A Short History of Dishonesty (Part I)

At 24, five years into my marriage, I fell in love with Scott, a fellow graduate student. We'd known each other for a year, over which time our interactions had gotten steadily more meaningful, until the exertion of sublimation spread a high sheen over everything: my dreams, the weather, you name it.  I was positively crackling. By December of 1998, I was going out of my way to accidentally bump into him, and every conversation was analyzed (by me) for covert meanings and possible shades of emotion. Above all, I wondered if he might be engaged in a similar decoding of everything I said to him.

One evening, we were slated to go to the same holiday party, and Scott offered to drive us both there. When we got to the place the party was supposed to be, it didn't look like it was happening, or at least we didn't feel very motivated to check it out. “Shall we do something else?” I wanted to know. So we ended up in sort of a dive bar, secreted in a booth, drinking Long Island Iced Teas and confessing our mutual attraction.

I got back home around midnight, still giddy, even though the alcohol had long ago worn off. Parker was already asleep. I lay there next to him, unable to sleep myself, repeating my mantra: “In the morning, I'm going to have to ask him.” I was petrified that even though we'd married with a vague understanding that neither of us was going to hold the other to that “forsaking all others” clause in the standard vows, Parker would say No.

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I remember waking up and launching into a slightly sanitized re-telling of the previous evening. I told Parker that Scott and I had confessed to having a crush on each other, and I wanted to know if that was okay. Parker seemed fine: so far, so good. I ventured further: what if something actually happened? I mean, what if we, say, made out? I mean, it probably wouldn't even get that far, but what if? Parker said that would be fine with him. “So, alright,” I said, mustering up my courage, “Will you still be happy with me if I end up having sex with him?”

Parker's reply, and I quote: “If you were happy, why would I be unhappy?”

I took this as permission. Which it was, in a manner of speaking, although Parker certainly experienced some unhappy moments when lovely theory gave birth to messy, squalling reality.

As for my conscience, I figured I was in the clear: I had been honest with my spouse, and therefore had no further reason to keep myself in check. The fact that Scott was living with another woman, who was (in fact, though I didn't know it until a few months later) already his fiancee – well, this was Scott's problem, not mine. 

And so it was that my first extramarital relationship should probably be classified as an affair, because Scott never told Monique the truth about the part I was playing in their lives. 

Scott and I were lovers before he married Monique, and we were lovers after the wedding, and we were lovers when their divorce was final, less than two years later, and we continued to be lovers for several years after that -- while he recovered from his divorce and experimented with dating again, and during his on-again off-again relationship with Chani, who knew about me, although she was clearly hoping for me to drop out of the picture. 

As far as I know, Monique still doesn't know the truth about any of this, although I'm certain she had her suspicions: after all, I watched her marriage to Scott collapse under the weight of what was not said when it needed to be said, a lie of omission that ended up spawning a host of other deceptions. 

After all these years, Scott is still a dear friend and an occasional lover (depending on what's going on in his dating life and/or his ability to tolerate what's going on in mine). But our relationship began with a big lie, a lie that has plagued us ever since.