The Infideli-Diaries - Pt. IV (A)

Pt. I / Pt. II / Pt. III / Pt. IVa / Pt. IVb

"Well here we go again, you've found yourself a friend, that knows you well
But no matter what you do, you'll always feel as though you tripped and fell
So steady as she goes"
- Raconteurs, "Steady As She Goes"

Suburbiaville's sleeping. The birds are silent, the grass slicked with dew. The sun has just peeked above the Target sign. The August humidity will be brutal in a few hours; right now, the air's just the tiniest bit shimmery... sexy underwear in fog format. Thanks to a few early-rising type-As, the town's parfum is an intoxicating combo of gasoline and fresh-mowed lawn. I breathe deeply. Rest my head on the steering wheel. Count backwards from ten. Then scream.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

At an hour when most people have yet to pay a visit to Mr. Coffee, my world has already disintegrated into ludicrous intensity. Some people are prisoners in their own homes. I'm a prisoner outside of mine. My husband's boxy little SUV sits in our driveway. Snuggled alongside it is a shiny, unfamiliar sedan. While I can't tell for sure, I strongly suspect that the vehicles' owners are similarly snuggled... sharing the same IKEA mattress which has been brutalizing my spine for years. Me? I'm parked across the street, bawling in a dumpy little Civic. I have a set of house keys. I've got my name on the mortgage statement. I've got more irrational fury than a squad of drunken strippers. I've got every right to go in the house. I need - more than anything, it seems - to go in the house. So why can't I seem to move?

---

It's Sunday, six o'clock AM. I was ostensibly meant to spend this weekend camping - communing with nature, unburdening my soul to sympathetic squirrels. While camping did occur, it was by no means the defining event of the weekend. The previous forty-eight hours were, bar none, the most debauched of my young life. There was rum 'n Coke, sex 'n drugs, bad and really, really bad. Boundaries were pushed. Taboos were flaunted. The word (well, make that "pseudo-word") "WOOOOO!" was utilized, unironically and repeatedly. Milestones were reached, celebrated, lasciviously rubbed against.

My first solitary weekend since my son's arrival.

My last weekend before moving out on my own, turning the already-massive disconnect between my husband and myself into something tangible.

The first time in years that I'd violated my personal code of ethics.

The first time I'd - so help me god - semi-inadvertently attended a swinger's convention.

The last time I would turn to my spouse when crisis hit.

---

I wasn't due home until Sunday evening. At four o'clock in the morning, however, I reached a point of bucolic breakdown. I was hungover, sunburnt, confused, teary-eyed, alarmingly sore. I was in dire need of comfort - of both the "emotional" and "sleeping surface not studded with chisel-like rocks" varieties. Under the guise of "having to write about that cah-raaaaazy swingers' convention", I busted down my tent, bid farewell to my companions and hit the highway.

I drove home at roughly the same rate that I drove myself out of my mind… which is to say, terrifyingly fast. “I’m not even sure who I am anymore,” I muttered, rhythmically clenching and unclenching the steering wheel, “Who the fuck does these things? Me, apparently? What was with the swingers? Why did I whip off my top? Why did I do that? And that? Do I hate myself? Should I?”

The Pennsylvania Turnpike was an endless ribbon of industrial ugly. The sunrise was Thomas Kinkade by way of Egon Schiele, freakishly luminous smears of orange and gray. They were a perfect external complement to the contents of my head, which grew progressively nastier over the course of the two-hour drive. By the time I screeched to a halt in front of Thumbscrews Manor, I was a twisted, smoking wreck.

"I need my husband," I hiccuped, wiping my eyes on my tank top... then catching sight of the other car. Her car.

And whaddya know... apparently, so does someone else.

Life in the Thumbscrews household has been monumentally awkward over the past several months. We are bright kids, both fully aware that we're separating (and most likely divorcing). We're attempting to remain civil during this odd interstitial period, both for our small son and our sanity. We've given one another our blessings; our respective extracurricular activities now occur sans subterfuge. I've been staging my own controlled-scale rendition of "Girls Gone Wild". He's been seeing OtherWoman at every opportunity. Despite occasional spots of friction ("So... who'd you do for lunch today?"), things have been strangely copacetic. I shouldn't be surprised (I'm not due back for another 12 hours! Those crazy kids are in love!). Nor should I be infuriated (my own "camping trip" having featured more penises than squirrels).

