Mother was knocking on the door while I was pretending to be asleep. I knew it was a big day for me, but please, just five more minutes. She opened the door silently and approached the bed whispering my name. It was then that I realized how stupid it was trying to wake someone up while whispering. If you don’t want me to wake up, why are you even here? Why are you trying to be kind when you are about to heartlessly destroy my day by making me get out of the bed hours before I would consider it polite. The truth is that the day before I agreed to go to bed early so I am able to function in the morning. But I just love drama. It was, after all, all about me.
I was only six at the time. It was my big day – a pre-elementary school testing. They were going to determine whether I am so smart that my mother is going to build expectations so high they can’t be seen from earth, or she will never tell the story where I am this prodigy kid who learned to read and write cyrilics when she was only four, again. Her expectations were ruined in front of my Lake Michigan icy blue eyes as soon as I discovered weed and to manipulate her and the rest of the world to get what I think I wanted. That is why she loves me and hates me at the same time. Our relationship is somewhat pathological, and I am sure that she was in love with me sometimes. Even people used to tell me that. I am more than sure that the events I am going to describe would have not happen if she had loved me less.
However, instead of becoming a president one day, now I have opinions on porn stars’ pussies and a pierced clitoris. I sold my worn underwear online, I live quite a bohemian life, and I am sleeping with another woman’s man.
Needless to say, I was a bit of a disappointment. But then again, it is never too late to learn that big expectations are the killer of well-being. I will always be there to remind of that.
At the moment, I am 30, flirty, and fabulous. I am looking good and I am enjoying myself. I don’t wear a bra and I’ve lost all my flip flops. I am surrounded by sea and palm trees, and people look at me all the time. There is no better time to be alive, or place. I am healthy, tanned and I bet nine out of 10 men would love to come closer. I also bet 8 out of 10 women would love me to leave this place. You would say I have it all. For a while every now and then, I do. And it is magical. It is something else. And I am going to say special because it is special for me, not sure about the other person involved. A shady bad boy with even worse habits.
I have recently ended a nine-year-old relationship with a guy who loved me more than he loved himself. I wish for every girl in the world to find a guy like that. He was perfect. But not for me.
As I said, I’m sleeping with another woman’s husband. And I am fucking loving it.
There is a couple far away who committed to love and respect till death to them part. They are still a couple, but I am not sure about the love and respect thing. From my point of view, they have parted already. Only it wasn’t death, it was me. It was my toxic energy and my ‘not giving a fuck’ attitude. It was my endless need to take what I want. It were my immoral ways to get it. It was me. I am their poison. I am his drug he is not ready to admit he is addicted to. And I can see it. Only I am sure he doesn’t have the guts to leave her. Especially for me. My ‘free spirit’ has been an issue before. I can’t help it, the world is my playground, and I am girl who never tried anything. Even if I did, I didn’t. I want it again. And I want it now. I was never much of a patient person, far from it. And yet, here I am, waiting for him to text at midnight (his time), when she is asleep. I am waiting – the person who leaves her own house before guests because she cannot wait for them to fucking get ready. People are so slow and annoying.
Anyway, to make it worse, I thought we were fucking cute. He is a big grumpy lazy bear and I am absolutely unadjusted and I look like a stick. I was in a relationship, he was married. We both had something to lose. Only it was only me who lost a piece of myself every time he went back to her. It was me who lost a little bit of self-respect each time he tells me to go away until he finished video call with her. It was me who lost dignity when I had to pretend to be a friend.
And I am losing this game in total. He will always go back to her. His wife, his partner, his sanctuary, and his life. But then he would come back and touch me with his strong arms and almost apologize for that.
One ‘sorry’ does wonders when you are stupid and in love, you wouldn’t believe it. And I am. I am so in love that I don’t care what the whole island think. I am sleeping with him and I am happy around him most of the time, to be honest, lovers have struggles of their own. If there was a war right now, I would go and fight for my man. Only he was never mine. After having (so much) fun and fucking the life out of me, he is always going back to her. And this is starting to emotionally distance me from both him and the situation we have. I love our international love affair. But I would love if it wasn’t an affair.
And I hate how he is the first to start talking about love and real feelings, makes me open up, and then just pulls back. I am too sensitive for that game. Let me in or tell me to get lost.
I just saw photos from Coldplay concert, they look happy, I give you that. They had fun. She is not letting go of her diamonds, obviously, and that kind of a woman will never forgive him what he is doing. Is it crazy that I looked at the clock and calculated the time of the concert? Is it healthy that I felt closer to him knowing that he was enjoying the concert at that moment, even though he was clearly with someone else? Well, not someone else. I am that someone else here! She is his wife. The first, the one, the only. Someone I could never compete with, let alone win one. I am fresher than her, that’s my only advantage. I am the one who made him feel alive and wild, like a bad boy and a bad girl kinda story. We don’t have our sofa, we don’t have our mirror in the hallway or a towel holder. I don’t wake him up with the smell of bacon and hang his clothes. It is not me. That’s for her, his damn wife. The one I should respect more by leaving alone what’s hers. And I should probably send the whole factory of Swiss chocolates and cheese to make up for all the doubt and sleepless nights I caused.
I will never again be the girl who will not sleep with a married man. I am forever a married woman’s nightmare.