Thursday, 23 December 2010

Merry Christmas

And all that guff! I've finally finished shopping...just. Missing the Doctor already. We had a brief tryst early this week, but he had a few meetings and we were constantly on the go. Worth it, if just for the stolen kisses...

Anyway - this is just a quick post to say thank you to all of you for following me, and best of luck for 2011. Let's hope my new year will be as thrilling as this one has been!

Much love,

Michelle xx

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

When did

Christmas get this insane? Seriously. It feels like yesterday it was December 1st and I was writing my little lists for everyone, and now it's the 22nd and I've got nothing done except put up a tree and drink my body-weight in mulled wine (M&S have launched an offensive against my liver by putting this stuff on offer). Am currently planning move-for-move shopping trip for this evening. Am not including time for breathing or eating. Will scour shops like some kind of consumer ninja.

I remember a time when I was a child and snow meant no school and near-fatal accidents trying to ice skate on our garden pond. Today, snow means 'how the fuck am I going to get to Debenhams?'. How romantic.

I am swimming in accounts. Only 2 days til time off. Counting. The. Minutes.

Thursday, 2 December 2010

Radio Ga Ga

So...I was on BBC5live this morning, talking about my extramarital relationship, and I wasn't expecting to be put on the spot - stupidly I guessed that the presenters would find my online confessional to be 'just a bit of fun'.

To me, however, it was obvious that the female presenter, Shelagh, had serious preconceived ideas about my situation, and was barely able to conceal her contempt. She also exercised no empathy to try and understand why I, and thousands of women like me, might need a platform like BWC, rather suggesting that I simply didn't have any friends. She insinuated, sniped and tutted her way through the conversation as if I was an idiot harpie who simply need to have a friendly chat with Hubby.

Thankfully, Nicky Campbell was a bit more professional, and refreshingly up front. Why is it always the women who have such a huge problem with me? Anyway - I'm on 1.26 in...have a listen for yourselves and see what you think!


Tuesday, 16 November 2010

100th post! 100th post!

100th post! Ooooh! I feel like I should have some kind of party or something. But I am at my desk and swamped in papers and if I do a little dance it's all going to fall on the floor and my boss will look at me funny. So...maybe I'll just celebrate in my head.

The magazine have confirmed that my piece is going to be out on the 25th. It's in Love It! magazine on the 25th of this month. I'm proper excited! I've had the photos through from the agency and they've successfully managed to disguise me without making me look like a survivor from some scientific testing lab. Or an ex-prostitute.

Things have slowed back into their usual lull. Doctor and I meet weekly at the moment, though I'm slightly running out of reasons to take sporadic evenings off ("Pilates" is exhausted...the physique is not helping me lie). My friendship with The Intern is actually wonderful. It's been such a long time since I've been friends with a bloke, it's stellar. We objectify women on mass. We eat crisps with our mouths open. I have sort of taken up smoking again, casually, just so we can hang out by the fire exit and complain about our boss.

I'm sure everyone in our office thinks it's weird that I'm so chummy with a 23 year old , acne-ridden graduate. I don't care. We are bound by our shared misathropy, like teenage goths. I council him about his missus. He councils me about how, despite the obvious beneifts and undeniable selfishness, maintaining an affair is actually quite difficult. I'm sure he judges me, but thankfully he does it really quietly so I don't have to think about it.

In other news, I went to a lady-only comedy night last week with friends, and it made me LOL a lot. I very rarely see good female comedians on TV so I was kind of shcoked that 4 really ace, rather unfamous ones were tearing it up on a Thursday at my local. One lady was Korean and reminded me of Margaret Cho. Which was good. Because Margaret Cho is amazing. Observe:

I am still celebrating in my head...

Wednesday, 10 November 2010


I know I have been shitty shit shit about posting. Soon I promise. But I'm filing right now and I don't have a hand free. And even if I did I'd probably only be able to type this...

mnbfsndmfsm bcdkfnd vsliflsalmncsjxz



So so so so so...I am going to be appearing in a magazine. Talking about my affair. And Bored Wives Club. Isn't that jolly?

They haven't finalised the date with me yet but I will totally let you know when I know. Syked!


Thursday, 4 November 2010

Michelle Sutton : Professional Adulterer

It as if the last few days grew a big mouth with teeth and ate me up whole.

