be the first time.
The one person I’ve trusted all along — I’ve had to — is my private investigator. He is, after all, the sole reason I have an inches-thick folder full of time-stamped photographic evidence of my husband’s rampant infidelity. Plus, I’ve paid him well, so I can’t quite see him knowingly burning the bridge…
My confidant, however, has felt quite differently. She believes the few airtight snooping and sleuthing attempts I’ve made at gathering damning evidence for the divorce are far from impenetrable. In fact, she’s vehemently insistent that my private investigator might not be my — and only my — PI. Likewise, she was the first to assert that Kathy, an accidental friend I stumbled upon at the resort (whose story was eerily similar to mine and resulted in hours of drunken poolside confessionals) might have been planted there by my husband. She suggested my room could be bugged, as well as my car…
I’ve never been the jealous type or overly distrustful — and no, paranoia, hallucinations, and psychosis don’t run in my family as far as I know…though my dad’s newly onset dementia would have you guess otherwise. That said, with an earpiece regurgitating the concerning facts surrounding my situation — and the eerie coincidences that seem too uncanny to be anything but planned or planted — I’m beginning to wonder if maybe she’s right.
Maybe the logical conclusion would be to connect each dot — and maybe even the people I’ve trusted are playing for both sides. It’s times like these when I wish I would just wake up from this all and return to some normal, less duplicitous version of a life I actually recognize. Unfortunately, normal hasn’t been a staple of my vocabulary for nearly two decades, and whether or not I’ve been aware, duplicity has likely been a factor woven into my relationship from our very first date.
…
On the lookout for Trophy #2
A text from my sparring parents in the throes of their very own volatile separation planning shook me out of my daze and back into reality. That reality is such a stark contrast to just a few months ago, when my husband’s cheating scandal and OnlyFans spending addictions were the gravest worries on my mind. These days, his infidelity is merely an underlying assumption I ignore — or tolerate, when it serves as evidence for the divorce case to (hopefully) nullify our prenup.
Witnessing his change in demeanor and especially closed-off nature since my return, I’m more certain my forced resort exile was a part of his strategy to be rid of me as he started building his own case. I’m also more certain that the only thing I can trust is my very own paranoia and distrust. I’d rather be safe than sorry, and with the nasty character defamation he’s sure to bust out in an attempt to somehow paint me as the villain (in the name of keeping his millions far from my grasp), keeping my distance may be my best bet. And yes, I’ll be walking on eggshells on my best behavior so long as I’m walking on his marble floors…
The one bright side to all my paranoia is that I think I have a clue as to who might be seeking my spot as trophy #2 — and soon enough, I might have a front-row seat straight into her life. Or should I say, a back row seat.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Confessions of a Trophy Wife(Author)