Don't call it passion

I was a happily married woman with two marvelous daughters and a stupendous husband. Or so I thought. Because six years ago I found out he was cheating on me. I’m not talking about a little fling here and there, I mean stabbing me in the back with a broadsword, one so big everyone sees it except the person getting it –in this case, me.

And so I stopped being happily married. I got divorced, I bought an apartment, and I started a new life, I met new friends and slowly the rancor I felt against the male sex of my species began to disappear. The fact is, I was comfortable with my new life divided among my job, my children, and my family. Until, suddenly, they showed up.

That’s right, two instead of one. And each radically different from the other. At first, I wasn’t that happy about provoking their interest, but what can I say, six years having sex exclusively with myself is just too many. And so I’m thinking of having a fling of my own. Well, actually two.