I'll leave by the same door through which I entered.
I'll take the same car and I'll drive to the same place I return to every night. I'll run in, saying I have indigestion and need to go to the bathroom. I'll take a bath, removing what little of him remains on me.
And only then will I kiss my husband and my children.
WE DID not have the same intentions in that hotel room.
I was after a lost romance; he was driven by a hunter's instinct.
I was looking for the boy from my adolescence; he wanted the attractive and bold woman who had gone to interview him before the elections.
I believed my life could take another direction; he just thought that afternoon would mean something other than the boring and endless discussions at the Council of States.
For him it was just a simple, but dangerous, distraction. For me it was something unforgivable and cruel, a display of narcissism mixed with selfishness.
Men cheat because it's in their genetic code. A woman does it because she doesn't have enough dignity; in addition to handing over her body, she always ends up handing over a bit of her heart. A true crime. A theft. It's worse than robbing a bank, because if one day she is discovered (and she always is), she will cause irreparable damage to her family.
For men it is just a "stupid mistake." For women, it feels like a spiritual crime against all those who surround her with affection and support her as a mother and wife.
As I'm lying next to my husband, I imagine Jacob lying next to Marianne. He has other worries on his mind: political meetings tomorrow, tasks to complete, his busy schedule. While I, the idiot, am staring at the ceiling and remembering each second I spent in that hotel, watching the same porn movie over and over, in which I had the leading role.
I remember the moment I looked out the window and wished someone were watching us with binoculars--perhaps even masturbating while watching me be submissive, humiliated, taken from behind. Just the idea turned me on! It drove me crazy and led me to discover a side of myself of which I was altogether unaware.
I'm in my thirties. I'm not a child, and I thought there was nothing new about me left to discover. But there is. I am a mystery to myself; I opened the floodgates and I want to go further, try everything that I know exists--masochism, group sex, fetishes, everything.
I'm unable to say that I don't want any more, that I don't love him, or that it was just a fantasy created by my loneliness.
Maybe I don't actually love him. But I love what he has awakened inside me. He treated me with zero respect, left me stripped of my dignity. Undeterred, he did exactly what he wanted, while I strived, once again, to try to please someone.
My mind travels to a secret and unfamiliar place. This time I'm the dominatrix. He's naked, but now I'm the one giving orders. I tie up his hands and feet, and I sit on his face and force him to kiss my vagina until I can't take any more orgasms. Then I turn him over and penetrate him with my fingers: first one, then two, three. He moans with pain and pleasure while I masturbate him with my free hand, feeling the hot liquid run down my fingers. I bring them up to my mouth and lick, one at a time, before wiping them on his face. He begs for more. I say that's enough. I'm the one in charge!
Before I go to sleep, I masturbate and have two orgasms, one after the other.
IT'S THE same scene today as it is every morning: my husband reads the daily news on his iPad; the children sit ready for school; the sun streams through the window; and I pretend to be worried when I'm actually scared to death one of them suspects something.
"You seem happier today."
I seem happier, and I am, but I shouldn't be. My experience yesterday was a risk for everyone, especially for me. Is there some underlying suspicion in his comment? I doubt it. He believes everything I tell him. Not because he's a fool--far from it--but because he trusts me.
And that just makes me more upset. I'm not trustworthy.
Actually, yes, I am. I was led to that hotel on false pretenses. Is that a good excuse? No. It's awful, because no one forced me to go there. I can always claim that I
was feeling lonely and wasn't getting the attention I needed, just understanding and tolerance. I can tell myself that I need to be defied, confronted, and questioned about what I do. I can claim that this happens to everyone, even if only in their dreams.
But deep down, what happened is very simple: I went to bed with a man because I was dying to do it. Nothing more. No intellectual or psychological justification. I wanted to screw. End of story.
I know people who married for security, status, and money. Love was the last thing on the list. But I married for love.
So why did I do what I did?
Because I feel lonely. Why?
"It's so nice to see you happy," he says.
I say that yes, I really am happy. The autumn morning is beautiful, the house is tidy, and I'm with the man I love.
He gets up and gives me a kiss. The children, even without quite understanding our conversation, smile.