seriously, ya'll

I've had this blog for a while now, but I still don't know in what direction I want to take it.  Up until now, it's been pretty sanitized.  The primary reason for this is that if I start to talk shit about people or post ahem the intimate details of my hedonistic ways, I will undoubtedly eff up,  delightfully drunk and slobbery one night and in a moment of poor judgment refer someone I really don't want to read all about my shizz to my. . . shizz.  On the other hand, it hasn't happened yet.  Not to mention that those events even occurring require quite a large amount of ego on my part, as though hordes of people are lining up outside the proverbial speakeasy to get access to MY BLOG.  Hmm.  That being said, I think I'm going in a different direction with this.
 
I kissed a married man this weekend.  I'm not proud of it, but it happened and that's that.  Actually, it's not.  We messed around, but no sex.  He said he wanted to see me again and asked for my number.  And I effing gave it to him.  It was 5am.  I was drunk.  Fuck!  I thought about this a lot yesterday, as I shuffled around the house in my robe all day.  I weighed the pros and cons, and obviously cons have it.  The pros are few, but I'll mention them anyway.  He is hot.  And funny.  And we get along extraordinarily well.  There is something undeniably romantic about a clandestine affair, bursting with behind the scenes passion and secret encounters.  That's pretty much it for the pro category.  Cons, hello so unbelievably obvious I won't bore you.  Basically, I boiled it down to this.  Not taking his call or returning any messages.  Hoping my passive-aggressive rejection will be enough for him and preclude the need to say something like this:
 
"I fucked up the other night, and I regret what we did.  If I was your wife, I would be devastated, and as a self-respecting woman I refuse to injure another woman any further.  Do not contact me again."
 
I still feel like shit.  I wonder what his wife was doing at the time he was kissing me.  I wonder if he smelled like my perfume when he got home.  I wonder if she knows or suspects.  They don't have any kids, which shouldn't but does make me feel well at least not any worse about it.
 
Well, if it wasn't definitive before, it is now:  I'm a harlot.