Hotwife Confession Journal Entry 01

Entry I: What to tell my husband?

Happy New Year, I guess.

Ok. Lets try this. I was raised on journaling. I know how to do this. My upbringing told me journaling was an important part of preserving our history in a written record. I do not, in fact, want a written record of this. However, what I learned on my own is that journaling helped me work through issues when I was younger. To put my worries, problems, or scattered thoughts into words, helped me sort things out and make sense of them. If nothing else, externalizing the issues was cathartic and made the issues seem smaller. I need this issue to seem smaller.

I stopped journaling for good reasons. I grew up. I started resenting the patriarchal upbringing that told me to do things, like journaling, because that was what good women of the church did. In branching out, I made genuine friends who were not afraid to talk about feelings and have difficult discussions that good churchly women would just stuff down and pray away. I met a man, who became my husband, who himself learned to have difficult discussions about his feelings. We grew together and felt safe talking about anything. Oh, Tom. I'm sorry, about so much right now. This is why I'm journaling. Despite being a grown woman, with great kids, a great marriage, a great career, with great coworkers and loyal friends, I suddenly feel so alone right now. I want to talk to Tom. I need to talk to Tom. That is the only way through this. But how to talk to Tom about this? Tom always tells me I'm such a smart person. But what I did feels so stupid, because I put everything at risk.

I had sex with another man tonight. Ugh, my boss. I need to go home. I need to go home. But my hands were shaking trying to drive there. I want to kiss my husband, crawl into bed and resume my very nice life. But my hands were shaking on the wheel the car so badly, I couldn't use my blinker correctly. I slammed on my brakes when I realized I wasn't wearing my pantyhose anymore. I left them twisted up on the floor of my boss's living room, like a complete idiot. I had to pull the car over and collect my thoughts. I needed to get off the road. I noticed a coffee shop in a strip mall, still open. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed my laptop, went in, ordered a warm tea, added plenty of honey, and parked myself in a corner. I opened my laptop and here I am.

I never wear pantyhose. I hate them. But Tom loves them. He used to ask me to wear them to bed. He would buy them for me in different colors and sheerness. Sometimes warmer ones because he knows I get cold, which is also (sort of) why I seldom wear skirts. But I left the house tonight for a dinner party at my boss's house wearing a skirt and a pair of sheer pantyhose that Tom bought for me ages ago. Tom noticed. He bounced his eyebrows at me in approval. He's probably home right now, waiting up for me, hoping I might be in the mood to have sex so he can feel the smooth pantyhose he so enjoys on my body. We rarely have sex these days, but he still gets excited if little things look like I might be feeling sexy. I was feeling sexy when I left the house but for the wrong reasons.

He never pushes me to do things that turn him on, if I am not into it. He respects me as a person. We only do things if we both consent and are both into it. I'm just not into much. Even so, Tom has gently attempted to find things that turn me on during our 20 years of marriage. Lingerie, dildos, vibrators, nipple clamps, cuffs, collars, videos. We would try them. Sometimes I would like them. However, I seldom spoke up about the things I liked more than others. Also, I rarely asked him to pull anything out when we started to get ready for sex. I realize I was leaving it to Tom to try and figure out on his own what I responded to more than others. I think he figured out I would come pretty hard with the nipple clamps. That was a good phase. But I never asked for them, so without feedback I think Tom worried I might be bored with them and they eventually went into the toy drawer in our closet with the other abandoned experiments. I know Tom always wanted to receive oral sex, but I was never into it. He enjoyed giving me oral sex, and even after he accepted that I would not reciprocate, he still enthusiastically went down on me. He is very good at it. I should have told him that more. If I would let him do it as long as he pleased, I'd always get an orgasm or two from it before we would get to penetrative sex. However, more often than not I would encourage him to stop, pull him up to me, and have him enter me. Maybe I felt guilty that I would not reciprocate...I definitely felt guilty. Ugh. But sex for me is about connecting with Tom. I want him to look into my eyes while he feels good inside me. I love hearing him let go of the world around us, connect with me, and feel going doing it. We choose positions that feel good for both of us, that are mutually comfortable and satisfying. We communicate and pace ourselves so we can come at the same time and feel close.

