::Let Me Clear My Throat::

There are times I can tell myself that I can stop this thing with Jones anytime I want. Times that I laugh at myself for being so bananas over someone I can never have and I wonder what the hell I'm doing.  I have a sassy, flamboyant little voice of reason sitting on my shoulder who brings me back down to earth after my little trips to the clouds.  That voice of reason gives me my reality check, and snaps me back to reality when I start getting all gushy. I rely on it and I need it. So WHYYYYYYY does it disappear as soon as I see his dumb face and and the dumb smile he gets when I approach him. Just when I thought I was out, he pulls me back in. I've taken some notes.  This man actively does things to make me like him. Just dumb things- little jokes and cute comments that make me smile and/or blush (he loves that), watching out the window for me to pull up and meeting me at the door with all of those things and his stupid ass handsome face and grin. Or he'll do bigger

Ok, switching gears for a second. My post the other day reflected that nagging little bit of guilt over what I'm a part of. I know that what I'm doing with Jones is morally reprehensible, and being a person who has been 'the wife' for all intents and purposes, I know how damaging this could be if it got out. A good friend who I have confided in put a spin on things for me the other day, and I'm having a hard time finding an argument against it. In the span of 3 weeks, a mutual friend of ours went from a beautiful, lively mother of four to stage 4 terminal cancer patient. She's exactly my age, minus a day. If that doesn't show you how short life is, nothing will. Friend A broke it down- I'm generally a good person.  I'm not out to steal him or break up his family. I have no desire to hurt anyone. We are simply two consenting adults having fun, and eventually this will burn out, and nobody has to find out about our escapades. Life is fucking SHOR

"No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how." Mr. Jones must have Rhett Butler on speed dial. I've spent some time in the last 18 hours rolling around in a haze. It's safe to say that Jones and I can check another illicit incident off our list (whoops). All it took was a simple graze of fingers on my hip and I crumbled like a sand castle. He pushed me against the doorframe, and just looked at me with his stupid, sexy smirk, and my knees felt wobbly, then finally, blessedly, kissed me. We've kissed before, but it was just a couple of hurried smooches, like a snack before dinner. This time...oh. This was a 'bodies pressed together, up against the doorframe, lips sealed, just enough tongue, both of his hands buried in my hair, little moans, can't get close enough, please don't ever fucking stop, this must be what eupho

Despite my recent violations, I want to make it clear that I respect the institute of marriage. Not only do I respect it, but I believe in it and covet it for myself, and generally take issue with those that have it and shit on it.  Like, how dare you take advantage of the fact that someone promised themselves to you by waving your genitals at someone else.  It's shitty and unfair, and if you're a knowing  accomplice in any of this genital waving (cough:me:cough), then you're just as shitty.  Which brings me to my existential crisis of the moment: By carrying on with Jones, am I irreparably damaging my carefully curated karma? It might sound stupid, but go with me here.  If you read me or know me personally, you know that I am a hardcore relationship person, and, aside from a few misfires over the years, have been single for the better part of a decade. What if this little thing sets back all my progress thus far and I end up a 55 year old single cat lady? Ok, maybe not