So why am I falling apart?

---

"Pick up your phone! Pick up your phone! I need you, fuckstick!" I mash the numbers into my cell again... by my count, this is the eighteenth time. At this point, I'm actively arguing with his voicemail . "You can't pick up the phone right now? Can't pick it up because, oh yeah, you're fucking someone else? Pick up anyway! Never stopped Paris Hilton! And she's got her own fragrance! Do you have your own fragrance? 'Eau de Fuckstick', perhaps?"

And so it goes. Spew bile at a prerecorded greeting. Wail into the upholstery. Hate my husband. Hate myself. Hate my car ("I'll bet the backseat of an Accord would be big enough for me to properly curl up and die!").

I decide to get a hotel room. HBO, clean white sheets, $15 club sandwiches... these niceties may very well stave off total jibbering insanity. I drive to the local Holiday Inn, only to find that frugality trumps self-preservation. "Eighty bucks to sleep two miles from my own damned house? Hell, no... I'll show you where to stick your so-called Continental breakfast...muffins, nothing but muffins... always..." I sniff, driving back home.

On a whim, I activate the tiny SUV's car alarm. The neighbors are annoyed. The lovebirds are not roused.

I decide to seek guidance from above. I've never held much truck with Yahweh. Radio waves, however, are a different story.

Seconds after flicking on the radio, I start giggling.

"Steady as she goes," advises Jack White, "So steady as she goes."

I love this song. Always have. I also love "Under Pressure", which immediately follows.

"This is our last dance... this is our last dance... this is ourselves... under pressure."

When Jack White tells you to stay steady, you stay steady. When Freddie Mercury tells you to jump, you say, "How high?" Or perhaps, "How fabulous?" Whatever the case may be... you take action.

I walk up to the door and ring the bell. Seconds later, my husband appears, bleary-eyed and bathrobe-clad.

"Huh? Why aren't you camping? What's wrong?"

Tears immediately dribble down my face. "I had to come back. Muh-make her go home. Right now," I sob.

Amazingly... he does.

ROUSING CONCLUSION COMING SOON...

The Infideli-Diaries - Pt. III

Pt. I / Pt. II / Pt. III / Pt. IVa / Pt. IVb

She had a heartful of love and devotion
She had a mindful of tyranny and terror
Well, I try, I do, I really try
But I just err, baby, I do, I error
So come find me, my darling one
I'm down to the grounds, the very dregs
Ah, here she comes, blocking the sun

- Nick Cave, "Do You Love Me?"

Infidelity Lesson #6 : the Bad and Ugly aspects of infidelity do not blot out the Good, whether it's emotional, physical or an amalgam. People don't cheat because it makes them feel awful... they cheat because it makes them feel fantastic.

Remember chicken pox? You'd examine the situation afterwards, marveling at how you could've knowingly inflicted that much damage. At the time, however.... giving in, scratching that itch, feeling the release... the potential for a few little scars seemed so, so worth it.

---

There are aspects of gastronomy which would seem right at home in a sleazy horror movie. From foie gras to Frank Perdue, humans have a well-documented history of brutalizing our intended dinner. Unparalleled in the annals of animal cruelty, however, is the treatment of the ortolan. This diminutive songbird is a legendary French delicacy. Its method of preparation is also legendary, so uniquely sadistic that the bird's sale is officially banned. Banned, my friends, by a nation that has celebrated both Jerry Lewis and the guillotine. Clearly, the ortolan's fate is a good deal darker than that of your average Oven Stuffer Roaster.

