“Fuck it, “ I said out loud, to myself. I’m going. I’m going to New York to see a man I barely know and haven’t seen for almost a decade. I’m married with two daughters, live in the suburbs, hate the suburbs, hate my life. But, I’m going. I’m going on the pretense of old friendship, though we really did not know each other, only from circumstance, from the type of passing connection that could drag through the years only if there is sexual tension.
My husband knew I was going to see him. I had no shame, no secrecy, no hidden agenda. I did openly explain that I was considering sleeping with him, this man. But, even though my husband knew I was desperate, depressed, alone, and needing to feel alive, I guess he thought I would go the standard route– keep it a secret, lie, hide evidence, because that’s the way he did it.
It had been several years since his “affair”, fewer since I discovered it, fewer still since I wanted it for myself. No, that last part is not true; I have always wanted it. I’ve always been drawn to that feeling of being wanted, of excitement, of that first kiss and the heart in the throat feeling. My god, I could drown in pleasure of that feeling.
He knew he had no leverage, nothing he could bargain with. He didn’t ask me not to. Rather, I watched him break a little bit, become weaker, hate himself a bit more, retreat and prepare for the worst. That is when I realized it wasn’t worth it.
It’s always “for the children” isn’t it? For the children…..He would not be strong enough for the children. The suffering of love gone sour is not for the family man. It’s not for the family. These are battles for independent souls.
So, I am the unhappy, nay, miserable housewife – many years after it was a good idea at twenty-two. A life decision made for me, by the unborn baby who needed me, by the man willing to earn all the money himself. And, then I grew into womanhood and I am burning up inside. I ache in a way, in a new way, not the agonizing self hatred so much anymore, but a more appropriate and dignified ache. I simply long to connect, am dying to connect, am dying to be connected to something important, or at least, interesting.
So, I meet up with this man in the city, and he is attractive, and he is nice, and his libido present. He sits on the faux leather bench in the dim jazz club, and greets me with a friendly smile and hug. How did this happen? Where did this relationship come from? Anyway, I am comfortable yet on guard and I have decided to keep him at a distance. I hold this space with sharp comments, stupid stories and eyes on the sidewalk. What a waste.
The weekend came and went. The art museum squeezed my brain juices out my ears. Not to mention there was an amazingly comfortable sofa. For sleeping. And that was that, with this man. Coming home with clean hands felt good. Coming home with bloody hands, well, that’s a dream for the independent soul.

So, this is my first blog. What I'm going for is unfiltered, uninhibited thought. I'm under the impression that's what blogs are for and it sounds good to me.
It was an exhausting holiday weekend filled with sugar and chips and odd, boring suburban parites. In our new neighborhood, the folks are friendly. But they truly only talk about children, jobs, weather and sex. Sex is always funny, and I don't totally get why it comes up so often. I feel like when I speak in these crowds there is always a hush at the end of my last sentence as if nobody has a clue how to respond. I'm not sure if it's content or delivery. If I'm boring or if it seems like I have more to say.
Gotta go tuck in my sweet daughter.