My affair at the end of the ocean

See, back in the day.
I love “back in the day.”
Back in the day is such a lazy and pastorally wicked phrase of half-hearted longing.

Back in the day distances you.
I can say, “back in the day, when I had my 13-month affair (actually, about 18), because really, I define an affair as that which happens in secret. I think if you are fucking another chick and your wife knows, this is not an affair. It’s an open relationship, it’s kooky, whatever the fuck you want to call it, but it’s not an affair. An affair insinuates illicit liaisons and hotels and steamy car windows and hushed midnight phone conversations. “Affair” implies some degree of despicable slyness. That is an affair, and as such, I believe my affair lasted about 18 months.

That’s a load of stress, man.
Lying, day in, day out.
Lying becomes a fixture of personality. You refine it and sculpt it in your image. Some people do this shit with Jesus or God or whatever, some of us do it with the tales we spin in order to save our own ass.
I haven’t been very open about the A word on this blog, interestingly.
I reveal every little disgusting thing about my life. My dilapidated shower stall, my drinking, my whoring….but I have not talked about the A word. Is it for shame?

Maybe. I don’t enjoy talking about some things, and this is one of them. God knows, you gotta be a fuck up of cosmic proportions to have an affair for 18 months.

See, it really was love. I don’t use the word lightly. But it was love and it triumphed over all else that should have mattered more.
When you’re in love with someone else who you shouldn’t be morally and legally uninvolved with, you find many ways to work around the system just to talk. And love.

We sang songs to each other on the phone. Most of the time, we sang the same ol’ pop crap and sappy oldies. I have absolutely no voice to speak of, but I don’t care. I sang to my heart’s content. I would dial her number and sing. Everything from Leo Sayer to 10cc to Louis Prima. I sang it all man, I was in love. Every sappy melody related to me, and it related to her. I was a basket case. Singing the most outlandish embarrassing shit over the phone to an electric mail box and calling it Romance.

Despite it all, there was one song I found myself singing over and over to my mistress.
An oddball quirky thing from this hot skinny brunette, Ivy , who incidentally has a new album due soon.

This song has sat tireless on my computer for the longest time. Yesterday I listened to it again, closely, for the first time in years. The lyrics must have spoken to my torn heart then and I didn’t realize it. Such is the blindness of love affairs. This is why I chose to sing this song to her during the most tempestuous and illicit period of our affair. It bespoke of something I fought living in the netherworld of an adulterer.

Men fall in love when they have sex too.
That thinking is not solely the domain of femdom though they would have you think it.

We are weak and we succumb.
Face it, guys. The more honest you are, the stronger you will be.

Go ahead and ruffle your unruffled feathers.
Pound your chest and happily act like there is no woman walking this planet who ever (or will) matter to you.

Love is weakness and it is strength and it fucks up your life if you let it.
I did, but I love singing my adulterer, dreamer song to my love. The lyrics spoke of my pain.

There’s a place I dream about
Where the sun never goes out.
And the sky is deep and blue.
Won’t you take me there with you.

When you love another woman, she resembles an alternative existence, a fantasy that is the antithesis to the daily grind, bullshit, that you are fending off. She is the anti-responsibility, the anti-commitment, and you leave her each passionate evening to come home to a morosely responsible wife and defined children. But for 20 minutes or an hour, the sun came out and you Went.

Ohhh, we can begin again.
Shed our skin, let the sun shine in.
At the edge of the ocean
We can start over again.

In an affair, there is a promise of a constant state of revival.
You feel, each time you embrace your illicit lover, that the world has begun anew. That you have found love again. It is like having your first crush in the 3rd grade. Horizons unearthed and upheaved. You can shovel your sordid past into forgetfulness.

There0’s a world I’ve always known
Somewhere far away from home.
When I close my eyes I see
All the space and mystery.

We romanticize that which lies beyond our grasp. All affairs. As such, they become mysterious and epically favorable. They embody that which we yearn for. You kiss a girl for the first time, a sly peck which burdens your soul with guilt, and you escape. An escape like an opiate. And you can never come back. If you close your eyes when you kiss her, give up

Ohhh, we can begin again.
Shed our skin, let the sun shine in.
At the edge of the ocean
We can start over again.

This embodied the love affair I knew.
You can shed your skin but lawyers wait in the wings.
And if you had children, you can never shed a thing unless you are a monster.

But you want to shed, you want to fling off the shell of existence and and pretend it never happened.
You worship normalcy.
You hate hotels, you hate 9:30pm pained goodbyes.
You hate your false reality.