When An Affair Ends with a New Beginning

Losing a Lover

“I decided I’m not going to see you anymore,” my lover texted one fall afternoon.

Stopping at a red light, I glanced at my phone to discover he had messaged me on my secret app.

Wait, did I read that correctly?

I squinted at the words.

I need my reading glasses. They were handy in the messy compartment of my car filled with lip balm, mascara, makeup and nail files. Being middle-aged is a bitch.

I read nothing past the first sentence.

The light turned green.

“Motherfucker! I can’t believe this.”

My eyes welled up with tears.

Should I pull over?

I had to pull over. I couldn’t see.

Why the HELL is he doing this now?

I just had surgery. He knew I was still in a sling.

We haven’t seen each other in a month and he’s found someone else?

I pulled into the next parking lot, taking a deep breath and fished out my phone to read his full text.

“I’m sorry. I feel terrible. I am going back to the woman I was in love with before you. She moved back. I love her.”

Wha… what?

We were together for a year. There weren’t any signs of trouble. Except he was being quieter than usual lately.

“Anything wrong?” I texted earlier in the day before the bombshell up top. I was still blissfully unaware that he wanted to drop me.

He didn’t answer. No big deal.

We were perfect together, I thought.

A year of heady hotel sex almost every week. Chemistry so intense that my panties were soaked driving to meet him. I remembered everything.

“Be naked,” I texted. “I’m on my way.”

“I can’t wait,” he replied.

“Room 339.”

“I’m parking. Crank the air conditioning, we’re gonna sweat.”

Devil horn emoji.

I reached his room and knocked.

He opened the door and pulled me inside.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” I said eyeing his trim torso wrapped in a white towel.

He pushed me against the wall, tracing my curves, sliding his muscular hands under my tank top.

“I didn’t wear a bra,” I said.

“Good,” as he pulled out each pale nipple and fastened his mouth on it.

I closed my eyes and sighed.

He guided me towards the bed. Reaching under my plump ass, he pulled my black yoga pants off with one swoop. I giggled. I wasn’t wearing undies, either.

“Perfect,” he said, pushing his face into me.

He touched me anywhere he could on my soft body.

This was exactly what I needed.

My husband never hungered for me like this. He barely looked at me. He rarely touched me. Once or twice a year, if I was lucky. And it never included sex. He had erectile dysfunction.

“Can you please see a doctor?” I begged. “You might have a bigger problem,” I added.

“No way. Everything is fine. I’m just tired.”

Tired every time? For years?

Am I supposed to be celibate while you deny you have issues?

I waited four long years. Growing more and more discouraged and depressed until I couldn’t take it anymore.

Until I cheated.

The best thing about having an affair was that we wanted to turn each other on. No “what if’s” or “I don’t feel like it” or “not now” crap. We didn’t play games. We craved to be together at that moment more than all else in our crazy lives.

My husband rejected me year after year. My lover’s wife didn’t allow penetration. They both ignored our needs. They didn’t kiss or caress or linger. But we did. We wanted to please and be pleased. This was everything we desperately demanded.

Until it was over.

“I’m not seeing you anymore.”

Now what? I can’t go back to my sexless marriage. I can’t be celibate. I discovered how incredible sex could be. Looking for another lover would be a nightmare. No!

I cried and reached for tissues in my glove box.

“This isn’t fair. How can I find another lover I want to be with more than him?” I sobbed out loud.

“You couldn’t tell me in person?” I texted.

To his credit, he texted right back. He usually had me wait hours for a reply.

“Burner phone…I can’t check it that often,” was his excuse.

Remorse?

“I couldn’t face you,” he texted.

“We’re adults. A whole year together and this…”

Didn’t that mean anything?

“I know. I feel terrible.”

Not as terrible as me.

“What can I do?”

Stay with me, I wanted to beg.

“Let me process this,” the pain starting in my temples.

“Ok.”

I didn’t want him to know my desperation.

I had to pull myself together. My swollen eyes and pink splotches all over my face made me grab powder and concealer. It wasn’t enough to cover the hurt. I had to hide my despair.

“What’s up with you?” my hubby asked that night.

“I don’t feel good. Pain today,” I nodded towards my shoulder.

I had pain. Lots of pain, but not that kind.

I wanted my husband to hold me, except that would have raised far too much suspicion. He never held me. Two or three times in 20 years after funerals and unexpected losses.

“Well, go lie down,” my hubby said.

“Yeah, I will.”

I needed to grieve in private. An ending that only I could acknowledge. I didn’t want to wake up without my lover in my life. Healing from surgery was one thing, healing from a break up was far worse.

Every day I had to plod forward.

It will get better. It will. Someday I won’t think about him. I had to stop myself from cycling downwards.

I don’t need a man to make me whole, but I do need one to make me feel like a woman again.

Seven months later, I am still looking for another. Slowly the bitterness has receded.

I hope he’s happy.

Now I can look at his picture on my cell without wincing. Why did I keep it? I couldn’t bear to lose that single shot I had of him. Did he have any of mine? I doubted it.

I am taking my time looking for someone new. Except so far every guy I text or met has come up short. I compared all of them to him.

Not tall enough, not buff enough, not sexy enough, not mature enough.

He spoiled me. Now he’s spoiling someone else.

She’s lucky.

I hope I’ll be lucky too.

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