The last 4 days have been rid.ic.u.lous. So ridiculous that the only way I can articulate it is to punctuate it like that. 2 dates in the less than a week with the Doctor. The despertate caused by him being on nights whelled up into some kind of lust-filled baloon slowly expanding in my chest.

I tell you one thing. My bottom draw of battery-operated friends has never had such a workout.

Anyway. On Sunday evening, I fobbed the hubster (do you like it? I think it'll catch on) off with a Mia-related excuse and escaped for a few hours in the early evening. The Doctor had a meeting on Monday so he checked into his holiday a day early and we ordered obscene amounts of room service and frollicked like randy rabbits. As a result, I'm not sure if I'll be abe to afford Christmas. I do not care. IT WAS THAT GOOD.

Then, on Monday evening, after all the nodding and scheduling and important conversations, my medicine man met me at a bar and we snuck away to have dinner on the river. Blissful. Blissful and drunken.

I then rolled home on Monday evening to cuddle up with the lawful one and eat TV dinner like a pro. Specially like a pro who's just spent the last two days decieving her sweet but uninspiring husband that she is 'out with the girls' while meeting up with a handsome medicial professional to have two consecutive sessions of mind-blowing How's Your Father.*

* Loose use of 'professional'. I am not actually paid to do this stuff. **

** If anyone would like to pay me, I'm open to offers.

Monday, 25 October 2010

I love

this kind of weather. Really crisp and cold and not a cloud in the sky. My boss informs me that tomorrow it will be pissing it down. What a killjoy.

The Doctor has been somewhat out of touch...even though I know his night shifts have ended. Don't want to machine-gun text as I know desperation isn't exactly sexy. And it's not as if he doesn't reply when I do contact him. He just doesn't initiate. I feel like, if I didn't poke him, he'd never poke me.

Anyway, rather than biting the rest of my nails off (read: I have already done this), I am getting my head down applying for new jobs. I need a change. This office is a reminder of how stale my life has gotten.

In other news, BWC got 19,000 hits last month. Woot!


Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Friday, 1 October 2010

The Intern

as it turns out, is actually rather sweet. Last night both of us pulled a late one in the office (older readers will know that late nights spent in the office with interns have previously ended in a rather unsavory, Post-Its-in-unfortunately-places fashion) and ended up have quite a deep 'n' meaningful about marriage and commitment.

Thankfully, said intern is lacking rippling muscles/knee-weakening smile/sufficient ability to groom himself to elicit my affections. Good job too. Any more men in my life and I'd have to start timetabling them.

Anyway, over hobnobs and a sneaky Stella we sat waxing relationships until about 10pm. Intern, the poor lad, is under increasing pressure from his ladyfriend to ditch his student digs and move in with her. This may be because of three reasons :

1) She actually has a genuine interest in moving in with the boy and starting an 'adult relationship' (*sigh*)

2) It's been a year, and she feels that moving in is 'just what you do'.

3) Girlfriend no longer wants to spend her days precariously navigating plates of 5-day old lasagne and XBox controllers, and would quite like to cuddle up to him in a place that doesn't smell like someone left a cabbage behind a radiator.

This got me thinking. When I was 23 (*looks wistfully off to the left in remembrance of cheap wine and legwarmers*), I idolised those friends of mine who were in Committed Relationships. And although I had no actual evidence that one would've made me happier than I was (shagging around with various friends of friends and generally having a rather good time both above and below the waist), I was a bit brainwashed. Cosmo said I was getting on. Time to make a move. Find a man, pin him down and play house.

I eventually did when I met Hubby, though luckily I think he's the closest I've ever and will come to 'The One' (not that I think there's only 1. There are probably 15). But I fear for girls like Intern's missus. It's shit being a young woman. The messages are so confusing.

Intern told me the sex wasn't very good.

I gave him some lengthy advice, which in hindsight equated to, "Get out now. Your penis will thank me later." Life's too short to be stuck in a sexless relationship...

...Yeah yeah...what would I know?

Wednesday, 29 September 2010

Extramarital dating site Ashley Madison

Gross. Just....gross. I'd never heard of this site before but, judging by the dubious headline, "Life's Too Short, Have An Affair", CEO Noel Biderman sounds like he has about as much understanding and empathy for cheating spouses as Nick Griffin has for victims of racial hate-crimes. The site is launching in the UK, and every bit of press I read makes me want to break something.

