by Sam Anthony
Is it related to my age? Some sort of midlife crisis?
I’ve seen evidence suggesting that men are more likely to have an affair when their age ends with the number nine, particularly thirty-nine and forty-nine, but I’m forty-five. I’m nowhere near the danger years, but I guess I’m around the mean age, although not the mode. Funny things averages.
I did some research into the signs that a man is having a midlife crisis. The physical symptoms can be:
Depression. No.
Lethargy. No.
Erectile dysfunction. No, thank God!
Loss of sex drive. Possibly, until I began my affair, and then: Hell, no!
Fatigue. No.
Irritability. No.
The non-physical signs include:
Buying a sports car. No.
Changing your personal appearance. No.
Replacing old friends with younger ones. No.
A desire to get into shape. No more than usual.
Making impetuous decisions. No.
Having an affair. Yes.
On balance, I think it unlikely that I’m having a midlife crisis, but I really would like to find an explanation for my recent infidelity. Just so I can have an excuse for my unforgivable behaviour.
◆◆◆
“This is our house here.” Tamsin is holding my phone and pointing at the map on the screen. “On this particular day, you can see that you drove into town at about ten-thirty. It looks like you parked in the main car park, then went to the bank on foot, and then to the post office.”
“How can it tell if I’m driving or walking?” I say.
“No idea, but it’s very clever. It can also tell if you’re jogging, cycling, flying, on a train, a boat ... Like I said: Big Brother is watching you! After the post office, you walked back to the car and came home. At 18:45 we drove to the restaurant, where we stayed until 22:34, and then we drove back to our house. It’s all on here. There’s a different map showing your movements on each day of the year.”
I swallow.
“Most of your weekdays look pretty boring,” Tamsin says, scanning through the maps. “You just drive to the office and drive home again. Sometimes you go to the gym.” She pauses. “Here’s a work day when you went somewhere at lunchtime. It looks as if you drove to the middle of a housing estate in town and stayed there for just under an hour. I’ll zoom in.” She taps my phone twice and then shows me the screen.
I feel light-headed as nausea overwhelms me.
I know where I went.
That’s Sophia’s house.
◆◆◆
“Okay, here’s the penultimate rule, and this one is extremely important. We both have to agree that this is just a physical affair. We’re doing it for the sex and that’s all. There can be no falling in love. If I start to develop emotional feelings towards you, I have to tell you so, and we end it. The same for you. This is going to be the perfect affair, where nobody gets hurt. Not Tamsin, not Joe, not you, not me.”
Sophia was trying not to laugh. “You think I’m going to fall in love with you?”
“Hey! I’m a really lovable guy once you get to know me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Lee. I reckon I’ll be able to control my feelings. It’s you I’m worried about.” There was that cheeky smile again.
“Well, that leads nicely to the last item,” I said. “Either of us can end the affair at any time, with no recriminations. If we believe it’s getting too serious. If we think our spouse is suspicious. If we’ve simply had enough. We can just call it to a halt, and that’s it. All over. Finito.”
◆◆◆
Names for people like me are few and far between. In fact, I can only think of one:
Adulterer.
That word has a precise meaning, and I satisfy the definition. I’m a person who has had voluntary sexual intercourse with someone who is not my legal partner.
There are plenty of words to describe men who have casual affairs: philanderer, womaniser, Casanova, Don Juan, cad, cheater, Lothario, ladies’ man, fornicator, two-timer, playboy, promiscuous, immoral, unfaithful, someone who plays around, fools around, sleeps around and many more. Interestingly, some of these epithets are almost complimentary.
The words to describe unfaithful women, however, are much more numerous and unpleasant: slut, whore, harlot, strumpet, tart, trollop, tramp, hussy, floozie, scrubber, slattern, slag, skank, Jezebel, seductress, temptress, man-eater, loose woman, scarlet woman, woman of ill repute and so on. None of these is complimentary.
In fact, many words for a prostitute are often used to describe a woman who’s been unfaithful to her husband.
I can’t think of another word that specifically describes a married man who’s had sex with a woman who isn’t his wife.
Hi. My name is Lee, and I’m an adulterer.
◆◆◆
“There aren’t any pubs or shops in that neighbourhood,” Tamsin says. “It’s just residential housing. What were you doing there?”
“I can’t remember to be honest, Tam. It was weeks ago.”
I’m stalling for time while I frantically try to think of a reason why I’d spend my lunch hour in somebody’s house. On the spot, I come up with three possibilities of varying degree of implausibility, and I sound them out in my head:
I was helping someone move heavy furniture.
“Who?”
A colleague needed some important documents for a meeting so I gave him a lift home.
“Who?”
Dave was showing me his practical joke collection.
“Really? Dave again?”
If I have to name someone from work, I’m setting myself up for potential problems at the next office party.
