Confessions

The antagonistic conversation began at first sight Sunday morning. The guilt I felt must have been seeping from my pores filling the room with the distinct aroma of shame. She sensed it immediately and pounced on the opportunity. The long knives made an appearance and prepared to carve into my soul.

Call it a woman’s intuition; call it whatever you like, but she knew. The line of questioning always started the same way, with her trying to catch me in a lie. As if that made what I did any worse. As if I were to tell the truth, the outcome of this conversation would change. It never did. It just added a mountain of self-righteousness to my defense and the finality of what was coming.

“Where were you on Saturday?” 

I saw the quiver in her lips and her large, brown, almond eyes water up. Her fists clenched in defiance of my mere presence. Her terse and shaking voice made me glance away from the pain in her eyes down to my shoes.

A list of excuses ran through my mind. The more ridiculous on the surface, the more plausible they seemed. Would she believe in a veterinary emergency knowing I owned no pets? A family scuffle by the uncle who always seemed to cause trouble at family gatherings, even though my family lived 3,000 miles away? I suffered a horrible leg injury in a bus accident but miraculously healed? Desperation gripped me as the ability to think lucid thoughts took a vacation. I stood still and dumbfounded studying the lace pattern on my pair of well-worn sneakers.

Why did we have to do this in public, and at the yoga studio where we agreed to meet? I knew for all the remorse I felt, her pain was worse. I stammered and paused, giving her another stab at me. 

She continued the frontal assault.

“As if I don’t know the answer. Is it your ex? The one you used to see all the time before me? Is it someone new? Are you dumping me?” 

Her voice trailed off to breathless exhaustion as she pushed out the line of questioning in one exhale. Her face reddened while her lips pursed into an accusatory stance. I could tell she teetered on the verge of tears as this last question brought a quiver to her voice, as she was fond of me. We had been seeing each other regularly for five months now and the love grew into something quite special.

When we were together, our time manifested into a passionate ritual. We would share our sweat together in the beauty of our love, catching glimpses of our glistening bodies in the mirror adorning the room. She always knew just how to relieve the stress from my day, to make the madness of the world melt away. She always brought my spiritual self to the forefront and left me feeling gratitude for knowing her, and kept me in the grace of God. The beauty of our experience together and what I had done; no, what I had been doing all along, gnawed at me.

As I glanced sideways from the deep and meaningful study of my shoes, I noticed two women in workout clothes eavesdropping on the conversation. The shorter one with her hair spun up into a perfect bun rolled her eyes at me while the taller woman with angular bone features shared with me her icy death stare. Every wrong guy she ever dated encapsulated her facial features. These gossips should mind their own business. They would be lucky to find someone as dedicated as me, even if I strayed from time to time.

How could I tell her I cheated on her? That she didn’t complete me? The guilt overwhelmed me, but it felt somewhat justified. I decided on stern resolve. Why should I let this guilt eat away at my being? Doesn’t a man need more than monogamy? What about my needs that are not met in this relationship?

My ex had more to offer. She was way hotter and made me sweat like no one had ever done before. When together with her, I worked and earned everything she offered. She demanded physical awareness and presence with a delicate balance exuding gentle grace. After being with her, my exhaustion reached new levels, and I even experienced dehydration from the experience.

And then, of course, my part-time affair, which only occurred on special occasions. She exuded a high class I couldn’t afford, but I liked to hang out with her every once in a while. She was the one I hoped my friends saw me with so we could high five at happy hour later in the afternoon. Sometimes she gave me massages after we were together, an unexpected benefit neither my ex nor my current situation provided.

As if the guilt of this situation wasn’t sufficient, my less than desirable habits when I traveled for business overwhelmed the current shame with a fresh layer of embarrassment. Additional trepidation flooded my nervous system as I pondered the infidelities of my many business trips. The sheer number of incidents would shock her, maybe to violence.

I became the weak man my mother and grandmother preached against during childhood. The sort of man who cannot look a woman in the eyes. The sort of man where the word monogamy creates a chill and raises the cackles.

I considered maybe I was the problem. It could be. My infidelities continued to cause never ending guilt and shame, and not to mention the emotional pain I caused these beautiful women.

I continued to stare at my feet, trying to brave up an answer and let her down with ease. Honesty was the best medicine, right?

I peered into her beauty and told her the truth, and saw her face drain of color as she realized the gravity of my words. My ears numbed as I laid out reality.

“I am a yoga slut, and I practice at three studios, even more when I travel. I love you all, and a man cannot be bound to just one!”