Okay...maybe that's a bit strong. But he does look and sound like The World's Biggest Douchebag. I quote;

"We tried to advertise during the Superbowl but the NFL said, 'No, we're not going to allow this ad'. This is the NFL, whose players are arrested for sexual assault, for drunk driving and attempted murder. They're going to be the bastion of morality for America? That's ridiculous."

You can't SELL infidelity moron. Why would you wish to impose an idea like 'How's about shagging around?' on a stadium of unsuspecting football fans? Completely inappropriate. Affairs are something to be conducted in private, not a commodity to be advertised at huge public events. And advertising them is ridiculous anyway - as if the decision to have one could be equated with the decision to buy a new television.

As a cheater myself, and one that uses a different dating site, I just think this guy has got it all wrong. By all means create a platform for extramarital liaisons - I have such a platform to thank for transforming my life over the last two years - but don't shove it in people's faces...and don't say that 200,000 Londoners should be using it by Christmas, because they probably shouldn't. What a brash, Americanised method of promotion.

Rant over. ;)

Monday, 27 September 2010

The second wave...

I'm sure some of my long-term readers (hello there, guys!) may remember when I first started having my affair. The effect it had on my marital sex life was...bizzarre. Suddenly, after years of paying me about as much attention as one would a potted plant in student accomodation, he was all over me like an aggressive rash.

As things are picking up again with my secret life, my marriage is following suit. This morning, Hubby woke me up with breakfast in bed (it was 6.30am and I've got to admit I wasn't immediately thrilled...I just wanted to damage something), and then proceeded to initiate sex. INITIATE. I nearly passed out from shock. Nearly.

For context, Hubby and I have sex less than once every two months, and it is, without fail, me who makes the first move. This change of spots is both unnerving and very, very welcome. I've never stopped fancying him; though his charms are a little worn, he is still the man I fell in love all those years ago. Just with a bit more podge and a bit less hair.

His new found interest in my naughty bits couldn't be better timed; The Doctor is on a month of nights so can't see me at all for the next few weeks. I just pray that it lasts!


Monday, 20 September 2010


The evolution of BoredWivesClub in this last week has filled me with an overwhelming urge to wield the Upper Crust baguette on my desk like a microphone and bellow Michael Jackson's 'You Are Not Alone' into it. Seriously. So many inspiring/appalling stories! Exactly what myself and the girls were hoping for.

In other news….


Mondays are less suspicious right? Only middle-aged people do exciting things on Mondays. Though I'd hate to think my idea of excitement is middle-aged. This evening, supermarket champagne, a cheap hotel room, and some very expensive underwear.

Right now I am staring at various Excel sheets hoping they will evaporate into thin (virtual) air. Sadly nothing has happened yet, except that I got a bit teary because I was squinting and our new intern asked me if I was okay.

Sadly, he's not a patch on New Boy. Thank Christ I've got the Stethoscope Stud to keep me company or I could've found myself inexplicably attracted to said intern. His 'beard' consists of 16 single hairs and he smells a bit like a football locker. Oh dear.

Friday, 10 September 2010

A little project...

So, after having kept this blog for GOD KNOWS how long, I have had something rather interesting brewing under my hat (clumsy mashed simile) for the last month. Now, as we're nearly ready to launch, I think it's time to tell you guys about it.

It's a website, and it's called The Bored Wives Club. My friend Mia and I came up with the idea way way way while bitching about our respective partners over coffee. She is still to this day one of the only people who knows about my extramarital dalliances. Anyway, we were lamenting the fact that, as professional women with overly-secure houses, we rarely get the chance to natter to our female neighbors about our partners' ineptitudes over the garden fence...despite the fact that both of us have enough grievances to fill a 800-page novel.

Long story short, I suggested we start a blog that gives women a space to rant about their marital lives. For about a year, nothing really happened, but then Mia met Rose, a designer, at a conference a while back, and casually mentioned our little brainchild...

Well. 4 months later, the three of us have given birth to the BWC. The site isn't live yet, but it will be very very soon. I'm sooooooo excited, and will be forwarding it to all my friends this weekend to get some stuff on there. Will post a link ASAP babies.

Joy! xx

Monday, 6 September 2010

My music loving best friend...

is such a darling. Every week I get these bizzarre indie gems piling up in my work inbox. And when I can sneak out the headphones on my lunchbreak I sometimes allow myself a little boogie at my desk. This week, a tasteful Toto cover. Now there are two words I never thought I'd type in the same sentence....

What? Yes, they had some great songs. But they also had cheap sounding synthesizers and incredibly bad hair. And as far as I can, this band have neither of those things. Ace!