Death is merciful. Those who would dine on the ortolan, however, are not. Thus, the bird is taken alive. Depending on the whim of its captors, it is either blinded or kept in constant darkness (in order to disturb its sleep/wake cycles). It is force-fed a rich diet of oats, millet and figs. When sufficiently plump (up to four times its initial size), it is drowned in a snifter of Armagnac. It's tossed in the oven for a few minutes ("rare" comes quickly for something the size of a dinner roll), then removed and placed before the diner. It is at this point, startlingly enough, that the whole too-hot-for-Food-TV Grand Guignol really gets interesting.

The crackling-hot ortolan does not pass go. It goes not collect $200. It does not relax atop a bed of herbed couscous.

It is deposited directly in the diner's mouth. Whole. Skin and bone, muscle and miscellany. And how might this sadistic little snackie taste?

Apparently, transcendental. Firsthand accounts tend to disintegrate into theatricality mere seconds after, "... I closed my lips." It's all succulent aromas, rivulets of ambrosial juice, tiny explosions of multisensory bliss.

It’s one of the Western world's greatest culinary adventures. And - contrary to what Visa commercials might have you believe - it can only be bought with cruelty. You get fifteen minutes of carnivorous ecstasy. A shy little warbler gets a week of suffering. This is an openly-acknowledged aspect of ortolan-lore. One consumes the bird with a napkin over one's head, the better to "hide your cruelty from the sight of God".

Do you do it? Do you understand and acknowledge the cost... and still open your mouth? Or do you take the moral high road and order the trout?

I know what I'd do. I don't fully like or understand it... but there's no question as to my decision.

Modern moral dilemmas are so rarely black-and-white. We're haunted by our actions, our inactions, and our ambivalence. Perhaps it's easier for some - people who are more confident, less thoughtful, stronger-willed... maybe just "better". Of course you don't eat the ortolan. You don't cheat on your taxes. You don't court avoidable catastrophes. You never, EVER sleep with someone else's spouse.

And then there are the rest of us. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, cheeks flushed with shame. Listening to this eminently-correct lecture float through the walls. Laughing and crying as we floss bits of wickedness from between our teeth.

---

For an activity directly contrary to the DeBeers Corporation’s primary mission (wedded bliss and walnut-sized solitaires for all!), infidelity has a hell of a lot of facets.

It can be spun as monstrous, selfish acting out. Fucking your girlfriend in the same bed where your wife routinely cries herself to sleep. Sending your lover home to his wife with the faintest of scratches still traversing his back. A horribly decadent mash-up of larceny and gluttony; taking another man's daily bread for your own frivolous midnight snack.

It can be viewed as a tiny and perverse act of self-heroism, as per Nietzsche, Ayn Rand, the entire back catalogue of Rush lyrics. Raging against the machine, the status quo and the dying of the light. Daring to take a tumble down the rabbit hole, safety, sanity and decorum be damned. Striving for something better, hotter, more dangerous, more interesting, more... more. EAT ME and DRINK ME, indeed.

It can seem inevitable. If you live in a first-world nation, your comfort and happiness hinge in large part upon others' suffering. The factory-farmed chicken you eat for dinner. The child laborer in Laos who stitched your $5 t-shirt. The solider who stepped on a land mine to ensure that you'd be able to refuel your Range Rover on the cheap. The guy working in a sheetrock factory in Arkansas for fifty years, destroying his body so that you can live in a house ten times the size of his apartment. "MADE IN CHINA" (in a sweatshop). "MADE IN THE USA" (ditto).

Why does infidelity seem worse than shopping at The Gap? Because it's a conscious choice, for one. Those who remain oblivious to the human cost of their comfort can be accused of apathy at worst. Adulterers are more purposeful in their flirtation with (and seduction of) disaster. Then there's the "indulgence" angle. Covering one's ass is a necessity (albeit not in stain-resistant microfiber). The rewards of infidelity are pure decadence... vulgar luxuries of the worst stripe.

Or are they?

---

Infidelity Lesson #7 : minimizing the importance of [love / sex / affection / companionship / compatibility] in your relationship is a damned good way to ensure that it metastasizes into something hugely important later on down the line.

