Chapter 4; 2005

Spring, 2005

M and I lived happily together for quite some time.  Shortly after his divorce was final, he proposed to me and I accepted.  Soon after being married, we were pregnant after only trying for a couple of months.  We were blissfully happy as a pregnant couple.  I thought at the time that I had everything I ever wanted; I was with a man that I cared for very much-- even loved-- who took exceptionally tender care of me.  Despite that, FH was never, ever far from mind.  I dreamt of him ridiculously often and vividly--  the kind of dreams in which I would catch a glimpse of him, try to catch up to him and despite every desperate effort could never quite reach him.  Upon waking, I would attempt to cling to the feeling of seeing him, even from a distance, then obsess about what the dreams meant.  We would still exchange the occasional e-mail, never without a great deal of guilt on my part-- but now I made sure to delete them.  I had to tell him I was having a baby.  In my darker recesses, it was gratifying to know he'd be hurt at the news, after the pain I had endured while waiting for him and then upon learning that he'd reconciled with his wife.  

Then, almost to my second trimester, I miscarried.  Our baby was dead.  My emotions went haywire, I wept for weeks and though M was more caring and attentive than ever, there was a lot of tension in our relationship.  His jealousy reared its ugly head more often (no doubt exacerbated by previous events).  After a few months, I began to doubt my desire to be in my marriage and I ultimately, about four months after the miscarriage, decided to pack my belongings, file for divorce and move back to Maine.  The week before I left, M and I cried together, we held each other, we made love... but I still left, Bella with me as always.  She had become my one constant and accompanied me on every adventure.  I notified FH not five minutes after driving away, and it was instantly back on, both of us thrilled at the chance to be together after all.  Though he was still married, he once again said that he wanted to be with me and was ready to leave her.  I drove through Pennsylvania on my way to Maine and he met me at my hotel.  I hadn't seen him in over a year, and it was as if it had both been forever and no time at all.  He spent the night with me, our passion through the roof as always, and we were ecstatic to be getting our shot after all.  I continued on to Maine and was looking for a place to rent as he prepared to get things in order; i.e., get divorced.  Yet I began to hear the same type of talk that I was so familiar with from before; "I just have to get a few things taken care of: there are tax issues, etc."  I wasn't in Maine even a month before I started doubting the decision I'd made.  Suddenly, when I'd talk to FH, I would feel annoyed, and I kept getting the sense that I had made a terrible mistake; I was terrified and confused.  I didn't know why this was happening, but suddenly it all felt wrong.  I called M and we both wept on the phone; I told him I was afraid I'd ruined my life by leaving and asked if I could come home.  He said the door would be open.  Later that afternoon, when FH called, I coldly informed him that I was no longer going to move forward with this-- with us, and I was going back home.  He was beyond shocked and devastated.  I could not do this to him again.  He called me the antichrist.  

As I excitedly prepared to return to Florida, I realized that I hadn't had my period and mentioned it while on the phone with M.  I thought my body was still trying to get back to normal from the miscarriage, but M suggested I take a pregnancy test, and almost as a joke, I did.  Never did I expect to see the word "Pregnant" pop up on the stick-- I was on the phone giggling with a girlfriend when I saw the result and I almost hit the floor.  It was a sign from God, or the Universe, Someone!  One of our parting lovemaking sessions had resulted in conception, and it convinced me even further that I belonged with M, and I couldn't get home to him soon enough.  I dispassionately informed FH that not only was I going back to M, but I was pregnant with his baby.  He tried to make me admit that I had found out I was pregnant before deciding to go back; I swore that wasn't the case, but didn't really care if he believed it or not.  I'd made my decision to go home to M before I knew I was pregnant, which only confirmed to me that it was the right thing to do.  I had no desire to speak to FH further about it; all I cared about was getting home and starting my family.