The point is Tom never complains or pushes. He respects me as a person. We communicate and run our marriage as equals. We raise our nearly grown kids as equals. Tom taught our boys to respect me and women in general. We are a good, successful, liberal, egalitarian household.

So why am I sitting here, alone in a coffee shop, less than an hour before it closes, with another man's come soaked into my panties?

Because I feel like I've been unfair and this time I feel like I've been so unfair, Tom would be perfectly right not to forgive me. He would probably still respect me. He'd invite me to go live my life as I saw fit. Just not as a married couple and unified economic household anymore. Or maybe not. This is what I need to work out.

Tom is great at planning conversations out. He does it all the time when we need to guide our sons through their development. I don't plan my words. I always talk with the feelings as they happen. But I don't think I can do that this time. If I just try to talk to Tom about this I'll just start crying. That's even more unfair. However, I know I will because my eyes are blurring with tears right now while I try to type here in a coffee shop. The barista keeps looking over at me while I wipe my eyes between sentences. I am sure she would like to start cleaning and closing up so she can go home, but I look pitiful. So, she is taking pity on me and letting me sit here and type through my emotions without knowing anything else about me. There's nobody I can practice talking this through with because that would mean confessing to a friend or coworker what I did. It's late. Most of my closest friends are in other time zones. Telling coworkers, even trusted one, would put this information into the office gossip stream as confirmed truth, rather than the inferred rumors they will undoubtedly be.

But there is still hope right? Even after all the sexual fantasies I turned down, all the toys Tom bought for us that wound up barely used and in the growing drawer of disused play things, could we make this....sexy? It feels dishonest to try and justify this after the fact. I had sex with my boss because I got swept up in a thrill I was not looking for. Even so, I indulged in as it built up over weeks or months. I honestly don't know how long I've been taking steps towards letting tonight happen. How many times could I have safely changed course and kept life simple? Hell, if I needed a thrill I could have said anything to Tom. If I had actually shown the slightest interest in a sexual fantasy or one of the toys he bought for me and carefully introduced, or even one of the toys I knew he bought but never had the courage to introduce, I could have easily reignited our sex life.

There was that year I actually felt brave and pretty enough to get boudoir shots done for our 15th anniversary. I had them professionally done. Careful lighting, filters, poses, all printed on heavy card-stock and gifted in a custom box. Tom was ecstatic. We had plenty of sex after those and I know he still cherishes those pictures. He has them stored carefully as evidence of the time I did something overtly naughty, and he admits he takes them out time to time for his private enjoyment.

On the other hand, there was the debacle over watching a porn together. It was around the time Tom very carefully and gradually suggested it would turn him on if I had sex with another man. I dismissed it as a suspicious fantasy. I told him it felt like he wanted me to do that so he could justify me letting him have sex with another woman. In my mind, it was analogous to our oral sex dynamic. I suspected he went down on me because he wanted me to do the same for him. Even after I trusted that he enjoyed seeing me in pleasure, that he went down on me without expectation of reciprocity, I remained skeptical. After that, he seemed to shift gears and we talked about watching a porn together. He thoughtfully inquired about what type of porn I would like to try. All I could think of was asking for something with a bit of a plot. He ordered a couple of videos on disk. He explained one was the typical scene type porn, involving black men, with no more than thirty seconds of plot dialogue to set the stage. The other was a full-length film with production value and hardcore scenes mixed in. Based on the cover, it looked like a pirate themed film, probably inspired by the successful pirate franchise at the time. I agreed to try the simple scene porn first, curious what the fuss was about. We agreed we could watch the pirate one as backup, if the first one was not appealing to me.

I did not make it through the thirty second of setup dialogue. The instant the stage was set about wives, so called "hotwives", having sex with these very well-endowed men outside of their married, I started crying. Actually crying. Half-dressed, in bed with my husband, presumably getting ready to get turned on and have sex, I started weeping. I still don't know exactly what set me off. Tom hopped up and turned off the video, like it was the start of a kitchen fire, apologizing the whole time. That was it. Night ruined. No sex. I barely slept and he kept a cautious sexual distance from me for weeks. That video, as well as the pirate one still in its plastic wrap, went into the forgotten sexual fantasy drawer. Years later we could laugh about the one time we tried to watch a porn together, but we never tried again. Tom never dared ask.

