The Mistress
I’ve never been anyone’s mistress. I’m not a fan of messy. After parting ways with my problematic husband, I certainly wasn't eager to take on anyone else’s.
And yet, it seems that I've been conceptualized as a "mistress" for almost as long as I can recall. It's present in the palpable disdain and suspicion when I enter a room full of wives.
Then there’s the husbands, oh the husbands, filled with misplaced longing, seeking any distraction. They'll find clever ways to make the ask without really asking. How far can one go and still feel like a “nice guy?” In a world where the status quo brings comfort, labels like volunteer, coach, husband, and board member, are brandished like business cards over lunch. These so called boy-scouts pat themselves on the back before their boring vanilla sex each week. To hear the tale told, this perfunctory ritual leaves everyone feeling slightly disappointed but not bad enough to bring it up in the bedroom. God forbid we rock the boat.
The husbands tell themselves, and anyone else within earshot, tales of their heroic feats of honor. His feminine counterpart is thereby stamped with a scarlet letter, simply for existing in her natural state of receiving. Every good story requires a villain; this version feels safest to all parties. Nothing beats a modern spin on Eve leading Adam to temptation.
Which way to the moral high road?
There was my husband. My first foray into intimacy. The man is a highly disturbed soul. His only discipline is the study and subsequent capture of his prey. He sniffed out my little girl brokenness, masterfully targeting the unworthiness and loneliness. He groomed me accordingly. Hook, line, sinker.
Although there were so many stories to sift through that eventually it became difficult to discern fact from fiction, his favorite story of all was the one where he never got married. Even in marriage, I became the mistress.
If it looks like a duck and talks like a duck...It's true, I don’t look like a wife. It’s rare to catch me in bra. I've got wild hair and a wilder heart. I live an unfiltered existence- playing both mom & dad to my band of feral gypsy children. I’m much more at ease at the kids table, a sink full of dishes, or lost in space on a yoga mat, than gossiping with the brunch crowd. Point me in the direction of the most authentic “weirdo." I don’t have the stamina for small talk. Let’s talk about the stars and what makes your soul sing.
While I may not look the part, I have the utmost respect for wives. I understand the energy, the sacrifice, the foresight, and the acts of forgiveness required to be one. To be perfectly honest, it's a role that I loved. I simply chose the wrong person to take the journey with.
So we'll chalk it up to karma. Perhaps it’s some sort of ancestral spell I've been assigned to break. No matter how you spin it, the mistress mystery has been a deep dive into awareness and shadows.
There was the neighborhood boy I secretly pined for. The flame haired soccer star with an unstable home life, carefully hidden under worn Adidas gear and a fast wit. The one whose smile crinkled his whole face into sunlit folds. The one whose hand found mine during group movie outings once the lights went down. His thumb explored little pathways of my wrist that I’d try to find again later. Home.
One day, he professed his interest aloud, followed up with the fact that he’d never choose me. His best friend was sweet on me and that was unbreakable bro code. So I looked on, my throat chakra ablaze, as he began a tumultuous romance with one of my friends. I’m not sure if that version of me has fully recovered.
There was the golden boy with access to everything money could buy. The one who had everybody fooled. I could see right through him. He lived for it; finally, he was free. When puberty came calling, he tested his powers in a different way. During a family vacation we found ourselves sharing a set of bunk beds. A single tap on the wall was the signal. Then his copper tone hand would reach down to hold mine. I froze the first time. Curiosity, fear, excitement and yes- shame whipped up a weather storm inside my gut. I must’ve lost time in the space between because a second tap followed. I leaned in.
The nightly hand holding ritual seemed by all accounts an innocent exploration. No words were ever exchanged nor was any reference made of it in the light of day. A silent truce had been established, at best. At the end of our vacation we discovered that a bottle of pricey shampoo was missing from an outdoor shower. A bottle I’d admired, out loud. Big mistake. I went through the painful process of being guilty until proven innocent.
I looked at my bunk mate mid-inquisition. Would he use his golden halo to come to my defense? He did not. Lessons in Mistress, 101. Waves of shame, not even mine, to surf alone.
There was the stepparent. The one who never touched me in a way that crossed a line. Nevertheless, the touches were unwelcome to my nervous system. I remember holding my breath and pretending to be asleep. It was here where I learned to disconnect from my body. I came to rely on this survival tactic for entire chapters of my story.
I understand now that sometimes when he looked at me, he saw pieces of my mother. I can't be sure which pieces they were, but he battled her through me often. Casting word spells like that sounded like: cunt, bitch, impossible to please, unwanted, unworthy. Words that I understand can’t be true of a 14-17 year old girl. Words that I believed as a 14-17 year old girl.
But then the drinks would flow and he’d come into my room to wake me from slumber, declaring his fatherly love. He wanted me to believe in him. His proclamations of love are still motivated by his return on investment.