“Hello, Dave.”
“Hi, Lee’s hot wife. It’s lovely to see you again. You look particularly gorgeous tonight.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. À propos of nothing, Dave, what’s your address?”
“Erm, I can’t remember. Let me just check with Lee.”
“Just as I thought. Now, what were you saying about how gorgeous I look?” She takes him by the hand and leads him upstairs for a shag.
I try out a few other specious excuses internally:
I really like the herbaceous borders on that street, so sometimes I just drive there to eat my lunch and think about you, my love.
“That’s bollocks!”
I was collecting something I’d bought in an online auction?
“What was it?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”
I was shagging Sophia from the office.
“I want a divorce.”
I’m out of time. Tamsin is looking at me, expecting a reply. I go with the least bad option.
“I was collecting something I’d bought in an online auction?” I say.
“I see.”
She hands me back my phone, gets to her feet and makes to exit the conservatory.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what it was?”
What am I doing? I’m an idiot. I was free and clear.
“What was it?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise for when? You’ve missed my birthday, our anniversary and Valentine’s Day.”
“Wait and see.”
“Ooh, exciting! I love surprises,” Tamsin says as she walks away.
Within five minutes I’ve deleted my map history and disabled Location Services forever.
Chapter Six
The Hotel
Tamsin is away for the weekend. She’s visiting Nilofer, one of our friends from university. Sophia’s husband, Joe, has headed up north for a couple of days at a golf resort. Thereby, a perfect opportunity has presented itself for Sophia and me to spend some quality time together, in the absence of our respective spouses.
Sophia has booked herself into a Spa hotel, twenty miles away from our home town, for a weekend of pampering.
I’m actually in Tamsin
’s good books for a change after buying her an antique piano stool from an online auction. I gave it to her to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the first time I heard her play the piano. I realise this sounds a bit lame, and the date was just a rough guess, but it seems as if she believes me, and she’s delighted with both the gift and the romantic gesture.
Normal order has been resumed, and the icing on the cake is that Sophia and I are planning to rendezvous in her hotel this weekend for a serious shagfest.
I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on the kids, but they’re in and out of the house all the time, visiting friends and putting off doing their homework. They’re quite happy to fend for themselves for a few hours and I have no doubt they won’t even notice my absence.
◆◆◆
“If we’re actually going to do this, Soph, those are the rules. All fifteen of them are written there on your notepad. I need you to read them carefully, memorise them thoroughly, and then eat that piece of paper they’re written on.” Somehow I maintained a straight face.
“I’ll tell you what, Lee; you’d better be bloody good in the sack!”
“Prepare to have your world rocked.” I said as I stood up. “I’ve got to get back to work. How about tomorrow lunchtime we discuss how we’re actually going to do this? The practicalities. Where should we meet? When? How often?”
“I’ve got a few ideas already,” she said.
“Excellent. Now eat the paper and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
◆◆◆
Private investigators claim that 90 percent of their surveillance cases centre around infidelity. It’s hard to find exact figures about adultery because all the surveys seem to come back with slightly different results, depending on the country, the design of the questionnaire and the type of people asked.
From my meta-analysis, it appears that roughly 43 percent of males and 22 percent of females have been unfaithful to their spouse, by cheating with at least one person.
In a third of all marriages, one or more partner has committed adultery.
So, it appears that I’m not alone. In fact, if these figures are true, there are several million male adulterers just in my country alone, and nearly a billion in the world.
Alarmingly, roughly half of the male adulterers have had affairs with five or more people, so there’s a fifty-fifty chance that I’m going to do this again, several times.
These figures don’t make me feel any better. I know I’m a scumbag. Being just one scumbag out of several million is not a comfort.
◆◆◆
“Hi.”
It’s a text message from Sophia.
“Hi, sexy. What are you up to?” I reply.
“Just had a full body massage. Now relaxing by the indoor pool. Feeling tranquil, carefree and horny. I want you now! When are you coming?!”
“John’s about to go out. As soon as he leaves, I’ll be on my way. X”
“Hurry up or I’ll start without you! The massage therapist already offered me a happy ending and I’m tempted!!!”
“Did she?!!”
“He!!! Sven. Handsome Swedish hunk. So good with his hands!!!”
“Really?”
“Just kidding. Sadly!”
This message is followed thirty seconds later by, “It was actually a beautiful busty Brazilian babe called Isabella. She couldn’t stop touching me!!!”
“Kidding again?” I ask.
“Maybe!”
“Maybe not!!!”
I hear the front door slam.
“John has just left. On my way! Where will you be?”
“Either by the pool or in my room getting warmed up with Sven!”
“Or Isabella!!”
“Or both!!!”
◆◆◆
The following lunchtime, back in Sophia’s office, she had a suggestion to make.
