The first time I slept with my lover, he told me, “You’re so amazing.” And then he held me tenderly. He still praises me even now. He’ll take any opportunity for time together. “I always want you.”
At home, I don’t even get a touch or a squeeze. Let alone sex. If I try to snuggle against him in bed, my husband will scooch away.
“Get away from me! You’re cold!” he’ll say.
“I’m freezing! Can’t you provide some body heat at least?”
“No way!”
My lover kisses me. Deeply, passionately, before, during, and after sex. He loves my lips. “You are the best kisser.” He’ll kiss me everywhere. Neck, body, forehead, head, back, and of course, lips.
My husband might give me a close-mouthed peck once a year. Never closing his eyes. Never lingering. Without any joy.
My lover looks at me. “Open your eyes, babe,” he insists. “Look at how much I want you.” Our eyes lock. And it’s beyond erotic.
My lover touches me all over. He cups my ass. Squeezes my breasts, licks my nipples. He caresses my tummy and hips and makes me appreciate this body I don’t think is “good enough.” His hands trace my body and make me feel better about every curve. “I love this body,” he whispers.
My husband won’t touch me. It’s rare unless he’s drinking. Then it’s more of a mauling than an overture.
My husband doesn’t look at me. I’ve written that I’m as noticeable as the kitchen chair at this point in our marriage. His eyes never catch mine.
My lover always guides me with his hand on the small of my back. The first time he did it, I was so moved, I said, “You don’t have to do that.” “What do you mean? Of course, I do!” he responded.
My husband walks 50 feet in front of me wherever we go and rarely turns back. He says, “You should keep up. I can’t walk as slowly as you.” We are never side by side. On vacations, he’s literally lost me, as he races ahead. “Where’d you go?” I’d ask. “I’m not waiting for you,” was his reply.
My lover remembers things I’ve mentioned months ago. “I’m wearing that red sweater that you said you liked. Did you notice?” he’d ask. “Wow. I said that a while ago! And you remembered!” “Of course. I pay attention to what you say.”
My husband will gladly zone me out. “Were you saying something?” he’d mutter. He won’t register that I’m speaking at all.
My lover revels in my rampant sexuality. He loves that I’m filthy and hungry and insatiable.
My husband berates me for being a “sexual weirdo” and tells me to “knock it off and be normal.”
My lover makes me feel seen, wanted, beautiful, sexy, important, and smart. Frankly, I can’t get enough of him.
My husband makes me feel like I’m unnecessary baggage. Like an afterthought. Like I’ve wasted far too many years in this marriage.
I know why I continue to cheat. All of the above — the stark differences between my husband and my lover.
The bigger question is whether I’ll have the courage to leave and let myself be loved to my full potential.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Benjamin Disinger on Unsplash
Standard stupid question: what prevents these lovers from getting together? Why not leave the detached spouse and call it a mistake? No? Probably not. Peel an onion, there’s always something: entangled finances, children, a married lover with his own entanglements, a spouse who’d feel abandoned and would threaten Divorzilla. Good Lord, fellow creatures, men and women. What’s the point of the eternal blame game? It’s not the “insensitive, male jerks” out there or the “entitled, cheating b*tches.” Is the male spouse in this story a jerk, assuming she’s not lying? Is she a horrible, immoral creature? How about a bad… Read more »