Ending

I would argue that trying to end an affair is actually much worse than being in one. Ridiculous as that may sound, I swear it’s true.

Being with Allen was blissful….until it was time to go home. The endearing, openly loving look on Adam’s face when I walked through the door would rip my heart out, every time. I hugged and kissed him hello with the semen of another man soaking my panties. I knew it needed to end, but I didn’t want to. I just didn’t want to.

In fact, the thought of ending it caused me physical pain. Pain pain pain pain. Where? My head, my heart, no. My stomach. I couldn’t stand the sight of food. I was nauseous and drained. My guilt moved from my churning mind to my churning gut.

I couldn’t stand the guilt, which competed directly with my desire for Allen, see him touch him kiss him love him. He consumed me. He had become me. He was mine. I was going insane.

Allen ended it the first time. It surprised and killed me. I was distraught, despite the fact that I knew it was the right thing to do. I railed and cried, emptying my hurt and guilt on his already rattled conscious. He apologized, asked if we could stay friends. I laughed at his offer, told him that I could never be his friend after what we shared.

We were together again by the end of the next day. He apologized over and over again for hurting me, then game me an incredible orgasm to seal the deal.

That was the beginning of three years of ending and beginning our affair, over and over again. Allen’s guilt would become too much, he would tell me goodbye and then he was gone for a while

He always came back. Sometimes I would call to find him, sometimes he would see me passing on the street. No matter how it happened, he would find his way back into my life. It was as though he were destined to be mine.

In fact, that’s how I came to think of him -- my destiny.

Despite my more normally forceful nature, I was complacent and acquiescing when he was around. I did as he asked, spoke as he liked and never caused him any discomfort. He never feared that I would share our secret with his family, he never worried that I would show up at his home, I was his good girl.

My logic was simple: wait. If I waited patiently, he would eventually see what I saw – our future. Together beyond the backseat of the minivan, or up against the wall in the conference room. It was an illogical solution to an easily solved dilemma. I held on to it as though my life depended on it.

The first time he mentioned killing me, we were in the make-up phase of one of our many break-ups. Lying in bed at his house in the afternoon, he put his hands around my throat and asked, “What if I killed you?”

“That would end it, right?”

I nodded my head.

“Yes,” he said, his eyes were dark and hooded with shadows. “I could finally get over you, because I would know you were never coming back.”

He squeezed. I swallowed, but didn’t move.

He looked down at me, squeezed harder. I grabbed his arm and closed my eyes. Good girl good girl good girl good girl.

He let go and got up, went to the bathroom to clean himself off.
“Get up and get dressed, she’ll be home from work soon.”

I did as I was told, always the good girl.