Pregnant and blissful yet again, FH was further from my thoughts than he had been for years.  The pregnancy was heavenly; we safely passed the first trimester, my bump began to grow. I was happier than I'd ever been and M and I joyously prepared for the birth of our son.

Somehow, late in the pregnancy, there was contact from FH.  He was going to be in Ft Lauderdale, and my default, still, was to want to see him.  My heart pounded with the thought of it.  Belly huge with my husband's child, feeling happy and wanting FH to see it, I agreed to meet him, and we had lunch in a beach town far enough away to to feel safe in public.  Though a part of me was still in love with him, being together was no longer an option; and for the first time, my heart wasn't torn in two when we parted.  

Two weeks later, our son, Seth, was born, and the rest of the world was obliterated by the existence of this new person. M and I were starry-eyed parents, adored our son and each other, and were getting along better than we had in some time.  Life was grand, we worshipped our baby and each other and for the first two years, it was, for the most part, domestic bliss. However, my deepest truth was that I had chosen him for the life that he provided rather than the fact that I was in love with him.  I cared for him deeply, but the true, highest love that a husband and wife should share simply wasn't there, and slowly, almost indiscernibly, once again our relationship began to deteriorate as I became more and more aware of that fact.

Somewhere between Seth's infancy and toddlerhood, FH reached out to inform me that he had finally gotten divorced.  It threw a wrench into my emotions and the obsessive thoughts of him returned, while at the same time things at home grew more and more tense.  One can only speculate if one were the cause of the other.  It would be hard to deny that there was some connection.

When our beautiful baby son was two and a half, M and I, with hundreds of fights under our belts, finally came to the mutual conclusion that I wasn't happy, and he said to me more than once, "You're not stuck here."  As I continued to act the part of dutiful, if distant, wife, I began to envision a life with FH, my imagination running wild in its hopes and dreams for all we never had.  He was single now-- in my daydreams, it would be so easy.  Some moments I would feel complete conviction that we belonged together, and the very next minute feel the same confidence that I couldn't possibly leave my husband and son for this ridiculous infatuation that I once had with someone who had caused me a great deal of pain.  It was torturous-- I vacillated phenomenally and constantly.  I was a woman obsessed, and M could tell that I was "somewhere else," which is what he called it when he saw that look in my eyes, and I knew he knew exactly where I was.  He told me once that he realized I never loved him the way I loved FH; after having read e-mails between the two of us, it was obvious that the feelings in that relationship were far more extreme, more passionate, than the feelings I had ever expressed about him.  He hit the nail on the head.  But I was beyond confused:  Was such a passionate connection destined to be a transient experience, or was it an indicator of a powerful love?  Was the ardor between FH and me something so fervent that it couldn't last?  Was I actually considering breaking up my family for a true, lasting partner or for a juvenile infatuation?  I truly had no idea; FH and I had never had a chance to practice our love in any semblance of a "real" relationship.  Regardless, my preoccupation was driving a deeper wedge between M and me and finally, painfully, we chose once more to divorce.  He moved out within two days.

FH and I were going to have our first unencumbered chance to be together.  Our love would no longer have limitations.  He came to FL immediately, all past hurts were forgiven and we began anew, alive and ebullient with love.  And hope.

Chapter 3, 2003

Spring, 2003

My relationship with M really took off then.  We moved in together.  I told him I really wanted to make a go of this.  He was still blissfully unaware of FH's existence.  We lived together well, having fun, enjoying each other and creating a home together.  We got a puppy, a boxer named Bella who I now consider my firstborn child.  We were a little family.  But FH was on my mind always; I was finding that forgetting part difficult.  Occasionally I'd give in and we'd exchange an e-mail or two.  I had pictures and various mementos of our trips together heaped in a box that I rifled through occasionally and wept.  We may have even talked on the phone once or twice.  He knew I was living with M, had a dog and was content.  I tried, tried to forget.