Friday, 3 September 2010


Thursday. Was. Exhausting.

In a good way, natch. The Doctor (or Stethoscope Stud, as I have now taken to calling him) met me straight after work. I had done a sort of rom com-worthy trasnformation from Work Shelly to Super-Vamp Adulteress Michelle, using the staff bathrooms at work as a kind of Mr Ben-esque closet. Except of course when I opened the door out to my office I hadn't been magically transported to a zoo. And I wasn't been voiced-over by Terry Wogan. Which, in context, would have been more than a little distracting.

Anyway; we met just around the corner from my office. Doctor wore a crisp suit that looked so expensive I was a bit wary of touching him (don't worry...I definitely got over that). We had a quick coffee and then raced off to our hotel suite for what can only be described as onlythebestsexIhaveeverhadinmylifeever. Hubby was elsewhere occupied with friends for the evening, meaning I didn't have to be so strict with my curfew. We stayed rolling around in our own filth for about 4 hours, before I had to make a shift exit (via the shower and some strategic clothing-adjustment) at 11pm. FOUR HOURS. I do not know the last time I stayed awake and in bed for that long...let alone in bed with a living human male. I was so giddy on leaving that I forgot to put one of my stockings on and really unnerved a junior porter who got in the same lift as me. He just kept staring agressively at my right leg, as if to say 'How dare you brazenly disregard the basic rules of getting dressed? What are you, some kind of fingerless invalid?'. I just coughed uncomfortably and got out a floor early.

It is just over a week later and I fear I'm still walking like a benched footballer.

Monday, 23 August 2010

This Thursday

So after a lot of shifting, scheduling, re-scheduling, pencilling in, crossing out, and then pencilling in again...we're there. Doc and I are meeting this Thursday. Texting has ramped up in anticipation. I have sent 3 today already. What a hussy.

I looked upon my marital underwear draw this morning with barely-masked distaint. Hubby's undies were bundled up against mine in this orgy of muted colours, bobbly cotton and knock-off Calvin Klein. All my pants are that particular shade of grey. The shade that says "I once was white and clean, but my careless owners accidentally put me in on a hot wash with some jeans and now I'm ugly."

I keep my sexy undies in a little box on the top shelf of my wardrobe. Hubby has seen a few pieces, but even the French Maid ensemble I bought last year coulnd't seem to rouse him from his traditional "you get 5 minutes but only in missionary and afterwards I'm going to sleep" stance. I picked it up this morning to find a family of spiders had nested in the bib. Apt.

This evening I'm off to Ann Summers to add to my collection. My current crush...!letc~ev!45905||et!letc~ev!10210||et!letc~ev!45913||_40151_-1_45905_71642_10001_

Obviously I won't look like that. But hell, I'm not doing to badly, if I do say myself. They haven't hit ground zero yet anyway.

T Minus 3 days.

Thursday, 12 August 2010


It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last bit of the July accounts and then I'm done.

It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last bit of the July accounts and then I'm done.

It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last maybe I should text the Doctor and see what he's doing? I wonder what he's doing right now. I bet he looks hot in his coat. Maybe it would be clinical with him? He has to look at naked women as part of his

It is half past 4 on a Thursday after then again maybe that will make him more appreciative of the times when he doesn't have to don latex glovers

It is half past I really hope he's not tempted to don latex gloves

It is half past 4 on a Thursday afternoon and I only have to get through this last bit of the July accounts and then I'm going to text him and see what he's doing.

Friday, 6 August 2010

That word.

Is there such thing as an enjoyable tragedy?

Since my meeting with The Doctor, texts full of tension and yearning have been passing between us. He wants to see me again, as soon as he can. He is switching his schedule. Trying to slot me into his already-brimming life. I am sat at my desk unable to concentrate on anything except the familiar ache in my chest.

New love, in all it's forms, is truly addictive. But I think perhaps the promise of love is more addictive still. After all, post-exposition, the object of your affection becomes tangible. A living, breathing, burping person. But before, oh before! They are the white wall onto which you project all your hopes and desires for what love can and might be.

I used to avoid using that word when talking about my lovers. Treat it like a weight, rather than a release. But the truth is, when you are crushing, when you are infatuated with someone to whatever degree, that is love. A seed, maybe. A speck. But still it comes from the same giddy place.