Even so, Tom would gently tease me now and again about his openness to me being a sexually liberated woman. Honestly, I think he was just trying to open the door to let me offer anything that turned me on. He would tease about what I might get up to at professional conferences, work dinners, or on a group vacation with girlfriends. He would encourage me to pick a gown with cleavage for a professional award dinner. He said it was hot to think other men would try not to stare at my very ample mom-cleavage.

I think it was that award dinner that might have started me down this path. It was my first such dinner event. I knew women would be wearing nice gowns. I knew that dress standards were different in the state we recently moved to. I did not want to come off as the stuffy religious type from the conservative state everyone knew I came from. So I shopped well outside my comfort zone, fully expecting the room to be full of other middle aged women showing off their assets. I overshot the mark. Not by Tom's standards though. His eyes popped. I could not wear a bra with this gown. Not only was it open at the top but plunged open between my breasts and showing part of my abdomen. There was top cleavage, in-between cleavage, maybe a touch of under-boob. I was positively pouring out of the front of that dress. Every day leading up to the event, I considered not wearing it, but I had painted myself into a corner. It was an online purchase. I did not have a backup and the dress otherwise fit. I hate wearing pretty bras because they are always digging into skin trying to hold up my boobs but I disliked going braless even more. All night, I kept checking the front of my dress, trying with mixed success to make sure the edge of my areolas did not creep into public view. For all my worries, the night and the dress were a complete success. My boss walked me from table to table, showing off his new funded researcher. Some men stared at my breasts, presuming I was displaying them to be looked at. Other men tried, unsuccessfully, to be more subtle. My closer female peers were more open about discussing my dress and diffusing my tension. They complimented me for being so bold, and expressing envy at having nice boobs to show off in my forties. I simultaneously felt ridiculous for wearing such a thing, as well as a bit flattered by all the compliments and feeling more than a little proud of myself for following through to wear it. Even so, I still managed to peel the dress off and snap into a familiar sports bra when I got home before I remembered Tom had explicitly voiced a desire to be intimate with me that evening while I was still in the dress. Dang. One of many missed opportunities to easily fulfill a sexual fantasy.

My boss did have more to say to me going forward. Yet it made sense for that to be the case. Multiple of my research projects were now fully funded and getting industry attention. I was a rising star in his research enterprise. He wanted to help me progress professionally and also not get poached by other institution. We emailed, had meetings, and texted on our work phones increasingly often. As the holidays approached, we exchanged private phone numbers but I told myself it was harmless. Holiday event planning was happening. Casual lunches, dinners, and maybe a party or two are not strictly work events. And I was making friends of my coworkers as I settled into my new community. It made sense to begin communicating with these people as friends. After all, plenty of my female coworkers already had my private number. So, what if my bosses texts got a little flirty? We are grown adults. My husband isn't possessive about who I talk to or stuffy about how we talk with friends. It did not seem out of line that my boss mentioned the, now infamous, ball gown once or twice, and how he thought I looked great in it. It was no big deal that I maybe wore a skirt a little more often when going to the office. I had a professional job now in a professional environment. I wore scrubs to a hospital for decades. I needed to buy a professional wardrobe now and skirts just made sense, right? Likewise, it made perfect sense to dig into the back of my closet for the hosiery my husband bought for me. It does, sort of, keep the chill off my legs when wearing skirts. It couldn't be helped that all the hosiery, as purchased by my husband, was a bit on the sexy side; usually sheer, often shiny, occasionally thigh highs. I had hosiery in such an array that I could always find something that matched the skirts I was buying. I could tone it down by wearing mostly sensible heels to work.