One night, I was in bed and M walked into our bedroom and asked, "Who is (FH's full name)?"  I blanched and my mind raced.  "Ummm... someone... I used to date.  Before you."  M held out a magazine that FH had been featured in not two months before.  Yet I had been seeing M for a year and a half-- he knew something was amiss.  At his questioning about the chronology, I semi-confessed to having had a sporadic relationship during the times that M and I were "off," but it was now completely over.  Of course, this was not entirely true, and M probably smelled the lie since that first moment.  But I stuck to my story, the first threads of a sticky web of deception that lasted many years.

I managed to placate M, then immediately opened a P.O. box at the local post office so that I could still have some way to stay in touch with FH.  I felt as if I weren't in control of my actions; I was driven by a force I was unwilling to overpower, and couldn't cut the tie.  Shortly, a postcard from FH came to the PO box from China; I slipped it into my briefcase so that I could stare at his handwriting and try to hear his voice when I read the words.  Within a week, somehow M found it (at this point he was clearly looking for evidence), and I was once again caught red-handed.  I don't recall my explanation about that one or what I could have possibly said to M to prevent his walking out on me.  Miraculously, he stayed-- but the vicious circle of suspicion, sleuth and confirmation of betrayal had begun in force.  What an ugly dance, one I strongly recommend no one ever participate in.  I wish I hadn't.  I was caught next when M was working on my computer and it dutifully announced that there was a new message from FH in my inbox, and then with one click it helpfully led him straight to not only that new e-mail, but all the others that we had exchanged since our last goodbye.  I couldn't bring myself to delete them, but I made sure to log out of the inbox every time-- and clear the history.  Every time.   I thought I was safe.  But I was wrong... and oh dear God, some of those e-mails were x-rated.  It took hours of tears, days-- weeks of apologies, and a vehement promise to cut off contact, every form of it, this time for real.  We began couples counseling; any trust that had survived the previous betrayals had now been shattered.   I cannot imagine how he forgave me or simply didn't murder me.  But with time, forgive me he did, and I realized I did love him, wanted to be with him, and truly wanted to be better, make it work.  His divorce was finalized, and we began talking about having a baby.

Meanwhile, FH went back to his wife.  This broke my heart, even though I should have expected it.  Although that knowledge hurt, it also resigned me to making it work with M, fixing the trust, starting a family, being faithful.


It worked for a while.  Months passed.  Then, after an enormous fight between M and me about-- ahem-- me masturbating (he proclaimed that it was tantamount to cheating).  I packed a few things, took Bella and headed for a (always dog friendly, of course) hotel.  He said if I left not to bother coming back, which I didn't for four days.  I invited friends to the hotel room, partied and, of course, called FH.  Told him (probably in a drug induced state) that I was done with this guy and to come get me!  He was in Baltimore on business and flew down immediately.  He told me he had come to fight for me.  Then something happened:  We were sitting in my car, parked in a parking lot, talking, crying, drinking Starbucks coffee.  When his cup was empty, he opened the car door, placed it on the ground outside, and closed the door.  He had littered before-- it bothered me but everything else outweighed it, and he would stop if I asked him to.  But I suddenly realized that it wasn't even a matter of changing the behavior.  I felt that I couldn't possibly be with someone who would even do such a thing.  The switch had been flipped yet again.  Before the day was over, I essentially told him, "Never mind," without ever mentioning the cup incident, and sent him home.  He was frustrated, angry, perplexed... but did not, in the end, fight for me.  M never knew that I saw him, or even spoke to him.  I just came home, we made up and continued on with life.  

