Probably my only serious post.

It really puts things into perspective, this kind of thing.

Just been reading an article on the BBC site about a Somanlian woman who has been stoned to death in her own country for commiting adultery.

Love really does seem to be one of the only forces that law and legislation cannot contain. It makes me so sad and so terribly grateful at the same time, that I live in a country where I can make my own romantic choices without fear of punishment. Surely these torturous methods exist to deter people, but in the end, there will always be those that will risk everything. Such is the nature of the beast.

Us cheaters in Britain have it lucky. I did a little research. Turns out infidelity is still illegal in some states in the US (you can get a life sentence in Michigan, or be charged with class 1 Felony in Wisconsin). It is punsihable by death across the Middle East - usually death by stoning. In India you get locked up.

So, next time I'm waiting on a wet street corner for James, cursing my unsuitable shoes and the SAD-inducing weather, I will take a breath and remind myself of how lucky I am in my freedom to choose. And it really is luck.

Love Michelle x

The Dilema of Christmas

Oh dear. Christmas is coming. I know this because, unnervingly, Next have started displaying their horrid 'festive' jumpers in the window of the shop near my workplace.

With Christmas comes a logistical nightmare. On the plus side, the holiday season is the only time when I get to take time off from my horrendous job and chill the hell out (blood preasure is a bit ridculous at the moment - fear I may burst before December even gets here). On the minus side, my husbamd does exactly the same thing.

Guess what this means? No no, it doesn't mesn that (rude!). It means NO JAMES. FOR 3 WEEKS.

It's not that I won't be getting a regular dose of How's-Your-Father. Hubby had a little revelation a few weeks ago with a little pill, and now it seems he can't leave me alone (I would like to add that this is not always a good thing. Especially when you've just got home from work, and all you want to do is watch House and eat chinesse).

But it does mean that the quality of Hows-Your-Father I will be getting will be significantly decreased. Instead a making occasional love with a strong, statuest stalion who can lift me with one of his arms tied behind his back, I will be stuck with a podgy little bald man, plagued by an almost-perminent errection.

Might. Go. Mad. James and I will be in touch via most electronic mediums, but that is no substitue for the real thing. Plus, I don't want to keep sneaking off to make phone calls, since the hubster will be around pretty much all of the time. No desire to arouse suspicion.

I am preparing myself for this drought by seeing James as much as possible before the festive End of Days. This, in hindsight, probably isn't the best idea, since my withdrawal symptoms will probably be much worse as a result, but who cares? For the minute, I am letting the good times roll.

This evening, J is taking me for dinner. And if I'm lucky, I might get a quick grope in the fire escape.


Sometimes I sound so sophisticated, I scare myself.

Full coverage

So, have just finished doing an email-based interview with The Bolton News. I know what you're thinking - I have officially arrived. Soon I will have the New Yorker banging on my door asking for my comment on some new infidelity scandal. And I will push them to my publicist because I'm having a manicure with Monica Lewinsky.

This is what I dream about while sat in my sad little office, pasting Philadelphia onto a Sainsbury's own-brand rice cracker.

One thing I do find funny about journos is how they always seem to want you to be fully identified. I had spoken to several over the course of this year, and at some point, the following exchange always ensues:

"So, it would be great to get a picture..."

"Yes, I'm sure it would. Unfortunately I'm trying to keep my affair a secret, so that won't be possible."

"Okay Michelle. Is that your real name, Michelle Sutton?"

"No, no...of course not."

"What is your real name?"

"Why?"

"Well, we'd really like to use your real name in the piece..."

"No, sorry. Like I said. I am married and I do not want my husband to find out about my affair so you won't be getting those details from me."

"Okay. This lover of yours...James is it? What's his full name? Do you have any picture of him?"

"*Audibly bangs head against wall*"

"Ahhh, right. Sorry."


I completely understand why a newspaper want to have a photo and a real name - it makes the story so much more immersive. But, in truth, why would a MARRIED WOMAN, having AN AFFAIR IN SECRET, want to identify herself in a LOCAL NEWSPAPER? Yeah, I don't know either. I put so much effort into keeping James under my...hat. I don't want some local rag outing me to everyone and his wife. And their lover.

I have realised this has turned into a bit of a rant. In order to counteract the negatively of the last two paragraphs, I am going to paste an image of something cute. To reset the balance.


Disturbingly, if you search the word 'cute' on Google image search, the following image is the first result...


I have a lot of words to describe that picture. 'Cute' isn't one of them. I apologise to any arachnophobics I might have unnerved. Nothing in more terrifying than seeing the head of something cute pasted on the body of something terrifying. Like seeing Johnny Depp's jewel of a head on Simon Cowell's high-waisted, smug record-exec torso. Shudder.

In conclusion, any Bolton bloggers out there, keep an eye out for said interview. I haven't got a date yet, and knowing locals, I probably won't get one...so keep your peepers peeled.

