This week, a woman drops her kids at school, then drives hours to see her secret man: 34, married, Westchester.
DAY ONE
6 a.m. Wake up before my kids to enjoy a cup of tea in peace. Also, to answer messages from my affair partner. Bryce is an early bird, too. He lives in Boston and is married with one child.
We met six months ago on a website for people seeking affairs. The men were mostly 50-year-old dad-bod types. I was about to give up when I found Bryce. He’s 40, with dark hair and blue eyes. He’s big into monthly bloodwork to “stay on top of his levels,” morning sunlight, and contrast therapy (a cold plunge–sauna combo). Basically, he’s a biohacking bro. One with a hard body and thick cock.
7 a.m. Bryce texts, “I finally figured out what I’m going to get you for your birthday” and links to a “clone-a-willy” silicone dildo kit. We send each other dirty Reels and memes. Until Bryce, I hadn’t had sex with anyone but my husband for 12 years. My sister, who doubles as my therapist, thinks I’m just dickmatized. But I have real feelings for Bryce.
8 a.m. Load my 6- and 8-year-old boys into the car for school, wondering how the hell I ended up a suburban mom before I started getting regular Botox.
I met my husband on a sugar-daddy website when I was 23 and he was 49. Being paid to date (and fuck) older rich men felt fun and sexy. I was living in Manhattan, pulling in serious bank, and finishing a psychology degree at NYU. I wanted Givenchy Antigona bags and Valentino Rockstuds in every color so I could be one of the cool girls at the Darby in Meatpacking. Being that girl really meant something to me. Like, Damn, she made it!
My husband paid to date me. When we fell in love after a month, he stopped, because it felt funny to us both. Looking back, maybe I confused his gifts — and everything else I ever could ask for — with true love. At 34, I require something deeper, but it’s still blurry.
11 a.m. Bryce and I are supposed to video chat. He texts that a meeting is running over. I wait, feeling like a loser. Bryce is successful and busy. I’m always waiting for him to call me; always free when he asks. He doesn’t need these moments of closeness in the way I crave them. I make a mental note: Be less available.
11:30 a.m. Bryce FaceTimes. We flirt, eye-fuck, and plan to meet at a hotel halfway between us in a few days. We meet up monthly — for sex but also just to see each other. We’re not in love, but we really like each other.
For now, we masturbate together. I get really into putting on a show for him with my new silver vibrator.
4 p.m. Take the boys to soccer practice. Cheer them on and chat with other parents. I hate not being fully present for my kids, but my mind drifts to Bryce and my marriage.
I grew apart from my husband years ago. I was never sexually attracted to him, and I got into our relationship for the wrong reason: money. We had a child, then another, and moved to the suburbs, without really creating a deeper foundation for our relationship. I know I want a divorce, but I’m afraid of disrupting my children’s lives.
8 p.m. The kids are bathed and everyone is fed. Scroll social media in bed while my husband watches TV on the couch. We’re two ships passing. It’s tense for me, but I don’t think he notices.