Chapter 2; 2001

Spring, 2001

Our next trip was a business meeting in San Francisco; once again, I joyfully explored while he worked and then we walked downtown, shopped, ate Italian food and got an eyeful at Mitchell Brothers.  God, we had fun together.  Next was Chicago; walking hand in hand along the Miracle Mile in the snow.  In Vegas, we had sex in the back of a limo.  We explored downtown Denver, took a day trip to Breckenridge.  In Virginia Beach, at "our Doubletree," we sang to each other, took baths in the jetted tub, sat on the beach to watch the sunset but couldn't take our eyes off each other.  The chemistry, the conversation did anything but wane.  Things were reaching a fever pitch, and as the relationship sizzled, the pain attempted to push its way to the surface, despite my efforts to squash it.  I grew resentful.  I cried when we parted.  Six months had passed and I was madly in love-- we both were.  I made thinly veiled threats to end it, knowing I could no more tear myself away at this point than I could tear off my thumbs.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, I met someone else.  M.  Though I met him at the club as well, he was polite, sophisticated and handsome, and he began to come in to see me regularly.  He was an engineer.  A gentleman, chivalrous and generous with a gentle and soothing demeanor.  After some time, he asked me to dinner and this time I said yes without asking for compensation.  We had a very enjoyable time, good conversation and comfortable fun-- and by the end of the night, he shared-- at my direct question-- that he was married and had four children. Ohhh-- come on.  I was stunned.  What was going on with me?  Never before had I had any attention from a married man, and now two?

I decided to continue to see him as a customer, to retain that lucrative relationship at least.  And I did; he came to see me weekly and made my night when he did, both because he paid well and because I truly enjoyed his company.  The next time he asked me to dinner, I said yes.  I justified my decision with, "There are obviously already problems at home," or "If it weren't me, it would be someone else," that kind of thing.  Or, more often than not, I'd just put it out of my mind.  Regardless, it began.

Nothing had cooled with FH as I began to date M.  I juggled, I lied, I lived two lives.  I was crazy about FH but tired of hearing him talk about how much he couldn't stand his wife but just needed to "figure things out" financially before he made a move, and then of course there was his daughter.  He vehemently declared his love for me and claimed that he planned to leave, but... who knew?  Time ticked by.  I dated them both, madly in love with FH and comfortably entertained by M, who not only was a pleasant distraction but happily continued to supplement my income.

Once, on a whim of honesty while on a trip together, I told FH about M, and that he, too, was married.  He looked shocked and hurt, which deep down I relished.  Nope, doesn't feel great, does it? I thought.  I remember his asking, "Why another married guy?"  to which, if I had been thinking quickly enough, I would have responded, "Why even one married guy?"  Instead I mumbled something indicating that he had given me no reason to do otherwise, and he argued a bit but soon gave up.  I had to let him know how it felt to know the person you are in love with is being-- being!! --with someone else.  The news didn't dampen our relationship for long, however, and at this point we were a great deal in love, open and expressive about it.  This was legitimately something to be reckoned with, and we began to discuss, seriously, when things would start to move forward.

At the same time, I was truly enjoying M.  He was 15 years my senior, the most buttoned-down Latino you can imagine, but not without a flair for romance, unrivaled chivalry, and-- as it turned out--  a bit of a jealous streak.  We got along terrifically and he was gallant in a way I'd never experienced.  He made me feel like a princess all the time-- like I was his muse, a fantasy, everything he was missing in life.  I shared with him my desire to settle down and have a baby, and he looked me straight in the eye and shyly raised his hand as if to be called upon for the task.  I suddenly saw a spark of something: possibility.  He was now supplementing my income whether he came to the club or not, and we started spending more time in the "real world" than the in the black lights.  He began making comments about filing for divorce, and subtly alluding to a future with me.  I still saw FH every chance I got-- I lied shamelessly to M to be able to rendezvous with FH-- and I loved him madly, but he hadn't made any moves, so I allowed my relationship with M to develop.  At times I would get the feeling that I was pushing myself into something that I didn't sincerely want-- I liked him, but it wasn't the avalanche of feeling that it was with FH-- M's kindness, devotion, and how good he made me feel made up for it.  A few times I would suddenly panic and tell M I thought we should end it; I didn't feel like it was a long-term thing, you're so good to me, but I'm sorry, I just can't, blah blah blah.  Another time he told me he was going back to his family, to which I dramatically threatened to blackmail him for the money he was giving me each month.  Every time we called it off, one of us would eventually give in, make contact and it would start right back up where it left off.  He took me to Carnaval in Rio for my 30th birthday, we traveled to places like Argentina and Buzios; he always had an adventure planned and I was having a great time.  He was winning me over.  But now-- I was still juggling, and these were getting to be pretty heavy balls; it was getting harder.  Something was going to give, I could feel it.