There was my best friend's boyfriend. He was often my “getaway” driver when I first met my husband to-be at the age of 15. At first, he helped me escape my Ivory tower at our every whim. And so began my effortless act of drowning. After a few weeks of innocent observation, he'd grown increasingly concerned about the situation. He begged me to break it off, and then proceeded to profess his affections for me.
Not too long after that awkward ride home, he found me in the bathroom during a party. The scene played out like two people stealing a moment of privacy at a house party, wink/wink. He was visibly shaken, annoyed, hurt, and confused.
He'd actually stumbled across the aftermath of a sexual assault. Where my chorus of “no’s” and attempts to flee didn’t create enough force to stop the chaos in motion. His palpable silence and stony expression during our drive home felt like salt in a flesh wound. Feeling deeply confused and ashamed, I quickly buried the whole incident. I could’ve done better. I carefully hid the map of black & blue bruises that bloomed down my spine that week. I didn’t tell a single soul, not even my sister. A good mistress keeps her mouth shut. Unless she’s forced to open it.
There were the patrons at the restaurant & bar where I worked as a hostess. We had a group of Friday night happy hour regulars who came in like clock work. One such Friday one of the guys, (twenty years my senior), angrily accused me of leading him on. Every Friday night I welcomed him by name, wearing fitted black pants and a teenage dream smile. Yet, I had the audacity to turn down his advances. Who did I think I was?
As a staff, we had our own Love Island-style drama playing out in the background. It bordered on incestuous. Somehow, I managed to find and fall in love with a genuine soul in the fray. His way of becoming was unlike any other human I’d ever met. He was magical. He saw me. He asked me to marry him; he had no use for a mistress. Home. Again.
To make things real cozy, his ex-girlfriend worked with us. She most certainly saw a mistress, as did his mother. After swallowing a few heaping spoonfuls of fear, I began to choke on it. The rebel in me defiantly caused background damage. A little thread picking here, a full unraveling there. Soon I realized the hem of my magical love story had come undone. I’d hurt myself and someone good.
I was getting a bit comfortable in the skin of a mistress. I’ll pause to let you consider one very critical lesson I learned in examining the debris from my crash landings. I’ve been fortunate to find that within awareness lies freedom.
I’ve never been haunted by the souls who've done me harm. Not for long. But the souls who've had to survive me- the ones I've inflicted suffering upon- I don't know if they ever fully go away.
I’m sorry, please forgive me, thank you, I love you.
There was the coulda-been-a-star-athlete townie with a chip on his shoulder. The one who struggled to acknowledge me in public but was real quick on a speed dial in the wee hours of the night. Mistress-style.
I built him up after a series of swings & misses. In exchange my unworthiness wound was poked until it bled into every crack of my existence. Why allow this Peter Pan wannabe to do so much damage? Community. I loved his community and so did my children. Being present for my kids really means something to me.
The day I finally said “no more” fear paid him a visit. He put on his running shoes and prepared for a chase. But it was too late, I’d had enough reps. Every now and then, he’ll chum the water. Testing to see if his spells work anymore. He suffers from his own karma- the-something-shiny-syndrome. Seems like he's always on the search for a scapegoat to pin his current choice on.
Mistresses make a convenient scapegoat. Too bad I'm not a mistress.
I spent nearly a decade with one man before realizing that he not only couldn't see me, he actually didn't want to.
There were lots of rules. I was never introduced to his family. I wasn’t permitted in his office but a parking lot or airport was permissible, as long as I didn't deviate from the plan. There was the time we drove hours to Philadelphia in total silence because I'd committed some slight that I spent lots of energy gingerly fishing out, only to ask forgiveness for. Or the incredulous number of times my clothing was deemed inappropriate.
There were check boxes I was measured by; the categories could change on a whim. Punishment for "bad behavior" could include silent treatment for weeks at a time. He shamed me with stories of being needy, wild, or "dirty." I walked on eggshells, always slightly off kilter.
At the apex, he began to drink excessively which exacerbated all of his shadow qualities. Most devastatingly of all, he came for my daughter. He confused her for some twisted version of me, the good little girl he so desperately wanted to believe I was or could be.
It was only then that I realized with sickening clarity that no amount of "good behavior" would ever kill off the illusion of the mistress. So I set myself free.
I’m not a passing temptation or a distraction for a lonely Friday night. I'm not a backup plan or a bridge to help you over a rough spot. I’m not something to try on in the comfort of home.
When I think of spending any more life hidden away it feels small, suffocating, and inauthentic.
I looked up the definition of mistress and I actually laughed out loud in delight:
Mistress: a woman in a position of authority or control; a female head of a household; a woman loved and courted by a man.
I’ll claim it. That's the mistress I was born to be. You want to take a shot at loving me? You better claim it. Love me loudly. Proudly. The Goddess has risen.
I wanna be the one to walk in the sun, because girls, we wanna have fun.