The promise of The Doctor is kicking inside me. Waiting for the day when I can sit smugly at my desk and bang out on these keys "I fucked him! It is done, and I am happy!". But there is an exquisite kind of happiness in this torturous limbo. Perhaps because I know that, however long it takes, this feels like a sure thing.

And as we know, sure things are hard to find.

Monday, 2 August 2010

Date with the Doctor.

The good news:

The doctor exceeded my expectations 10-fold. Physically; just right. Tall. Good looking in a way that doesn't invoke my inferiority complex. Nice smelling. A shadow of stubble (not too boyish, not too Dumbledore).

Emotionally; articulate, open, very self-aware. Comfortable talking about his family, but not desperate to pour over the misery of it all. Acknowledged that what we were doing would be considered wrong by most reasonable people, but agreed that he would have it no other way. Refreshingly free of the need to assert is masculinity.

Conversationally; I was bowled over by the passing of time. We sat down. We started talking about Wolf Hall. Then suddenly it was 10.30pm, he had to leave, and I was fumbling through my phone for a cab number. A dry sense of humour. A vast well of knowledge when it comes to literature. And very happy to let me gush and rant and debate about innumerable topics, without impatiently stepping on the ends of my (increasingly slurred) sentences.

The bad news:

He lives in fucking Manchester. Fuck.



Thursday, 29 July 2010

Good vibrations

My phone just went off.

The doctor is coming to town this weekend with friends. He think he'll be able to get away Saturday evening for a drink...

..."and perhaps something more, if time permits."

What a tease! What a lark! It has been a considerable amount of time since I dabbled extramarital, and damnit, I think the hour in once again upon us. It is about 10 minutes past 5. That means I have about 3 hours (praise be to you, oh late-night shopping hours) to buy myself some new undies. I think I would feel bizzarre cavorting around in front of some new gent in underwear from a past tryst. A little sleazy, non? Oui.

Eeek eeek eeek! I am excited! My nether-regions are equally so. Sod this last pile of payslips; to Ann Summers', post haste!


Wednesday, 14 July 2010

So I didn't keep you posted. Because I am terrible. But still - I'm back and posting. Posty post post.

Doctor chat is still going on - and my oh my does that man have a way with words! Two years ago I could not have imagined myself having anything that resembled cyber sex; now at least 2 evenings a week I'm twiddling away on my laptop, batting back and fourth obscene adjectives and philanderous phrases with Mr White Coat. It's no substitue for the real thing mind, but since he lives in Manchester, the real thing is currently unattainable. Hey ho. I'm not exactly loathing my own company right now. Partially thanks to current reading material. Cue announcement:

*Attention Wayward Wives and their female asociates* : if you haven't read The Bride Stripped Bare, your life is seriously poorer for it. It is basically pornography with brains. Deliriously unbound and hedonistic. Saturated with light and desire. And seriously, seriously hot. I made the mistake of reading it on my commute to a meeting the other day, and when I got to said meeting, four people (four people!) asked me if I "needed to sit down". One particualrly concerned staff member fetched me a glass of water I didn't ask for, and a hand fan, such was my lobster-like hue. Being a traditional English rose, it seems I can't consume any amount of erotic literature without turning an embarrasring shade of radish. Sexy.


Thursday, 24 June 2010

The Doctor

A genuine, real-life doctor (complete with fantasy white coat and stethoscope) has contacted me on IE. This is, no doubt, a very good thing. Especially since he is hella cute, and I'm so sexually frustrated now that I am probably more adept at peeling the labels off beer bottles than the machines programmed to do so at recycling plants (in all seriousness, Hubby's friend made a comment about this the other day in the pub during post-football celebrations. I had made a pile about a foot high of branded foil. Hubby thought it was hilarious. Yeah. LOL at yourself, sweetheart.)

Anyway...have arranged to chat later this evening with him online. Hopefully he won't resort to badly punctuated come-ons and dubiously-capitalised, playground references to his genetial. I don't mind talking dirty, I just need said dirty talk to be grammatically correct.

I'm sure this will conjur up an image of some hoity-toity middle-aged English teacher, marking her lovers sexual ramblings with some virtual red pen....

...and that is a pretty accurate image of me. Will keep you posted, conrades!


Tuesday, 15 June 2010


So, I'm more than a little obsessed with Ellie Goulding at the moment. 'Lights' is such a great pop album, and considering I grew up listening to Madonna and Prince, my standards are possibly higher than most...

