Monogamy and infidelity are two words that often go together. Monogamy is a difficult, if not impossible, situation to remain in. I have yet to be in a monogamous relationship that has not lead to infidelity in many senses of the word.

When the gangster cheated on me, it was worse than when the man I was actually married to cheated. Gangster actually fell in love with another woman. That about killed me, it wasn’t like he just fucked some bitch. It was not a simple case of stupid hard dick. It was a case of loss of love and he finding it somewhere else. My heart broke and turned to some sort of toxic crazed rage, that I kept fueled with booze, various drugs, random cock, and by never letting go of the gangster when I should have. It was truly a sick time in my life. When thinking back on it, I still get upset at how much his betrayal hurt and how I did not know how to deal with that–except for crazy.

When I was married, it was me who first dipped into disloyalty.

The first time was odd, I found myself at my local dive with two of my co-workers, one of whom happened to be close friends with my husband. We were getting into some serious drinking—eyes were glancing and dancing as fingers and hands were thigh grabbing under the table. With my inhibitions fully lubricated– my sensibility walked out of that dive bar that night. I could feel my body overcome with inebriation as my hands also slid under the table grasping at my coworkers fingers, guiding them between my legs. My pussy, always socially lubricated before me, seized, embraced and let loose all at once. I was sitting there on my bar stool with wet panties, feeling a mans cock who was not my husband. It was not until our lips locked that my judgment snapped in. When our companion left for the bathroom we shared our first kiss, it was soft, wet, tasted like booze and sizzling hot.

More drinks! More libations, more liberation. My kissing companion became more brazen, he knew I was married and yet his maneuvers were no longer a secret his hands handled openly—his lips found mine without fail. When our other co-worker finally saw, finally caught on–he looked at me like what the fuck are you doing?

That was all it took, the last kiss through me over the edge and I freaked, jumping out of my chair I flew out the bar in a complete drunken sprint, luckily I only lived three long blocks away. I never told my husband, and my husbands friend never said anything about and rarely does now, but it is a secret between us–and the man I kissed, who has now acquired the nick name “Fingers Williams.”

My second indiscretion came at the time when my marriage was truly suffering. We were at a point of dislike. Everything about the other was annoying, a struggle to smile and be happy with each other. It made this particular cab drivers moves very appealing.

This day, which eventually spanned months, was exhilarating, wild, and completely out of character. He was abrasive, rough a fucking cab driver for Christ sake. Asshole. Ahhhh the many assholes I’ve loved. He was a childhood friend, of a friend and we all ended up together on one fine SF Sunday, hitting bar after bar, in which he seemed to know every bartender. Free drinks flowed. His cabbie personality was distinctly hot. Abrasive, honest, a native San Franciscan. His kisses, his approach was all smooth natural—there was no feeling of cheating on my husband, for that moment there was no husband. Cabbie was larger than my dismal hate filled married life, he was escapism.

Taking me out of the bar, pushing me against the outside wall, the dim alley lights–lighting our way, his kisses soft–his pressure hard, pinning me against the brick, he lifted one of my legs at the thigh—so strong was he that the other legs was sort of dangling. I was being held up by my thigh and his lips. His fingers and hands explored all of my body, roughly–like only a cab driver would, his big hand rounding my curved ass down into the folds of my pussy. Cabbies full palm reached between my junction, pressing my cunt, creating liquid flow. Letting my thigh drop, but never taking his lips off mine his hand cupped my full tits, smashing, searching—dying to taste. When his fingers locked into my belt loop, I knew. He tugged hard pulling my waistband out enough—then his hand dove into the front, past my panties into my soak. He finger fucked me against the bare wall, lifting me off my feet, lips working my lips, his fingertips tangled into my bush. He made me so wet, he made me cum on his hand, in my panties. I felt my body collapse on to his big fist when I came. Along with cum, came a feeling of defeat—I came by a man who was not my husband.

I knew that night my marriage was over.