Now that I have your attention: Was I a mistress? Yes.
Did I like it? No. There’s so many better things to be in life. Like a teacher. Or pharmacist. A notebook even. But a mistress? Hardly. It became something I was involved in, and draining is an understatement.
I’m sorry wives but I’ve been in your shoes before, so I know how uncomfortable this topic can be. See, some men play the game very well. Others? They aren’t really cut out to play at all. They’re better at sitting on the sidelines…
“Do you have a lighter?” I heard a voice mutter under his breath.
I looked up in disgust with my hands preoccupied, way too engaged and upset in my world to answer. Then the voice echoed again:
“Do you have a lighter?” My eyes connected with his in some weird synergetic kind of way. Despite my present demeanor and negative disposition from losing my grandmother, I mustered up just enough vocal chords to reply.
Is this guy fucking serious? Questioning me like I have a Google toolbar tattooed across my forehead. I’m at my Grandmother’s repast, I don’t feel like talking. To anyone. Yet, something came over me. I’m still not sure if it was the good or the evil side, and I realized this guy didn’t actually want a lighter. He wanted my attention. Oh? Attention? Okay.
Eventually , I gave it to him.
Now that I replay the moments in my head, everything around us was volcanic from the moment we met. Slow brewing, like a grade A… Candle. I’ll just say candle… Marijuana scented to be exact.
This candle of a man wasn’t my usual scent or flavor to be quite honest. I much prefer a different scent of candle, and he wasn’t it. Maybe Irish or Russian even… But Jamaican? NO. I eventually obliged.. Why not give it a try?
Sometimes we forget dating isn’t like a new pair of shoes that we can just try on and place back on the shelf if we’re not into it. I thought this candle or shoe, whichever analogy you choose would be much more memorable. I’ve spent weeks formulating this entry; replaying all of the hurt and so-called tears I shed.
Now, I can barely remember what the hell I was so head over heels over….
So I know you’re wondering, how did I let myself become a mistress? When you’re over 25, you should no longer aspire to live life as only a mistress, right?
This was the case for me at least. I didn’t want to be a mistress, and I didn’t want a relationship. I just wanted the perks of an awesome friend while dealing with the loss of my grandmother. As I write this post, I realize how much bullshit the situation was. What the hell was I thinking?? Months and feelings in, I became a mistress really in it for the sex and financial leg up. I’m not ashamed to admit, I received both. I didn’t know I could squirt before this experience. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling orgasmic pleasures that soak the bed sheets honestly.
He was cute, with a bit of financial support and could make me orgasm, but is that enough juice to be perfectly okay with being someone’s mistress? For some, maybe. For me, hell no! So why in the name of the heavens would I put myself through such an ordeal of living life as one?
Simple. I didn’t know I was a mistress. Again, some men play the game well. Others should only watch from the sidelines. He played the game well enough until I realized maybe he’s better just watching from the sidelines.
I was a mistress because I was dealing with someone that had to be married for immigration reasons. I’m not in a situation to marry anyone solely for their golden ticket into the US. He needed to be a US citizen, and someone could make that happen. I couldn’t do that, and I beat myself up because of my past. I thought, “It’s my fault I am a mistress. I shouldn’t have been previously married. If I wasn’t married, he would marry me. He’s only marrying her for his legal citizenship.”
Or so I thought. Later I learned he was marrying her because he actually loved her. It didn’t matter how many other dicks she deep throated while cheating on him. It didn’t matter that I knew I could give him everything he ever needed, mentally and physically. It didn’t matter. The only thing that seemed to matter is that the man I cared about was engaged, and marrying someone else that he loved to stay in the country. That someone he loved, wasn’t me. Damn was I foolish!
I cried, moaned and groaned over one of the dumbest situations of my life. I cared about an illegal immigrant that cared more about his legal status.
Could I blame him? Trump has an opportunity to win this election for Christ sakes. Obviously, I needed to understand the bigger picture at hand. What is affection compared to legal citizenship in the US right? No one wants to be on the ther other side of that wall that Trump is proposing to build. Not even me. I like having options…
So I was a mistress, for what I’m sure is the last time in my life. I was involved with a man that had to be married as soon as possible, and I couldn’t help. So yes. I. Was. A. Mistress. An adequately financed, sexually satisfied mistress. I don’t know what I cried over more: the dick or the money.
I shed a tear or two. I will admit that. Having moved on in such a positive light that would make any father proud, I’m not ashamed to admit: I was having sex with someone else’s fiancé. He played the game well. But not better than me…
When you move onto an educated college professor that would bend over backwards to please you and make you happy, it makes you appreciate your former mistress self. Someone I pray to never be again. Not in this lifetime at least.