The Secret Confessions of a Horny House Wife

I’ve been Internet dating the past couple of weeks.  On a regular Internet dating site, not one specially designed for married cheaters.  I went out on two dates yesterday, and it was really confusing. 

Date number 1: Incredibly handsome, smart, quirky, ironic, good job, thoughtful, sweet, complementary, 31 (THIRTY-ONE!!!  A child by my normal standards),  considerate.  I sat through lunch, nervous, uncomfortable, not enjoying myself, and not connecting.  Afterward, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him on a real date, but he also said it seemed like I felt nervous, so he wasn’t really sure whether or not I was in to him. 

Date number 2: 51, brilliant, funny, a mess, slightly mentally ill, dirty hair, a little down-on-his-luck, sweet, nervous.  A writer, for God’s sake.  I told him that, according to my recent research, writers are bad in bed.  He told me that bad writers are bad in bed, but that he is a good writer.  And he is.  A really good writer.  I had the best time with him last night.  We had the greatest conversation.  The longer I sat with him, talking about Hepburn and Tracy, blow jobs and kissing, love and death and happiness, the more I thought maybe I wanted him.  But I don’t.  I don’t.  I don’t.  That is not what I want anymore for my life.  Even if it’s who I want, it’s not what I want.  Not anymore.  He sends me the best e-mails.  If I imagined the e-mails the perfect man might send me, they are his e-mails.  But no.  Absolutely not.  Right? 

I’m going to tell Handsome-Blondie “yes” and Mr.-Brilliant, But-I-Won’t- Jump-Off-That-Ledge-Again “no thank you.”  This is going to hurt, but better for it to hurt now than hurt later. 

HH