All Eggs in No Baskets...

I've been having some fantastic dreams lately, mostly involving my first female love and fantasies that never materialized but seem incredibly tangible and true. It's not rare for me to have intense sexual dreams where I can almost climax in my sleep; I usually wake up and don't remember them, but something later in the day or the week will cause me to recall it with fierce clarity. The colors and the smells and the scenery from my false reality will come flooding into my conciousness, and I catch my breath and smile...a quiet, appreciative smirk.

Dreams like these remind me of the realities I've encountered: the beautiful, the risky, the adventurous, the painful, the discontented, the exhilarating, the sad. The older I get, the less interested and willing I am to engage in illicit affairs. I've dug to the roots of my willingness and need for such private validation, being someone's secret makes you feel special and set apart. A belonging that creates a bubble around your partner and yourself, a private secret world. Unless you have had an affair with someone you admire and respect, I really cannot describe the rush you get from being their "Chosen One". It's such a supreme validation, yet, in its own way, it's also the ultimate insult. You're good enough to fuck, to visit with and date privately, but not good enough to risk it all, out loud, to be chosen for the world to see, all eggs in one basket. As it is, you're their other basket (or possibly one of several); at some point, they had put all their eggs in the wife basket, but now, they're feeling neglected or adventurous (or you've grabbed their facination and boosted their ego), and they're willing to divide their basket, little by little, cautiously at first. Something that I find facinating about this exercise is how frequently men are betrayed by their mistresses, in the public eye, yet, they choose to risk it all and trust you when you tell them you will keep their secrets as you embark on this very private adventure together.

I'm facinated by all of the (recent) buzz and sensation surrounding illicit affairs and the great lengths that seemingly reasonable, rational men have gone to in order to juggle all the versions of themselves and their lives and the intense compartmentalization that must take place for it all to co-exist so seamlessly for any length of time. What I find most humorous, that amidst all of this, they call us, females, the dramatic ones. Seems to me that they thrive on that drama like fuel for their psychological engines. I will always prefer to be the one on the outside looking in, the third party, but not again from the inside looking out. Each experience, though, each person's reality treats you to a new spectacle, a new mirror to hold up to yourself and a viewpoint you might never have stumbled on if you were always the one in control.

In the words of a seasoned philanderer I know, "Valentine's is the day most all cheaters get busted. They get busted because it's the only day they are required to show love to all their women, and when there are several, they are guaranteed to get themselves in trouble."

Just a little enticement on this Valentine's Day...