How to Cheat

The thing about an affair is that no one understands how you start one. There is a universal abhorring of infidelity, and a general sense of loathing towards the person who starts it. An overwhelming feeling of, “I would never do that.” It’s the justification to say, “I am not a fuck up. There is something fundamentally wrong with that person.” It’s a simple way to ignore the accountability of the other partner. Only one has sinned and it is unforgivable and we all know so.

No one means to start an affair – there is never a checklist counting down. It doesn’t say:

1) Misery? Check

2) Loathing your partner? Check

3) Trawling for a new one? Check

4) Infidelity? Check check check.

It starts slower than that. It starts by being so desperately in love that the thought of infidelity is anathema, the thought that you would rather die than hurt the love you wake up to. It starts by thinking only of him in the morning, knowing that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. It starts by loving that he’s an artist with a desire to change the world. He is slender and smart and starving. And you’ve never been wetter in your life.

But the thing about a starving artist is that what makes it sexy at 29 makes it a pretty big financial drain at 32. Suddenly you look at him when he’s asleep thinking, “Maybe wake up and get a fucking job,” instead of counting the eyelashes that lay upon his cheeks. You’ll do your best to fuck him, you bat your lashes and massage his thighs. You remember when there was nothing else you needed to cum except his gasp as he slipped inside of you, and you try to hold that in that hollow place in your chest, wishing it still mattered. But most of the time, he says he’s too tired and smokes another bowl. You roll to your side of the bed (trying to ignore that the whole bed is yours based on payments), and feel full of fury and relief and unsure which of the warring emotions should be right.

You don’t go to a coffee shop intending to meet anyone, because who meets their affair partner at a coffee shop? You know the risks of bars, so you avoid places where you used to pick up men because you are a good partner. You get your release drinking poorly poured espresso at the one spot your starving artist doesn’t go. He can’t afford the cappuccino here and it’s the only thing he’ll drink so you know you won’t see him, and if burnt beans is the cost of freedom you accept it.

Then a man approaches you, and asks to join you. The hair on your neck rises more than you want it to; your breath catches in a way it hasn’t in years. During conversation you somehow manage to not tell him who you live with, and so before you know it he offers to drive you home, but you ask him to take you to his own. You still haven’t done anything wrong, because staring into his brown eyes, you think of nothing but the deep cool earth in which we all end up anyway. You think to yourself, “Well isn’t his how it all ends anyway?” And you know better than to tempt fate.

His kiss feels smooth; one step away from practiced, but you feel the heat pour through you – your hairline to your cheeks to your breasts and you finally remember what it was to be aroused. His hands slip your jacket off, and in the same moment slip under your shirt and you know you haven’t even asked his last name, but nothing has mattered less than that as you fall into his bed.

His mouth gets warmer as he goes lower, and he spreads your legs with his own, and finds your center with a mouth so wet that you can’t tell if it’s your body or his mouth making you drip. As he slips himself inside you, you remember what it was like to be 29 and wanted.

You will not mention anything when you get home that night, and you will wait for the guilt to consume you. Your artist won’t say anything, doesn’t even seem to notice your skittishness, and so you will lock yourself in the bathroom. You hyperventilate because you think you should. You want to feel guilty because then you will know you made a mistake. But instead, you feel the soreness in your hips and wonder if it’s too soon to call him again. So you sleep on it. And call him first thing in the morning.

At least, I did.