Almost one year ago I fell in love with a married man. It was instant: a force greater than both of us. He found me on Instagram. Had been following me for a while, and then one night, in a pill haze, he commented on a photo. It sparked a back and forth. And then he said he wanted to take ecstasy in a cabin with me. My heart stirred. I had looked at his gallery before, but now I looked with more earnest interest. He was rugged handsome. And I swear I could feel his soul through his photos. But he lived in New York and has two small kids. My hope dampened. But there was something about him. I also didn’t see any photos of a woman. He direct messaged me when our comments became more personal. We continued into the wee hours. It was a magical night. We spoke about many things, some mundane, but most of it deep and sensual. We commented on the connection: the physical and emotional reaction we were experiencing...through cell phones and over three thousand miles. My body was aflame. My heart was racing. My mind was buzzing. Connections like that don’t come along every day. And then he dropped the bomb: he was married. My heart sank. Not that I’m in a position to be in a relationship at this point in my life, but I’ve been missing real passion. And this was certainly that. I’ve always had a strong stance against non-financial cheating. And long distance relationships! But I couldn’t deny what I was feeling. It was heaven.
We have continued to text almost every single day since that first night. From the moment I wake up until he falls asleep. It’s insane. We’ve had struggles: him with my work and my posts (mostly the comments), and me with the fact that he’s married. They’ve been together a long time and are unhappy (granted, I’m only getting his side of the story). They are staying together for financial reasons and also because neither of them wants to see their children part time. I can’t argue with the latter. We’ve tried to break it off, but couldn’t stay away. He owns my heart, and I’m an emotionally monogamous woman. And as much as I want him to move out, I know the situation is dire. I live far away and I live a life that’s not conducive to being in a committed relationship. Although, I already feel like I am: I don’t want anyone else and I consider his feelings. Including a small amount of censorship. One of the main reasons I’m single! Sometimes it feels like a no win scenario, while at the same time, as natural as breathing. His soul is so familiar. We understand each other. There’s real love there, and our communication is unparalleled.
I also have to give him major credit; he has handled my work like a champ—not an easy task. We’ve set a few boundaries about my work (after learning the hard way). You’d think I’d be well versed in what not to do after my tough relationship in 2012 (my second memoir), but it was a while ago and a much different situation. Perhaps the distance and marriage are what makes this work. Nether one of us is in a position to make demands. It’s a complicated love affaire—aren’t they all? The guilt I feel about him lying to his wife ebbs and flows. Sometimes even acting as an aphrodisiac (for the three minutes it takes me to come). Life is a wondrous thing. I will see where this goes. This affair isn’t an easy thing for me to admit to you. It feels out of my control, and yet I know better. It’s poor timing, but we don’t always make the decisions. I often fuck with him, saying that it’s his fault, that if only he hadn’t written that night and hadn’t won my heart in a flick of a matchstick. I’ll keep you posted, but a more in depth account (including my trip to New York to see him a couple months ago) will be in my third memoir.