I wondered if it would go from just texting to physical. Damn, how I fantasized about that. Part of me that hoped it would, then a huge part of me that knew it shouldn’t.
I am a married, overweight, 40-something woman who’s not where she thought she’d be at this point in her life. For starters, I’ve been immersed in a texting affair with a younger man, 10 years my junior, who’s also married, who finds pleasure in my words and body. But now, it must end.
I also have bipolar disorder. Probably not a good combination: mental illness plus an affair. But according to articles like this one from bipolar-lives.com, it happens often. I’m on plenty of medication, but that seems to be keeping me from preventing suicide, not from fantasizing about another man.
It started out innocently, just texts back and forth as well as G-rated photos. Then one day, he shared a dream he had about me, but was disappointed he woke up before much happened. Oh, that dream. So, being a writer, I wrote the middle and end and shared it with him.
He then told me about Snapchat, another dangerous ingredient as described in Wired magazine, where things ramped up a bit, turning the G-rated photos to Rs and Xs. More photos between each other, more exotica from me. There’s something about Snapchatting with a handsome, mature-for-his-age man who enjoys reading my fantasies. He clearly enjoyed them by the looks of his taught boxers. And then out of his boxers. Damn. What a turn-on.
Here’s what I don’t like: Thinking of him constantly. It’s like having tunnel vision where I continue to do the mundane things of life but all I look forward to are our chats. If I don’t hear from him for a while, I think he’s losing interest in me. I mean, the thought that I can get someone off who’s that much younger than me is more than flattering. I am addicted to it.
Recently, I sent him a long text just rambling about the day’s events, how bored I was. I also slipped in another one of my exotica writings. I was then worried that he must have thought I was a nut for sending such ramblings, something I could easily send my husband without giving it a second thought. See? I started second-guessing myself, was self-conscious and paranoid about one measly text.
I don’t like that part of me. But do I like any part of me right now? Is this where Dr. Phil asks what is missing from my marriage that would cause this affair? I think I know part of that answer already.
So, I sat on my hands and waited for him to reply. It’s a game I played, I guess. I didn’t want to seem like the desperate one, especially after that long text. I didn’t want him to think he was the only distraction in my life, even though I’m afraid he is.
At one point, I wondered if it would go from texting to physical. Damn, how I fantasized about that. I guess that was reflected in my exotica. There was part of me that hoped it would, then a huge part of me that knows it shouldn’t.
If he loses interest in me, then that’s a good thing, right? But there’s the part of me that doesn’t want it to end. Not yet.
He still hasn’t responded to that long text. But I think that could be a good thing. I’ll mourn the loss of the excitement, my only distraction. But I find comfort in the words of my best friend, the only person I finally disclosed the affair to: “He’s like a recreational drug. The really bad one,” she said.
I realize now the power he has over me. I’ve lost all strength. I need to get that back. So with baby steps, I can do this.
It starts with not responding if he ever contacts me again. I can do this.
Blake Schow is a pseudonym.