I was feeling ready to settle down and grew more and more frustrated with FH.  I remember clearly, poolside at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas, giving him a written date, exactly 6 months away, by which he had to file for divorce or else I was done.  He negotiated two more months (businessman through and through).  I knew I would wait.  I loved him excruciatingly.  Yet simultaneously, M began to show real promise for the life I was yearning for.  Also, FH wanted me to move to Philadelphia-- M was right here in the city that I loved, my home.

Approximately two years into my love affair with FH, he did leave his wife-- moved out and filed for divorce (three days after the date we'd agreed on).  When he told me he had done so, I insisted that he fax me the papers, which he immediately did.  It was true-- he really had done it.  But even as I read the court documents, I realized something had switched in me; I had been waiting too long, and had decided to I wanted to stay in FL and try to make a life with M, who by this time had already left his wife, was living out of his office and looking for a house to rent with the intention of us living in it together.

I had to tell FH right away.  We scheduled a trip (again, I had to lie to M about my whereabouts), just a fun getaway for no other reason, as far as he knew, than to see each other, and I almost immediately sprung the news that I had changed my mind:  I was going to stay in FL and was ending it with him, right now.  Needless to say, he was crushed and stunned... after all, he had finally done what I'd been waiting so long for.  But I felt that I'd either just stopped wanting it or most likely the waiting just got to me.  We were still going to spend that night together, for the last time (so I thought).  He went out with business contacts that night and returned at 2 am, drunk.  I remember in that moment believing wholeheartedly that I had made the right decision.

That didn't stop me from sobbing hysterically as I drove away from him the next morning, despite the fact that he was so hung over that we couldn't sit outside for breakfast because the sunlight hurt his head.  Gross.  Somehow that didn't lessen the pain of our goodbye; nothing could have.  


Eventually, I dried my tears and drove home to M and prepared to begin the daunting task of forgetting that phase of my life, putting FH out of my head.  Good luck to me....

The Story's Beginning (Chapter 1)

I have to tell this damn story.  It is gorged with so much juiciness that it is dripping, demanding to be told.  Not a single person knows everything in this story, except my co-protagonist, the man who just became my fiance, or as I like to call him and will be doing so in this blog, FH.  Future Husband.  We have been engaged for exactly two days; it has been ten years since we met.  Those ten years are jam packed with tales of passion, scandal, soaring bliss and searing heartbreak, a love story with so many twists and turns that I have gotten lost many times along the way.  And as I sit right now, it is the triumph of love over experience.  It must remain anonymous.  There are too many players in this drama who cannot be identified; all names, many locations and a handful of identifying details have been changed.  But it is a love story that deserves to be told, and people deserve to hear it.  


If you choose to join me both forward and backward in this journey, please do so without judgment.  Many roads that were taken during the course of the story were not high ones, and I am not proud of some of my decisions.  But I would not change any of them as they brought me to the magical place I am now.  I am profoundly in love, engaged to be married; I have found my soul mate... and now, finally, I am going to tell of the sordid route we took to get here.  Welcome along.

