An Open Letter To The Man Who Made Me His Mistress

Subject: An Open Letter To The Man Who Made Me His Mistress
Date: 8 Sep 2015

Dear Sir Williams,

Yes, I’m referring to you. You, the man who did the unimaginable - you conquered me. Your intellect and wit quite literally charmed the pants off of me. This is no small feat, as evidenced by the year of “Mormon courtship” it took to finally win me over. You patiently pursued me, with and unbounded chemistry, remarked upon chivalry, continual reassurance, and unrelenting love. All the while, you mischievously lead a double life.

I had seen the Lifetime movies, heard of such things occurring. I often thought to myself, “What a dumb bitch” or “How in denial could you be?” It turns out my preconceived notions about mistresses failed to take into account the sociopathic tendencies of narcissistic men like you.

I am smart, very smart in fact. It is one of the things you were most drawn to. If only given three words to describe me, I would bet, with certainty, that most people’s trio would include some variation of intelligent. I’m also inherently distrusting, uber analytical, and my brain works only in the most logical of fashions. Lastly, and this is an unbiased statement, I am beautiful. This combination, you’d suppose, would make me a very unlikely candidate for being your mistress. Only one problem with this assumption - I didn’t know I was your mistress.

I may be smart, but you were smarter. The apartment by my place, the overindulgence of “transparency”, all perfect touches in your master ruse. The poetic words that I thought would never affect someone like me eventually broke my will and I fell madly in love with you. I, the woman who was seen as strong and powerful to all who knew her, was now the woman who couldn’t hear her name being called as she lightly kissed you, the man of her dreams, unaware that her table was ready.

You can imagine my surprise when your wife called to inform me that I was your mistress. I wondered how I had missed it in the year and a half prior. Seeing each other daily, having three hour coffees, and hours upon hours of amazing sex, I couldn’t even place her, your wife, in our lives. How did she fit in? When did she fit in? Asking these questions over and over, my logical brain awoke from the misty fog and reminded me that I was the mistress, not her, despite how it may have felt.

The 3 Week Diet

You should be applauded, really. You pulled off the longest con known to man. Your master trickery and deceit is one to be modeled after. I’m sure that some eastern European nations that still actively utilize old school spy tactics could learn a thing or two from you. Without any wavering, you’ve told lie after lie, never faltering or stumbling upon your previously told half-truths. You must write them all down in that leather bound notebook you hold so dear.

You managed to expertly maneuver every situation, hugging each and every curve of this road we’ve traveled – much like that disgustingly flashy orange sports car you now own. Your words glossing over details, your hands holding me closely, there wasn’t a single moment before she reached out to me that I doubted you or your love. Well played.

You lied through your teeth to the very end, never admitting to the treacherous sins that will surely send you to Ptolomea. This, the final zone of the ninth circle of hell, is reserved only for those whose betraying actions are completely voluntary. Possessed by demons, what seems to be a walking man is actually a person incapable of repentance. This is you.

Pleading for my hand and whispering words dripping with our history, I was once wrought with emotion. Your words beckoned me to believe you and every ounce of my body prayed that this was all a dream. Instead, my reality was that everything I thought I knew, I in fact did not know. I thought I was going to be your wife, when really I was nothing more than your mistress.

This mind-bending conclusion has forever altered my life and it, admittedly, sometimes haunts me like a vivid nightmare. And though it took me a while to shake off the after affects of being your sidepiece, I am writing to you to tell you that I am just fine without you.

I know you may tell yourself we were some sort of star-crossed lovers, destined to be together in another life, but that is simply not true. Your life is yours to lead as you please. We all chose a path; you simply chose a destructive one. I may have (unknowingly) walked hand in hand with you along it for quite some time, but I now choose to live in the sunshine. Graced with rays of glimmering gold, my path is one of truth and happiness. Golden Magnificence.

I dance and make dinner in my underwear, while blaring the Sonos throughout my home, I travel as much as possible, I laugh daily, and I never miss you anymore. And while there is part of me that would love to tell you to go screw yourself (or your wife), the you I knew doesn’t exist and my words would be wasted breath.

The previously gaping wound you inflicted is now nothing more than a barely noticeable scar, only visible upon close examination. Your memories no longer haunt me like a ghost in broad daylight, and in the instances where you actually cross my mind, I no longer want to weep uncontrollably, rather I feel pity for the man you really are. The man who takes the most desperate of measures to find a little spot in the sun, a little piece of heaven to bring you happiness.

I know the thought of me happily living a life without you likely irks you to the core. You may be so inclined to contact me one day, but please use some self-restraint for once and refrain. I have banished the ghost of you to place far below the surface, miles beneath the daylight I now basque in. As you former lover, the “love of your life”, and your unwilling mistress, I do not wish you well, but I do bid you ado Mr. Williams…

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