Anyway, the stand-out track (and single, inevitably) is 'Starry-Eyed', a short burst of beautiful, glitchy electronica and soaring, auto-tuned vocals (I'd like to point out the use of AT is rather tasteful on this track, compared to the hyper-processed sound of Kanye "Second Coming" West). Have a listen if you haven't heard it already. Or if you have.

Music has alway had a profound effect on me. In fact, during a conversation with The Husband the other day, it dawned on me that a considerable chunk of my memories all relate in some way to a song. The most vivid memory I have of my mother, for example, is watching her clean the house while dancing to Blondie's 'Hanging on the Telephone'. I must have been about 6, jiggy along with this impossibly jolly hippy, hair down to her bottom, bright orange duster punching out to the music.

When I think about my teenage years, I think about George Michael, and being awkward and dressed in uncomfortable netting and lace at a school disco. Stood straight and terrified up against the speaker, I remember feeling the pulse of 'Father Figure' through the broken mesh behind me, and the bass teasing my body with these alien, adult feelings of sexuality. Puberty was siguarly the most exciting and the most terrifying time of my life.

There is something about Ellie's track, 'Starry Eyed', that drags me back to being this tense, vunerable 16 years old, seeing love as this complete and utter Disneyland fantasy. All moon-eyes and just kissing for hours and being so affected by another human being's presence that you would shake.

A far cry from the reality of marriage, perhaps, but I am glad, at times like these, to recall how my lover James once turned me into a quivering teenager, and how those moments, however rare, are still there to be reached for and grasped with both hands.

IE is proving fruitful once more. A few hopefuls in my inbox. Will of course keep you updated, such is my narcissism.

Love xxx

Tuesday, 8 June 2010

The Norm.

It's days like today I remember why I cheated in the first place.

It has been nearly two months since James and I broke things off. My married life has settled into it's old, clunky pace again. I work. I go home. I get a kiss on the cheek. I cook. I go to bed. I wake up. I work.

Hubby and I sat curled up in front of the box last night, wrapped up in each other's limbs, my head snuggled into his breast bone. The woman I am today doesn't recognise the woman she was three months ago; sexy, in control, full of electricity. Today she is tired and hopeless, and even the familiarity of her true love's chest fails to envoke anything other than the same images of marital monotony. Like a mirror facing a mirror.

I need my fix. I'm logging on tonight.

Friday, 7 May 2010

In response to Steven.

A nice gentleman called Steven posted the following on my last blog.

"To you and the many people like you I really do wish you good luck. But I do believe that adultery is the ultimate lie (to you and your spouse). A sexless marriage is not a marriage you simply can't have the emotional bond without it, so you look elsewhere for whats missing. Your more like co-workers doing a job working for a likeminded goal. I think you've already thrown in the towel just by looking at your blog profile, all the bloggers that you follow are all adulterers also. Not one blog that I could see about repairing damaged relationships. I make no judgement on you, you sound like a very caring person, maybe just a little off track. Please keep an open mind and seek out some quality help for you and your husband. Goodluck!"

I just wanted a chance to respond to this.

Oh Steven. Please do not assume that I, and those like me, have not sought help for our issues. This seems to be a general assumption about adultery; that it is a way out for people who cannot be bothered to work hard at their relationships.

I have been to marriage counselling. I have tried to engage my husband in discussions about our sex life. I have wasted money on lingerie and sexual parifinalia trying to bring him round to the idea of his wife as a sexual object. However, all this work has only confirmed the reality of the situation. My husband and I are in love; we are soul mates. But he does not fancy me, and no amount of negociation is going to change that.

The point is, we are in love. Although we do not really sleep together, we most definitely have an extremely strong emotional bond. And, although this may be difficult for some people to believe, my affair is not some underhand way of me ending my marriage.

Of course there were/are emotional ties with James, my lover. He is a wonderful man and we allowed ourselves to fall for each other. But, although the hurt can be searing, most boundaries were kept to, and I feel that our relationship gave me the room to enjoy my marriage, without feeling the need to nag my husband for sex.

And, in truth Steven, that is what this partership was about. Sex. Nookie. Rumpy-pumpy. In my experience, men find it very difficult to accept that there are some women out there who require this as a physical need, and are completely capable of compartmentalising sex and romance. Break-ups are hard, but I have preserved my feelings, and a genuinely believe I had a great deal of control over the situation.