I’m sorry for so many reasons. Committing grand larceny of the romantic sector. Violating the trust of an innocent party. Letting my various "issues" overgrow, snaking out tendrils while I hid behind a gauzy curtain of pleasure.

Do I regret it? Do I view it as a stupid accident? Do I think for a second that it was preventable? No, no and no. If I’ve learned nothing else, it’s that patience and moral fortitude alone are not enough to soothe certain aches.

May you never ache that deeply. May you never need so ravenously. May you never have to choose between your principles and your sanity.

It’d be an exaggeration to say that he saved my life... although during several pitch-black nights of the soul, he was the mini-Maglite which held me over 'til morning. He was a friend, a confidante, a voice of reason, and an ideal psychological sounding board. Because of him, I'm a little stronger, a little saner. I have a slightly-clearer idea of what I want from my relationships and my life. My MP3 collection has been greatly enriched. I am much, much better in bed.

"I want a boyfriend-lite. Or maybe a lover-deluxe," I told him shortly after we met. That may've been coyness on my part... but I got all of that, and immeasurably more.

His wife got betrayed.

She'll never find out. How do I know? I just do, implicitly. The layer of abstraction disturbs me. I'm not sure if it makes the crime less odious, or if it only makes it seem that way. Was it like swiping CDs from Best Buy... or like slipping the ortolan a Valium before going to town on it? It was neither of these, and nothing else I can analogize, either.

It was, as you might imagine, complicated.

He had needs. I had needs. I'm not going to diminish them via description... "Sex" can have a million and a half connotations. "Companionship" and "affection", when absent for sufficient time, can produce the kind of bone-deep, screaming cravings usually associated with narcotics. One can withdrawal from all sorts of things... and that itch, that maddening fucking itch, is always present.

I was uniquely suited to scratch his. He excelled at scratching mine. There was never any question of him leaving his wife - he was clearly in love, albeit a darker and more complicated form of it than is typical. I managed to keep my feelings trimmed back to a bonsai-like level of manageability. One does not endure a lifetime of frustrated crushes without acquiring a few useful skills. It was a contradiction in terms: a cautious, carefully-controlled leap into lustful abandon. We knew damned well what we were doing.

But. And yet. However. Of fucking course.

We didn't discuss the "other" activities... we were so comfortable with one another that they just naturally blossomed. We'd steal long, conversation-packed lunches together whenever possible... chicken fingers and Immanuel Kant. We'd e-mail each other our favorite new songs. We'd send late-late night text messages, wryly bemoaning the state of our [bar / party / apartment / life]. We were, indeed, lovers deluxe, super-plus, with a side of fries and burgeoning tenderness.

It wasn’t guilt which separated us, although there had been the occasional shame-fueled stab at moral conduct. It wasn’t discovery – as stated, his wife didn’t (and won’t) find out. It wasn’t that things grew dull – one of the lurid little pleasures of infrequent liaisons is that the excitement retains a Twinkie-like shelf life.

It was the exact same thing which had driven us together – complacency.

When you’re scratching an itch, you’re thinking about how fantastic it feels, how long you can keep it going. The one thing you’re generally not considering is, "Gee... why was I so itchy in the first place?"

That’s the paradox of infidelity. As long as you’re getting those needs fulfilled elsewhere, you’re not addressing their original absence. Why deal with the unpleasantness of confronting deep, potentially-catastrophic problems which could blow apart your marriage? Why bother opening yourself up, making yourself emotionally-vulnerable, getting back on the horse than threw you... dating someone with whom things could get – dun dun DUN! - Serious? It’s warm and cozy in this bed, and we could keep our heads under the blanket for a long, long time. There’s fiddling while Rome burns, and there’s fiddling around while your not-entirely-satisfactory lives remain stagnant.

Perhaps it’s due to my own moral relativism. However, that revelation produced more shame than the initial transgression. We were using this betrayal as a pool float, paddling in place. While nothing excuses infidelity, magma-hot passion comes a damned sight closer than "maintaining the status quo". When doing something that could be described as "morally reprehensible", you desperately want it to mean something. Eating the ortolan seems all the more heinous when you do it casually, washing blood sacrifice down with diet Dew.

