For years I didn’t have the slightest interest in being faithful. It just didn’t seem important. As long as boyfriends didn’t know, then what possible harm could it do? At one (particularly busy) point I was juggling my optician, a very fetching motorcycle courier, my live-in boyfriend and, very occasionally, one of our flatmates. I was in love with all of them, of course. (All right, I wasn’t.)
For someone who likes to identify as a good person, I was distinctly amoral when it came to matters of the heart. I could always be counted on to do the wrong thing when the moment overtook me.
Everything changed when I met my husband 20 years ago, and knew straight away that this was “it”. I can’t pinpoint why, he just was – and still is – the best man I’ve met. He’s always treated me with the utmost respect and love, which is probably what I was looking for all along. Now the thought of being unfaithful makes me want to heave. Thankfully, he finds my past antics quite funny; I expect he has a few stories of his own.
The woman I was back then feels like a different person entirely. And while I’m truly ashamed of some of the situations I got myself into, I still chuckle recalling the unusual locations where my illicit encounters took place, including the Libyan People’s Bureau, the set of The Crystal Maze, on the pitch at Stamford Bridge, numerous trains, and next to Cleopatra’s Needle in London. Pretty good, hey? Well, not good. But fun nonetheless.
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