You say that I saw my relationship with James as if we were two co-workers, trying to achieve the same goal. What is problematic about this? I had a practical physical need that wanted to be fulfilled, and I arranged an affectionate but business-like relationship with a gentleman in a similar situation to fulfil that need. Less emotional? Maybe. But it worked for me.

And, in regards to lying, none of us are saints, and we're certainly not ignorant to the fact that we are deceiving our partners. However, when it's a choice between loosing the man who I want to spend the rest of my life with, and conducting a discreet arrangement which for nearly two years has only served to improve my relationship with him, I choose the latter.

In other news, I think Cleggy is barking to side with those gay-bashing Tory monsters. Eurgh.



Monday, 19 April 2010

Not good.

So, as of last Wednesday, I am back on the adulterous market. James and I have ended it.

I'm in a lot of pain right now; despite the fact that I knew it was coming, it wasn't a mutual decision. The tough thing is not being able to tell my best friend, Hubby, about it. Last night he took me out for Thai and all I wanted to do was cry into my sticky rice.

James is struggling with his feelings about me. The last few weeks have been incredibly intense. I can't define in what way; just that our emotional connection has risen to a new level. I'm sure in any other situation, that kind of butterfly-stirring, firework-lighting effect would be welcomed, but when you're cheating on your husband or wife, it's the last thing you want to feel.

There were a few hours, lying in bed with James, drunk on romance, where I thought about running away. I rehearsed it in my head; telling Hubby what I'd done, letting him hate me, packing a bag and escaping with my lover on some generic highway into a postcard sunset. Alas, reality always find a way of seeping in to your fantasies sooner or later.

On Sunday we met for lunch, and James named what we have been avoiding for the past year; we were in hopelessly love. He cried, I cried. I was all very dramatic. Although we parted agreeing that we both needed 'space', this is most definitely the end. Seeing each other again after having christened the elephant in the room would be far too dangerous.

It's at times like these where I have to remind myself why I embarked on an affair in the first place. I love my husband; he is my one and only, the Rhett to my Scarlett, the cream in my cake. James was only ever meant to fill a gap. Like some kind of good-looking, emotionally intelligent Polyfiller.

Forgive my DIY analogies. James wasn't just some device. He was a living, breathing human being, and to refer to him as any less than that would be cruel. Which, unfortunately, is all I'm capable of being at the moment. It hurts too much to think about what he really meant to me. For the next few months, he will be the adhesive that closed up the cracks in my marriage, nothing more. At least until I get my thoughts together.

I think it hasn't quite hit me let. It's all still at arm's length. Give me a few days, I'll be your regular suicidal dumpee.

Thursday, 1 April 2010

April fool

Dear Ron (in Florida),

Thank you for your comment on my previous post, entitled "Apologies". I always appreciate comments from my regular readers, and it seems you have a good understanding of the sort of human being I am.

In particular, you understand that I am just the sort of women who welcomes, nay, encourages, comment from strangers relating to my genitals.

Your phrasing is divine; your point so well executed. A statement this powerful need not be constrained by the laws of grammar. I applaud your boldness, and, if I wasn't currently married, maintaining an extra-marital relationship, and planning my advances on our new office intern, I would surely fly out to the States and let you "dive into my nether-regions", as you so beautifully put it.

Alas, as my status does not allow it, you may be waiting for some time.

Kind regards,

Michelle (sadly, rather far away from Florida)

Monday, 29 March 2010



Papers...filling desk...Idiot colleagues not helping...

James moments...few and far between. Husband has officially given up on my nether-regions. Expect to find 'Gone Fishing' sign down there one of these days.

Have developed uncontrollable crush on our new intern. So gorgeous. Would of course be a complete and utter craddle-robber if I did anything about it...but no harm in looking. Well, staring. Christ.

Currently distracting self from the never-ending spreadsheet that is my life by listening to Sinead O'Connor and eating Snack'a'Jacks (really not sure how to punctuate that). Finally managed to get a copy of Spotify without paying for it. Had day of 80's hair metal yesterday. Now feeding my ovaries with a bit of the said shaven-headed diva. They love it.

Hello to all my readers. I promise I will be back properly soon. But until then...

S xxx

Thursday, 4 February 2010

Valentine's Day nightmare

Like Martin Luther King, I had a dream. Unfortunately, it wasn't one about equal rights or a brighter future. It was about my sordid affair.

Picture the scene. It's Valnetine's day. I am supposed to be at work, but because James and I couldn't possibly spend the evening together, we are having a midday brunch and sex-fest at a local hotel. For some reason, we have decided to bring the two big breakfasts up to our room and, rather like that scene in 9 and a Half Weeks, are proceeding to feed each other.

