I started this blog without having read “A Room of One’s Own.” I had a general idea it was by Virginia Woolf, feminist, and about women, writing, countering cultural expectations, and the need for space. I am now writing this blog post without having seen the movie ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

So I am now reading ‘A Room of One’s Own.’

I am also actively cheating on my husband. A few years ago, I wanted an open marriage. I wanted to find a way to meet the needs that I feel without breaking the bonds of family we have created.

A few months ago, Andrew consented to a threesome with a woman friend of ours. With his need for sexual boundaries and control, it was a bit of a nightmare. I couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do that, she and I couldn’t be together when he wasn’t there. Nightmare. After a few weeks of craziness, I realized that no matter how much I try to convince him to have an open marriage, even if he was to say yes there will always be these rules, and there will never really be the freedom I want. So I decided to give up on open marriage, and look cheating in the eye.

I wanted the path of honesty–this would be better. But the path of honesty now would require me to break this marriage, which I don’t want to do for so many reasons, pragmatic and romantic.

I have fought, hard, for the right to have my own space. I have a job now. I take time for myself.

But I made one big mistake–before the threesome, I had a one night stand, and despite my intentions to never tell anyone, I told Andrew a few days later. If I hadn’t told him he wouldn’t have known, and he wouldn’t be so suspicious now of the time I take for myself. Some of that time is legitimately me time–some of it I am spending with lovers.

Sweet, sweet lovers.

I have discovered one thing for sure about cheating: it takes a lot of work. Mental energy is required to think of what I am going to say I was doing, since I can’t say what I was actually doing, which is fucking a lover. I need to be sure I have a good excuse to hop in the shower when I get home, so I don’t smell like sex. I have to keep an eye on the time, and not leave things lying around in my purse or the car that might give me away.

Cheating is not quite as spontaneous as I had hoped. This is due in part to the fact that Andrew is accustomed to knowing what I am up to, and partly to the fact that he doesn’t want me out at night, and that he has asked me not to go to bars & clubs, and gets anxious about that. Also, he wants to know what food I’ve eaten, and etc. etc. All these silken threads that tie me down.

But, the fucking is glorious. And wanting to be fucked is glorious. I am glorying in being a slut. A selective slut–I had sex with someone I felt unsure about a while ago, and I don’t want to do that again.

My body is MY BODY. It’s strange how we moved from women as men’s property, therefore women weren’t allowed to have sex with people other than their husbands but men were allowed to have sex with whoever they wanted, to both genders as the other’s property, so now if I am ‘committed’ to someone, their body belongs to me and I get to say they can’t have sex with anyone else. Why? How does this really affect me, in any way?

Historically, it had to do with pregnancy. A man wanted to be sure the baby was his own. Women are powerful that way–we can grow a baby and you’ll never really know if it’s your DNA. Very scary for men.

But now? Men can’t have babies. And women have birth control. Babies are essentially out of the picture. What makes us believe that having sex with only one person at a time is morally right? Morally required for a successful relationship?

The only thing I can come up with is tradition. And tradition is usually not kind to women.

I want to have sex, lots of it with lots of different people that I connect with. This desire has nothing to do with my value, worth, goodness as a person.

I’m trying to figure out the lying piece. I wish I could find another way, but I can’t. As long as the lying doesn’t get too stressful for me, I will keep doing it. My life is becoming a work of fiction, where the facts never happened but the truth is still there.