Sometimes I imagine my life without the honesty.
Is it tragic or simply normal? Less than a year into our marriage she slept with an old friend, and I fucked his wife in retaliation. In this imagined world, the four of us snuck off for all sorts of reasons, and we all pretended nothing was happening.
As the story progresses the Lifetime tragedy sneaks in when I discover I love another man as well. At first we simply drink together and talk about women we desire, but soon we give in and collapse in each other’s arms, our lips kissing lips and our cocks hard against our stomachs. We fuck in secret, neither of our wives the wiser, and it’s a love that rages against the times.
She continues her affair, and I find another woman I love as well, who also lies to her husband as we sneak off for afternoon quickies on the couch in my office. I love her madly, and our secret grows painful and hot all at the same time. On occasion all of us end up at the same party, and we smile and drink far too much to make up for the mistakes we can’t hide. In the end, even the most persistent of viewers can’t decide whom they most want to end up together.
Without the honesty it’s a tangle of lies and misdirections that cover up insecurities and fears that have long been neglected. Without the honesty it’s a fantasy of cheating, overwhelming desire, and suppressed emotions. We awake in the middle of the night wondering where we are and why we can’t simply do what we should do.
And maybe that’s another fantasy I let myself vanish into when the difficulty of truth becomes challenging.
Without honesty, would it be easier?