We agreed to part ways for a year. The arbitrary-separation idea was derived from Richard Linklater’s sweetly romantic "Before Sunrise"; our reasons were sadder and more pragmatic. "All those doubts and problems," I said, "Everything that’s wrong, everything we’re hiding from... we need to confront it. Beat the living hell out of it."

"Same time, next year?" I said, angrily swiping at my tears, "If neither of our lives have changed at all, you have my permission to kick my goddamned ass."

I miss my friend. I miss the various illicit deliciousnesses we shared. But a little part of me hopes that neither of us show up next year... that we’ve confronted our problems, righted wrongs, inched closer to self-awareness. We’ve gone mano a mano with remorse and forgiveness. We’re finally sated... sans any telltale feathers.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Infideli-Diaries - Pt. II

Pt. I / Pt. II / Pt. III / Pt. IVa / Pt. IVb

not for vision understood
burns because it has to burn
change'll happen whether we
are still or moving
breathe in waves of doubt
bitter in your mouth

- Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Little Heaven"

Infidelity Lesson #4 : let's say a troubled relationship is like a mouse. It's taken over your house, it's gorged itself on cake mix and Ramen noodles, it's left odious little pellets in its wake. It's making you miserable. It must be addressed.

You could use poisons, traps or barriers.

You could sulk, you could cry, you could talk.

Or you could use the Amorphous Atom Bomb.

The Amorphous Atom Bomb is invisible. It changes position more frequently than a porn star. It has a fuse of indeterminate length; it could go off in two minutes or in two years. It could wipe out your intended target, half a city block… or nothing at all.

Not a good tool for taking down a furry, walnut-sized nuisance, is it?

It's not a good tool for taking down a relationship, either.

---

We're parked in front of our apartment. It's late, really late. Outside, crickets cheep and streetlights glow. Periodically, tractor trailers rumble by and rock our tiny Volkswagen like a German-engineered cradle.

Inside, bombs are dropping.

"Why are you always so unhappy, Jul? Why do you seem like you hate yourself? And why won't you just talk to me? Please… talk to me?" My husband rests his hand on my thigh, looks me dead in the eye and waits. And waits. And waits.

Like all couples, we've got a hit parade of common arguments. Your Laundry-Avoidin' Heart, It's The End of Eating Anywhere But Applebee's As We Know It (And I Feel Gassy). This particular one (She's Suicidally Depressed In Mysterious Ways) has been cropping up with increasing frequency, however. And unlike lesser tunes, it's poised to hit #1 with a bullet.

"You want to know why? You really want to know?"

"Yes! Jesus, Jul… I love you, I don't want you do be miserable… of course I do!"

"A few months after we started dating… I slept with somebody else."

When he responds, my husband's voice is totally flat. Tears, rage, vicious words… anything, anything would be better than the deadness with which he breaks the silence. "Really."

Until this moment, tears had trickling down my face at a leisurely pace, the stream easily dabbed up with a sleeve. I'd also been steadfastly avoiding eye contact. "Yeah," I say, looking up, "Really." As I'm speaking, my voice cracks… then the floodgates do.

I'm sobbing, shaking, howling, curled up like a comma on my sticky leather seat. My husband holds me as best he can, strokes my hair and tries to calm me. He hasn't always been a great husband. I (obviously) haven't always been a good wife. Years later, as our marriage crumbles around us, years of mutual doubts and resentments will come to the surface. Delusions and illusions will fall, and the overall mediocrity of our match will become apparent. However, we'll each retain our moments of pride… briefly transcendental bursts of kindness and compassion.

This is one of them… perhaps the quintessential one. There are pet names, special dinners, surprise parties... and then there's hugging the person who just tossed a grenade in your living room, blowing everything you know to smithereens.

When I have been sufficiently calmed, we fire up the GTI and drive, aimlessly, cruising in a haze of sodium-arcs and tears. We drive and drive and talk and talk. Some details are divulged (it was a one-night stand with a coworker; copious quantities of alcohol were involved). Others are omitted (it was the most exciting thing which had happened to me in a long, long time; with each verboten kiss, pleasant shock and self-loathing battled for space in my head). Only once do we venture close to the true heart of the issue… and, bright young things that we are, we scurry away immediately.

