It has been an intensively dangerous few days in my life as a serial adulterer. I have met my male equivalent, we shall call him Moriarty. He has confessed his sexual addictions to me and I, in return have told him a few of mine. Our mutual confessions turned into lustful cyber chats last week, and then, a few days ago we saw each other again in person, the mutual physical attraction bubbling under the surface. Glances across and touches under the table of a busy pub. A sense of understanding one another, of trust, of recognition.
The problem is, he is a good friend of the economist. I have not told him about the economist, but I think he suspects something is going on. He admitted in an IM that if I were chatting with the economist in the same way, it would be ‘too weird’ for him. This, despite his extremely active and open sex life. And so I didn’t tell him about the economist. I can be discreet when I want to be. But now, I am in this strange place, where I would dearly love to experiment with Moriarty, to play with him when both of us know that we play with others. An ‘open’ affair in that sense, a freedom to be ourselves and not ‘pretend’. I think the sex would be amazing.
Equally though, I’ve just spent the last three nights in the same bed as the economist, getting to know him better, feeling close to him, fucking him hard. My legs and cunt ache from our nightly and morning pursuits. He wouldn’t understand the lifestyles Moriarty and I have chosen to lead. He can only ever see one side of me. I like him. A lot. And yet, my one avenue of honesty is already blocked. I can’t tell Moriarty about him, even though he occupies so many of my thoughts. I feel like I can almost touch salvation, like Moriarty would be the one who could accept me for who I really am and fuck me all the same. Yet, when I was out with both of them a few nights ago, Moriarty disappeared and since then he has talked to me differently. Not as openly, as lustfully as before. I worry I have upset him in some way. Perhaps he has spotted a glance, or light touch of the knee between the economist and I. Perhaps he feels I have chosen someone else over him. If only he could understand that I can do both. I want to do both. And so kissing the economist goodbye this morning, the bed still warm from where we slept together, I left the house to meet Moriarty for breakfast. He couldn’t keep eye contact, his flirtatious undercurrents gone. My sense of disappointment at losing our open frankness is overwhelming. And so I write, in the hope that this will rid me of the turmoil I feel inside.
As I write, I receive a text from him saying he cannot be involved with a friend. His sexual preferences are for ‘discreet and simple’ relationships. So, who the fuck knows? I’ve got myself tangled in this web and the only way out is to escape and flee the country. Which I am doing. New adventures await elsewhere. New webs to get tangled up in.