I realise my dream of becoming a world-renowned infidelity expert is, at the moment, far from realistic. So in the meantime, humor me.

x

A non-distress call

Hello ladies and gents of the web (of lies and deceit).

I have just received an email from Rosie, at IllicitEncounters.com, asking if I might like to take part as an anonymous case study in an up-and-coming TV show about the site and all it's mucky, mucky members.

Anyway - I said I would pass said request out to cyberspace. Because I'm nice like that. If you're a married lady (or, indeed, a mistress) who would be happy to talk anonymously, silhouetted on camera, about your experiences of being a play-away Paula, then drop Rosie an email at

presspr@illicitencounters.co.uk

Look at me. I am SO their bitch.

Seriously though. It should be fun, and I'd quite like a chance to meet some fellow adulteresses for a drink and a giggle.

Chow chow (I think that's a dog),

M xxx

My Darling Husband

Was listening into an interview Rosie from IllicitEncounters.com did on BBC Covetry (I am 'in' with them now...not sure how positive that is!). They gave her a pretty hard time I must admit, which I guess is fair enough, but there was one thing that really pissed me off.

At one point, the presenter (irritating little man, didn't disguise his polemic very well) mentioned the wedding vows. He said "But what about the promises you make when you marry someone? Don't they count for anything?"

You know what, Mister Radio Presenter? Since I began my affair, I am more capable of looking after my husband, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, than ever before. Because the stress I used to feel about our sex life has finally gone, I am able to support him better than ever. My perspective is clearer. I know now, better than ever, that we are made for one another. And, as a secondary point, our sex life is MUCH better.

To those non-cheaters, this may sound contradictory. But my relationship with James, although intimate, is functional. If James stopped being able to provide me with the things I need, then I would stop seeing him. I hope that he feels the same way about me.

I wish there was a way of making people understand that convention does not always dictate the best way. A faithful mariage is an ideal, but I genuinely believe it is not always posible. Maybe if everyone took a second to think about this, there wouldn't be as many unhappy marriages in the world.



Okay. Rant over. Sorry about that folks. Next time I'll post something funnier. In the meantime, here's a joke to lighten the mood...

Guy goes into a bar. Big guy, but his head is the size of an orange.

Goes up to the bartender, orders a beer. Bartender serves him and asks why a big guy like him has such a small head.

So the guy tells him his story: He was stranded on a desert island. He hadn't seen a women in weeks and was beginning to think he might die out there alone. But one lonely day he stumbled upon a genie lantern. Out comes this beautiful genie who says, "I'll grant you one wish . . . what will it be?". The man thinks, then asks "Well, it's been such a long time, and I don't know how long I'm going to be stranded here - I wish for you to make love to me". The genie shakes her head. "I'm afraid I can't grant that wish."

The guy says, "Ok then, how 'bout a little head?"

LOL.

The Realisation

Finally, some positivity.

Yesterday, prior to my revendevous with James, I was stood in front of my full-length mirror in my bathroom, stocking-and-suspendered up, checking the shock-absorbing qualities of my new basque.

What a nice image.

So many of my friends complain about their bodies, their saggy bingo-wings, their alopecia (thankfully that one bypassed me). But honestly, I think it's about the way you see yourself. For example, I am a healthy size 12. Many of my fitnnes-freak friends find this a little appauling, force feeding me rice crackers, or encouraging me to swap my muffin for a granola bar.

I think it's a bit out-of-order. I am not fat. I am curvy. In fact, I think a fuller-figure is an asset, rather than a draw back. (However, I must stress, when I say a 'fuller figure' is an asset, I do not mean the kind of 'fuller figure' which proves problematic in doorways.)

After sometime of embracing this rather anti-women ideal of the skinny minnie, I have decided to give my friend's prejudices the boot, and am feeling much the better for it. So much so that yesterday I donned my underwear in a pre-date rehearsal, and danced rather vigorously around my room to an old Alisha's Attic album. Like a banshee. Maybe even a wailing one.


New M&S super-bra and suspender belt. He is not going to know what...

...hit him.

Tiptoe, tiptoe

Since 'The Big Panic', I have been extra-extra-cautious about things, and vow never to log onto IllicitEncounters from home again. Still temptation is there.

Last night I was lying in bed with hubby. I got up to go to the toilet, him sleeping deep beside me, and that nagging little thought came into my head. "He's far gone", it said "You can go and get your rocks off downstairs, it's safe."

No, little devil on my shoulder. Be quiet.

I am learning to control the voices. Well, voice. It is the same voice which tells me to buy a Burger King on the way home, when I know they're be a nice healthy stir fry waiting for me. It's the voice that, when I'm lying in bed with James, tells me to call in sick. "*Cough cough*...swine flu."

No. Bad Michelle. Control yourself.

It is so easy to be bad, and so hard to be good. So I guess the only way to survive is to be good at being bad. Or something like that. Cheater's logic. Gotta love it.