"The thing that really hurts is that you felt like you had to keep a secret from me for half a fucking decade." His voice isn't accusatory… just exhausted, incredulous. "Why? Why couldn't you talk to me?"

I stare out the window. Gas prices are going up again. Home Depot is a giant orange monolith against the night sky. I have no answers… nothing but a swirl of Lovecraftian emotions, immense, unbelievably frightening and lurking just below the surface.

I couldn't talk to you because you don't understand me, and I don't understand you. Because we're radically different people. Because I knew it from the very beginning, but couldn't manage to summon up sufficient balls to end things before I fell in love with you. Because one of the main reasons we're together today – sitting in a Home Depot parking lot, awkwardly crying and cuddling and bumping our elbows on the stick shift – is because I've spent the past five years trying desperately to atone.

Because one of the major reasons I wanted to get married was for absolution… to shoehorn myself into the role of ever-faithful wife.

Because a few years back, a friend gave me some high-grade Ecstasy, a cavalcade of neurological bliss in a tiny foil packet. I wound up tossing it in the trash. I was terrified of "becoming more confessional".

Because it wasn't a moment of blind, overpowering lust. It was an escape attempt. And if the thought of leaving our dull little comfort zone was scary then… it's a thousand times worse now. We're bonded. We're married. And I'm –

I sigh, a shuddery exhalation of defeat. "I'm sorry. I can't. I just can't."

---

Infidelity Lesson # 5 : every infidelity is like a Jerry Bruckheimer movie... it features a well-delineated Before, During and After. You'll spend a good deal longer than 90 minutes reviewing them in your head. Odds are, they'll be a lot more painful than action-packed. As far as Aerosmith-heavy soundtracks go?... we're only addressing forgivable sins here, people.

Don't waste too much time on the After. It's boring. It's predictable. And it's immutable. Afterwards? You'll feel guilty. In some cases, it will be inordinate, debilitating guilt. In others, it will be nothing more than uncomfortable twinges at the periphery of your conscience. Regardless, it will be your burden to bear. Confession is good for one's soul like grand larceny is good for one's wallet - you're forcing someone else to foot your bill. Bearing a painful, shameful secret is difficult - and probably the single-best way to ensure you don't rack up any more of them. As the late, lamented Sherlock Holmes put it, "The example of patient suffering is in itself the most precious of all lessons to an impatient world."

As far as Before? You'd better examine Before like a long-lost Talmudic text. It's important to know why it happened - and not solely to "make sure it never happens again". Contrary to what the Moral Majority (and the moralizing enormity) may believe, cheating is not like washing a red crayon with the white laundry – a thoughtless, simple error, easily preventable in the future. Doing morally-objectionable things is painful. Not really understanding why is infinitely worse.

How did it happen? Why? What factors were present? What facets of life were lacking? It's a question of developing sufficient self-respect, self-awareness and courage to fully face your own motivations. Successfully resisting temptation is small comfort if the temptation occurs again and again and again. Grappling with mutant, super-sized self-loathing is worthless without an equally-intense tussle with introspection.

Fear might keep you from ever touching the flame again.

But it won't explain why you reached out your hand in the first place.

And then there's the illicit, explicit, oft-overlooked During...

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Infideli-Diaries - Pt. I

Pt. I / Pt. II / Pt. III / Pt. IVa / Pt. IVb

"Why would I sabotage / the best thing that I have?
Well it makes it easier / to know exactly what I want"
- Snow Patrol, "Hands Open"

Infidelity Lesson #1 : love, sex, affection and trust are like Legos. They can fit together in a million permutations, or not at all. And when heedlessly trod upon, they hurt like an injection-molded bitch.