It was a bit fun getting noticed. I mean sure, my husband would compliment me before I left the house. However, stifling back a grin when a private text from my boss came in during the workday with a compliment about my "shimmering legs," or "thigh highs today?", was all just a harmless thrill to break up the day. I would text back, "I hope that's ok," or "I did not think anyone would notice." My boss would text back encouraging and flirty things. Sometimes these texts happened throughout the day, sometimes we hid these exchanges during group meetings. Naughty thrills. Harmless fun.

My boss. Fine, Greg. This is my journal. I can use his name. Greg started adding comments about being turned on if he noticed a flash of a thigh high top when I crossed my leg in a meeting. Or how much he liked to watch me bend over when I picked up my bags in my office at the end of the day. Yes, I mentioned he could touch it sometime. Yes, he brushed up against me later that same day, pressing his grown against my backside, and letting his fingers linger across my skirt as he passed in the break room. Yes, he texted me when I was back at my desk and told me the moment made him hard. Yes, I blushed, my face got warm, and I pressed my legs together under my desk as I felt some moisture build up between my thighs. Yes, I told him about it.

It was all a series of little thrills. Harmless, exciting thrills. It made the workday fun, and I would talk myself out of feeling guilty on the way home each evening. This went on for some time, never crossing some undefined line I imagined I had drawn, only sure that I had not crossed it...whatever it was.

Thanksgiving work lunches, Christmas dinner parties, all with coworkers present. None with spouses invited. Greg was there at every one of them, because he should be. Right? There were cocktails. Flirty glances exchanged across tables. The occasional stray hand on one another at a bar while we awaited a drink to be served. Or looking over a snack buffet, as we stood close to one another. But we kept it under control. Sure, some suspicious or knowing glances started to get exchanged among coworkers but there was nothing to it. No major lines were being crossed, we were confident of that.

Then the New Year approached. People were mostly past the peak of holiday cheer. However, it has been a successful year for our office and it promised to be a successful year going forward. Greg announced he would host a casual dinner at his house on New Year's Day. He understood people might be out of town on vacation, or partied out from New Year's Eve. However, he was just offering an open house dinner on New Year's Day, for anyone who might be interested and available. Just as a thank you for everyone. He would send gift cards to anyone who could not attend. Admittedly, it seemed duplicative. We had plenty of official office parties and gift exchanges in the months of November and December. But this dinner was a personal thank you. It was a nice and generous offer. I took him up on it right away. A handful of others in the office accepted, but that thinned out a bit more as people emailed their excusals on midday on the first day of the new year. Understandably, some folks were hung over or just plain tired from staying up for New Year's Eve. It was the first day of new year resolutions, so plenty of people were cutting back on parties and dinners, in favor of going to the gym and starting a new diet.

It was a pretty small group who remained committed to going to Greg's house for the casual dinner. Tom knew this dinner was coming up. He even teased me slightly when he learned it was at Greg's private home. He never asked if these events were open to spouses and I did not offer.

I got dressed in a plaid wool, wrap around skirt. It was snug and a bit above the knee, but the frilled edging gave it a casual look, and with my V-neck sweater, I thought I looked cozy. Sure the pantyhose were glossy, but again, not my fault. I did wear a silky black bra just to give my breasts a lift and a hint of cleavage with the sweater. Naturally, I wore sexy black panties but only because they matched the bra. Yes, I picked out heels which were a bit nicer than work heels., but most folks offer to take their shoes off when they enter a private home anyway. So, no biggie.

I grabbed my phone to text Greg that I would be leaving my house shortly and would be over in a about twenty minutes. There was a text from him waiting for me. It was a response to an earlier text I sent. He said, "I wish I could join you." I scrolled up in the thread. Oh, right. I mentioned I was starting to get ready to come over. I elaborated that I was about to take a hot shower and shave my legs. In fact, I had done more than that. I diligently shaved my legs and my mound, carefully feeling every rise and fold, making sure everything was perfectly smooth. That had turned into taking some extra time with the shower head on pulse, but I stopped short of getting carried away. Was I saving it? Anyway, I had forgotten about sending the text about the shower but Greg never missed a chance to flirt a little. I sent a heart-eyed emoji in response to him joining me in the shower before I added my text about being on my way.