going back

It was 2001, pre 9/11. WHY, I'll never know, but Fate, in her infinite humor, had us meet where I worked in a strip club in Fort Lauderdale.  I was a dancer; he was there with a friend.  I approached them, sat down  and he said: "Hi.  We have money and no morals."  Can you imagine?!  The man who would become the love of my life-- those were his first words to me?!  I dutifully responded with some strip club bullshit--   it came with the territory and contained approximately 0% truth.  What wasn't common was my eventually falling head over heels for the person with whom one of these exchanges-- this particular one-- took place.  He truly is my soul mate, my prince.  FH was, I found out that night, the CEO of a small but successful and rapidly growing company near Philadelphia; he was in town for an electronics convention.  We talked (among other things) for a while and sincerely enjoyed each other's company.  When he asked me to have dinner with him, I suggested-- as any good stripper would-- that he compensate me for the money I wouldn't make coming to work and he agreed.  The following evening, I met him in the lobby of his hotel thoroughly without expectation; he had already proved to be enjoyable company, he was attractive and successful and I was getting paid to have dinner.  Nothing more.  I dressed modestly to show that I didn't carry my stripper persona outside of the club.  I wasn't nervous while I waited to see him, but made sure I looked just right for the moment he walked in and saw me.  And-- for some reason I vividly remember the moment I saw him walking toward me in the lobby.  Wearing a stylish shirt untucked with good jeans and nice shoes.  It was a confident walk; he was classy and understated.  Now-- no angels sang; it was not a this might be the one kind of moment, but it is nonetheless etched in my memory.  That night went on to be the best first date of my life.  Conversation flowed; it was natural, easy, fun, intelligent and stimulating, with an undeniable undercurrent of sexual tension.  Halfway through dinner we were making out passionately at the table.  There was an electricity between us that was irrefutable, and we shamelessly gave into it, no doubt to the discomfort of our fellow diners.  After dinner, we roamed downtown Ft Lauderdale somewhere just beyond tipsy, sang karaoke (for my first and last time) to Def Leppard and made out.  A lot.  We managed to say goodbye that night without, you know, going all the way (according to Bill Clinton), and at the end of the night when we said goodbye, I didn't know if I'd ever see him again.

The next night, I went to work.  Another moment which is burned forever into my mind's eye is when I was walking through the club mid-shift and saw him.  I stopped in my tracks and my heart skipped, I admit.  He had come back, for me, I knew that.  We spent the rest of the evening together and agreed to go out again the following night.  This time, no charge.  That was the best second date of my life, and at the end of it we did go all the way.  No surprise; it was phenomenal.  Then he was going home to Philly.  He said he'd call.

To my mild surprise, he did call. In fact, he called a lot, and then he came down again... and then again, and again.   I never went to Philadelphia, but he was coming to see me more and more.  We stayed in various hotels in FL (I lived in a scuzzy beach house with two guy roommates; not the most romantic destination) and in addition to a lot of unbelievably good sex, we spent hours deep in probing, fulfilling conversation, we laughed, we played.  It was becoming apparent that there was something more than physical, and it just kept getting better.  We were Carrie and Big-- the curly haired, sexy free spirit flitting around while the business hotshot watches in appreciation with a smile on his face.  I was fun, mischievous, silly and sensual.  He was articulate and engaging, funny and ridiculously smart and a great dresser.  I was attracted as hell to him.  It was intelligent and hot.  We talked, laughed, kissed, delved into each other like mad and couldn't get enough of each other.  Being together was fantastic in the truest sense of the word-- it seemed surreal how into each other we were.  Strangers on the street stopped us to say how happy we looked together.  This was something major, and we both knew it.  It was that feeling, the one we all crave, the one movies are made about.  The one that terrifies you.    

After a couple of months of this euphoria, I was raving about him to a good friend whom he hadn't met, and she made the bizarre suggestion that I make sure he was single.  What!?  You must be crazy, I said.  I rejected the thought out of hand.  FH was, right then, on his way to see me and by the time his plane landed, I had pushed the idea to the back of my mind and thoroughly relished our time together.  As always, it was better than ever; the chemistry, the conversation, the interest, the attraction, the spark, the passion-- all there in spades.  But my friend's advice crept in and began to niggle; by the end of his visit I was itching to do my research.  I had already devised a plan to obtain confirmation that this guy with whom I was infatuated was actually available.  Of course he was... please, God.  

