Let me start off this confession by saying that I am NOT a cheater. I may be a chronic flirter, or just seriously insecure, but after 24 years of marriage, I have never cheated on my husband. Have I ever wanted to cheat? Have I ever had extremely specific, recurring fantasies — including extensive plans surrounding location, time, temperature and other logistical concerns — involving an imaginary adulterous event? Um … yeah. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t happen in my brain like 20 times a day. But the key words are IN MY BRAIN. I’ve never acted on any of my fantasies. They just occasionally consume my every thought to the point where I drive straight past work in the morning and find myself five miles out of town choosing imaginary lingerie and a provocative playlist to accompany the vanilla-scented candles I’ve lit in the mental hotel room of my dreams.
You’re probably thinking,This chic needs to get a life … a SEX life. Well, you might be right about that, except that I DO have semiregular sex with my wonderful, still attractive husband. We’ve been having the exact same, semiregular sex for 24 years, and while it may not be mind-blowing, it’s certainly very … um … consistent. My husband is reliable, loving and, you know, always there.
So I fill in the blanks with my imagination, and it has been working well for me. That is, until the object of my fantasies became someone who’s definitely off the menu. After a decade of mentally salivating over various celebrities, delivery boys and the occasional male teacher or over-21 camp counselor, someone completely inappropriate found his way into my daydreams. The harder I tried to get him to leave, the more fascinated I became. Purely by accident (or severe mental weakness), I developed a crush on my friend’s husband.
Julie and I had at least one child in the same class for eight years in a row. We volunteered to be class mom once and pinkie-swore to each other we would never do that to ourselves again. We’ve shared babysitters, groused to each other about the pressures of being a working mom and sat next to each other crying at high school graduation. A few times a year, Julie and I will plan a couples’ dinner with our husbands, who get along well. She’s not my BFF, but she’s a good friend who has been around for a long time. Reliable and consistent. Just like sex with my husband.
In 2017, Julie’s husband, Tom, got a personal trainer and a new diet plan. I remember sitting at dinner with them and Tom telling us all about his New Year’s resolution to get fit. Six months later, I was having drinks with Julie and a new-and-improved, sculpted-and-toned Tom. Oh, and my husband! My husband was also there. I think. It’s a blur of middle-aged muscle and chiseled chin — neither of which can be found on my husband.
It’s hard to put into words the deep awkwardness and guilt one feels while crushing on a friend’s husband. I’d be driving to the gym on a Saturday, attention split between the road and a pornographic vision of dripping-wet Tom exiting the shower. I’d float into spin class and find Julie had booked the bike next to mine. I swear this happened twice. “You look happy!” she observed. And I think I mumbled something banal about finally having some “me time.”
After about a month of sordid delusions, Julie invited me to meet for coffee. I was SURE she had somehow figured out what was going on inside my head and was going to confront me in public about my perverted obsession. I lay awake the night before sweating, my heart palpitating, my reliable husband rhythmically snoring beside me in his sensible pj’s. But of course, Julie had no idea that I was crushing on Tom. Or mentally seducing him. She just wanted to grab coffee.
Eventually the Tom fantasy got old, and I moved on to the office manager at my dentist’s office … a 30-something hottie named Anthony (who is most likely not interested in having relations with persons of my gender, but phenomenally sexy all the same). And unless Julie has some magical tunnel into my brain, á laBeing John Malkovich, I’m pretty sure she has no clue about my short-lived fixation with her husband. But I don’t think the gratification or the distraction was at all worth the stress. It’s one thing to fantasize about Blake Shelton. It’s quite another to bring a friend’s husband into your cerebral sexual sagas.
I’m going to have to start planning my crushes much more carefully. At the very least, I should avoid driving places alone. Maybe I can convince my husband to hire a driver. I hope he’s cute …
Angie Wang