If the scornful prognostications of those more moral than I are true, I'm in for a lifetime of romantic misery. My actions have bought the ticket; all that remains is to brace myself for the ride. It's gonna be rough. My jaw will clench, my vertebrae will clatter and my heart will never, ever reach a place of comfort and quiet. I will - god help me - eat alone. Tears and Lean Cuisines, my friends. Tears and Lean Cuisines.

I've been on all three sides of the apocryphal love triangle. I've cheated. I've been cheated upon. And I've been a cheater's cohort.

I'll pause to let you gather stones. Igneous have good gouging potential, while sedimentary are delightfully abrasive. Use this handy rhyme to remember: "Lava-borne? Razor-sharp scorn! From a stream? Bitch, get your Bactine."

I'm the last person you'd expect to be a veteran of the Circus Adulterous. My parents have been happily married for decades (despite the occasional urges to fling cast-iron cookware at each other). Fidelity was an oft-touted virtue in our household, along with "taking a deep breath and counting to ten before whipping a skillet at your partner's big stupid head". My previous menage a monogamy (with The Artist Formerly Known as Mr. Thumbscrews) lasted for a not-unimpressive seven years. "Love triangle"? I'm awful at geometry. I'm even worse at flirting. I have a fairly well-developed moral code, I strive for kindness... hell, I donate money to Planned Parenthood and local LGBT support groups (I like to call it the "Make George W. Bush's Head Explode Like an Overstuffed Pinata Combo Platter").

Infidelity Lesson #2: those who haven't experienced infidelity can't really understand it. Those who have experienced infidelity DEFINITELY can't understand it. Situations involving strong emotion and stronger physical urges are among the messiest imaginable. We may be animals, but we're animals with big, complication-causing prefrontal cortices. For us, even "simple" lust tends to sprawl, fractal-like, into a web of implications, ambiguities and consequences.

This slightly-sordid sexual history could've been the province of almost anyone. Could've - but improbably enough, it belongs to me... someone so socially-stunted that I really ought to scribble "MAKE EYE CONTACT, YOU JACKASS" on the tops of my shoes. I've dipped my toes in the Thames of cheating, and I've flung myself in, headfirst and fully clothed (er... perhaps that's a poor metaphor). Some of my experiences have been unintentional. Some have been horribly deliberate. Some worked out for the best. I'm no longer angry that my (now) ex-husband cheated; the ramifications of that particular act of adultery have been surprisingly positive. Hell, sometimes I feel like buying he and the Future Second Mrs. Jul's Ex a steak dinner out of sheer gratitude. Other experiences, however, have been profoundly negative - moments of spontaneity which resulted in unrelenting shame, bad decisions which led to years of even-worse ones.

There's a damned good reason it's called a "checkered past". Some spots have been black indeed - dangerous little sinkholes of remorse and self-loathing. Others have been transcendentally wonderful. Infidelity is a messy, crowded scene... and sometimes, total surprises pop out from between all the sharp corners and precariously-balanced objects. One expects physical bliss - or at least hopes for it in one's humid little imagination. But compassion, friendship, insight, personal growth? These things aren't probable, but they're possible - and all the more precious, given their imperfect origins.

Daisies from cracked pavement... and existential gratification through moral transgression. I may pay a karmic price for my actions. Some might argue that my recent series of atrocious first dates is merely the beginning, the first circle of interpersonal hell. And - unless the inner circles involve flensing knives and/or couple's therapy - I can accept this.

Guilt? Fuck yes, I've got guilt. I've knowingly betrayed trust. I've been cavalier with people, tossing hearts from hand to hand like snowglobes.

Regret? Now that's trickier.

Infidelity Lesson #3:

Once a cheater... not always a cheater.

But you're not as morally unimpeachable as you think.

Your partner? Definitely not as morally unimpeachable as you think.

There are lessons to be learned in the sleaziest of forums.

There is (sometimes) a squirmy, uncomfortable beauty in the most atrocious of actions.

Learn from your mistakes.

Don't leave the same scars twice.

Don't do things solely to collect stories.

Don't hesitate to tell the stories you already have.

After all... you weren't alone then. And you're definitely not alone now.

TO BE CONTINUED...