“Lee, I think we should meet at my house. Joe is…”
“No way!” I interrupted. “That’s far too risky.”
“Listen. Just hear me out. For his job as a pharmaceutical sales rep, Joe travels far and wide, selling … whatever it is he sells. He never comes home during the day. We could use the spare room. It’s perfect. Definitely safer than a hotel or the back seat of your car.”
“He never comes home?” I said, not convinced.
“No. His sales region is miles away. He leaves before six-thirty every day, and he’s never home before seven o'clock in the evening.”
“Well that sounds promising,” I said. “But what if I’m spotted entering or leaving your house by one of the neighbours?”
“You can come in the back entrance. That’s not a euphemism by the way.” Sophia paused and jiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “We’ve got tall hedges, and the back gate isn’t overlooked by any houses nearby, so nobody would be able to see you.”
“Where would I park though? I don’t want my car to be recognised outside your house.”
“Just leave it a couple of streets away and walk from there. Vary the parking spot each time, to be on the safe side.”
“Soph, are you sure it’s one hundred percent safe?” I asked.
“Absolutely. And the best thing is, our spare room has a four-poster bed. It’s going to be perfect for tying you up.”
I swallowed.
◆◆◆
If so many people are having affairs, why do they do it? I’ve got a lot of questions about this:
What reasons or excuses do adulterers use to explain their infidelity?
How do they justify their extraordinary behaviour?
Why do they take such emotional and practical risks?
Can they simply not help themselves?
Are they merely following their animal instincts?
Do they not have free-will?
Are they pre-programmed to be unfaithful?
Is there a flaw in some people’s DNA which makes them more likely to cheat on their partner? An adultery gene?
My DNA results eventually came back, and I was disappointed to learn that I’m not very interesting at all. 84 percent of my ancestors are from England and Wales, 9 percent are from Ireland and Scotland, and the rest are probably Germanic. In other words: I’m British.
I wanted to be told:
Dear Mr Bolton
Good news! We’ve discovered you have the adultery gene; therefore you have a strong propensity towards being unfaithful to your wife. Please don’t worry if you commit adultery. It’s in your genes, so you simply can’t help it. Stop beating yourself up.
Yours faithfully (Oh, the irony!)
Science
◆◆◆
I arrive at the hotel, get changed and head for the indoor swimming pool. I’m wearing my trunks, a towelling bathrobe and my flip-flops. I spot Sophia reclining next to the pool, reading a magazine and looking ravishing in a sky blue bikini. Pouring myself a glass of water, I take the opportunity to scan the room for anyone familiar. There’s nobody here I recognise, which is just as well because Sophia is beckoning me over in a not very subtle way.
I join her and sit on the reclining chair adjacent to hers.
“Don’t get comfortable,” she says. “I’ve got big plans for you.” She flashes me a lascivious smile and licks her lips.
“Excellent. Shall we have a quick swim first?” I ask, gesturing towards the water.
“You can if you like, but be quick. I’m gagging for it!”
“Don’t you like swimming?” I say.
“To be honest, I don’t know how to swim.” She shrugs. “I never learnt.”
“The water’s not very deep this end.” I point to my left.
“Actually, Lee, I’m very wet already, if you know what I mean.”
I do.
I rearrange my robe.
“Where’s your room?”
◆◆◆
And so it began.
The day finally arrived when I became an adulterer.
We’d planned, a week in advance, that on the following
Friday lunchtime, we’d meet at Sophia’s house and our affair would commence. It was a fairly common practice at work for the staff go to one of the local pubs for lunch on Fridays, so it wouldn’t be too suspicious if we were seen leaving the building, as long as we weren’t spotted together.
That week was one of the longest of my life. The anticipation was overwhelming. I barely slept, and when I did drop off, I had the most bizarre erotic dreams, and often woke up feeling exhausted and anxious.
My waking hours were spent either looking forward to some uninhibited sex, the like of which I’d rarely experienced, or wondering why I was putting myself into such a stressful situation. Many times, in the wee small hours, I’d decided that I was just going to call the whole thing off, but when morning came, and I saw Sophia at work, looking all shaggable, I’d changed my mind back again.
◆◆◆
At what specific point does adultery actually happen? Is it the moment you make the decision that you’re going to have sex with someone who isn’t your spouse? Is it the split second your penis enters their vagina? Or does oral sex count as adultery? What about phone sex with someone on the other side of the world? What about flirting?
In one survey, when asked if they considered flirting to be infidelity, 33 percent of men and 43 percent of women said yes. I definitely say no. Surely flirting is just a bit of adult banter. It doesn’t mean anything dubious on its own. In fact, I enjoy it when Tamsin flirts with other men. It makes her feel desirable and that makes her horny and that makes it possible that she might initiate sex, provided she’s had sufficient alcohol.