FH was probably still waiting to board his plane when I sat down with the phone.  Hands shaking and a poorly controlled quiver in my voice, I called his secretary and introduced myself as So and So from Blah Blah Blah Company in Philadelphia, inviting Mr FH to an event, and is there a Mrs. FH we might invite as well?  I got a cheerful "Yes, there is!" and my heart instantly constricted like testicles dipped in ice water, then dropped into an abyss I didn't know was hidden inside me.  I thanked her and hung up and stared at the wall for a seemingly endless stretch of time, silent tears streaming down my face.  Well... of course he was fucking married.  How could I think something that felt that good could be possible, for fuck's sake?!  I was so angry, so hurt that I couldn't think straight. At some point, I wiped my tears, blew my nose and began composing an e-mail, entitled, "The jig is up."  I was probably writing that e-mail while he was on the plane, flying home to her.  I tore him to shreds, my devastation pouring out into my words.  Later, in full scorned, psychopathic woman mode, a girlfriend and I searched online for his home phone number in PA.  We called, and a little girl answered.  My friend made up something about doing some study for the University, asking the little girl, "Is your daddy Mr FH?  Do you live here?  You do? And do your mommy and daddy both live there with you?"  Well, of course they did.  Of course they did.  The guy I had fallen so hard for had a wife. And a daughter.  I had never felt so withered.

I got his reply via e-mail late that night, time I had spent mostly berating myself, cursing him, curled up in a ball, sobbing, soaked with snot and tears.  And though I remember how my heart hammered as I opened his e-mail, I really can't remember the content.  The only part I do remember is his calling himself a pussy; I'm sure there was a lot of apologizing, excuses, justification and the like.  I also can't exactly remember most of the events that followed over the next few days or even weeks: no doubt several tearful phone conversations, e-mails, apologies, blah, blah, blah.  I know it was a miserable time but I can't quite recall any of the specifics.  Either I've blocked it out or I was just erasing the hurt with an easily justified Xanax haze.  Likely a combination of the two.

I have zero recollection of the first time we saw each other again after "the bust," but it wasn't terribly long after.  I know, I know... any rational human being would agree that I should have just cut it off, snip, right then and there.  But we were both smitten.  He claimed that his marriage was essentially over, that it was just a matter of time before he got a divorce.  I couldn't say no to him.  No, that's a copout.  Of course I could have, but what we felt together was just so good, so fulfilling despite the sick knowledge that I was now contending with-- I knew I wouldn't have the strength to end it.  Neither of us would, and now the passion had taken on a sense of taboo which, deep in the darkest, most fearful and masochistic depths of the subconscious, only added fuel to the fire.  I exhaustively and repeatedly shoved as far back into my mind as I could the fact that he always went home to her when he left me.  Sometimes it took all the strength I possessed, but I managed to do exactly that time and time again. Our romance not only continued, but, despite it all, blossomed.

We soon took our first trip together.  He went to the Final Four basketball tournament every spring with a group of guys.  This year it was in Atlanta and he flew me there to meet him.  I found the whole experience highly glamorous, staying in a hotel on the Chattahoochee, in a city to which I'd never been.  I explored Atlanta in the rental car while he was doing his thing with the guys.  He gave me shopping money, and I would buy clothes and lingerie to wear for him, then luxuriantly spend hours getting ready for him.  I took naked pictures of myself to send him later.  He would bow out of gatherings early and sweep me off to romantic dinners.  We spent two days together, relishing one another's company and the novelty of being somewhere new together.  I can still clearly picture our goodbye; him leaning against the wall outside the hotel, waving, watching me leave in the rental car.  As I drove away, I knew I was in trouble.  This was not a pretty picture I was painting myself into.  We had both fallen, hard.