Except this isn't 9 and a Half Weeks, and after 5 minutes, our room looks like a ram-raided greasy spoon - chunks of sausage and streaks of bacon lie strewn across the bed. One of my bra cups is filled with tomato sauce, the other with mustard, making me look like some futuristic condiment dispenser. James has three hashbrowns in his y-fronts.

At this point, my phone rings. It is Hubby, who is parked outside my work building across town.

'Happy Valentine's Day love. Just thought I'd come and surprise you. I'm at your office, but I can't seem to park. Do I need a permit?'

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

'Ermmm, hiiii love. I'm actually just on my lunch break at the moment...'

'At 11 in the morning?'

'Yes, well. You know me. Gobble gobble gobble'.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

'Okay...well. Do I need a permit or can I just park here?'

My mind is racing with excuses and possible explanations for my absence. I need something that will occupy him - at least for the time it take me to get in my car and drive to meet him...

'Yesss, yes, you do. It's actually quite a complex procedure though. Maybe just park in the NCP around the corner? Then I can meet you in Starbucks and we can have a coffee or something...'

'Okay, that sounds great'.

Saved. Just.

James, flustered by the phone call, just keeps nodding and before we can discuss who's paying the bill my suit is on and I'm out the door and in my car. It's 10 minutes to the Starbucks I mentioned, but Hubby is terrible at finding his way around. I pray for isolated traffic accidents, for street-stalking Evangelists. Anything that could prevent hubby from reaching Starbucks before I do.

Thankfully, when I tumble through the door of the cafe, my spouse is nowhere to be seen, so I grab a seat. Punters stare wildly at me as I collapse into a sofa and frantically fix my suit.

After about 5 minutes, I hear the door go, and a familiar voice say my name. Standing up, I turn around and am greeted by the shocked, open-mouthed expression of Hubby. He is staring at my face, scanning every inch, eyes frowning in repulsion. Turning to face the mirror on the wall behind, I see why. My entire face is covered in egg yolk, from chin to forehead, lumps drips slowly off my nose like a jaundice zombie.

I literally have EGG ON MY FACE.

No prizes for guessing what this one means, folks. Pre-Valentine's Day anxiety? Not me.

Seriously though. My subconscious can fuck off. I am going to have my cake AND eat it. And no breakfast-themed nightmare is going to stop me.

But it might make me a bit more careful. Yikes.


Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Insider info

Rosie just sent me this...

It's the e-Book. And it is very funny. Have a quick look on your lunchbreak ('Gifts for your mistress' is particularly LOL).

Much love xx

Monday, 18 January 2010

Affair overload

Gosh darnit. I love having a lover, but I am strating to wonder whether I should take a break from James, if only to preserve my health.

After the snow meant our trysts were delayed, the last week has been spent doing major romantic catch-up (read : 2 hotels visits and a cheaky mid-morning fumble in my car this morning).

Hubby has now recovered from his mysterious illness and has since taken up a baffling interest in DIY. SO while he's banging about in the spare room trying to install some shelves, I can be downstairs on the 'net, Skyping pictures of my cleavage to James. Which is, of course exactly what Skype was intended for.

Nice to be back to normal again. Not that my routine is very routine!

And thanks for the sympathetic comments by the way - even though my situation probably shouldn't receive any sympathy. Naughty girl! Slap on the wrist! etc.


Thursday, 7 January 2010

Snow is bad for my marriage

My garden looks like a postcard.

Inside, I am seething.

Hubby and I have been stuck in the house for the last three days and he is really starting to grate on me. You would have thought that a few days alone with the love of my life would be bliss. And I guess it would have been, if Hubby had not contracted a severe case of Man Flu.

The man has become Caesar-like, barking demands from his chair in the living room, from where he sits in his smelly bathrobe, watching reruns of ER. Every sentence is punctuated with a groan. He has a cold, and yet his appearnace suggests he is dying from some as-yet-unknown superbug.

This sketch from Man Stroke Woman seems to articulate my predicament pretty well...

Like a good wife, I have been running around, picking up his snotty tissues and pretending to sympathise with his hypochondria, but I have had enough. I am now upstairs, listening to Annie Lennox, and have told him to look after himself. After all, my bastard employers are insiting that I work from home.

Anyone else stuck? I hope not. Being housebound is a bugger.