I’ve thought about this. What if someone actually reads my book? My vision is that I am a NYT best-selling author. That means I am a celebrity in my world, which means I have no privacy. I don’t want to share any secrets in my memoir that would cause anyone further pain. I’ve already caused others enough pain by nature of my actions. I know this is casting the line far, far out into the future. I don’t want my writing tainted by others’ opinions. First drafts are for everything.
I told my ex-husband, Martin, last week that I was writing my memoir. After we got off of the phone, I recalled the time that Brandon came over to our house. Brandon was his best friend and neighbor that he had known since childhood. Martin was riding his bike in the countryside. I had been video chatting with Dave, the man I was having an affair with, who was back in Japan. We were having sex over Skype. I was wearing a dark green silk robe that I had stolen in my first year of sobriety from the department store where I worked. The robe was delicate thin silk covered in leaves. I had nothing else on. Brandon pulled up and came to the door. I told Dave who was here and told him to wait as I answered the door, that I would be right back. He could hear all that was happening. Brandon asked what I was doing, and I blushed and cast my eyes down and said, “I can’t tell you.” I was emanating sexual energy. I imagined it like a cloud, the energy culminating in a finger that was beckoning Brandon closer. I pulled the tie on my robe so it opened, and he could see my nakedness. I leaned in to kiss him, then I took his hand, and slid his rough finger inside of me. I was hot and wet. He was a construction worker, his hands calloused. We fervently made out in the doorway. I pulled his finger out of my body and guided it to his mouth. I told him to taste me. His cracked hands explored my body. I knew he had wanted me for years; it made my head swim feeling his hands all over me. The cold winter air felt exhilarating and added to the buzz I felt. I felt afraid of when my husband might pull up, or a neighbor. Maybe Brandon’s wife might drive by, or their children on their bicycles. All manner of scenarios played through my mind, and I imagine Brandon’s mind, too. He pulled away first. The risk was too great. I felt like I was on ecstasy and didn’t want it to end. After Brandon left, I told Dave what I had done while he sat there waiting. I felt even higher, getting off on telling him. I told him I wished the computer screen had been positioned so he could have seen Brandon and I together. I could sense his mixed feelings from thousands of miles away. He loved me as his slutty girlfriend, but I imagine he felt deeply unsettled with my out-of-control behavior.
If my ex-husband ever read this in my book, if word got around, it would ruin not only his relationship with his best friend, but also his best friend’s marriage. I will write it all down, though. That’s first.