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Here’s a short story of three of my lovers, or why I divorced my wife.

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Let’s call her Sheri Donatti, from the book I’d read on the plane over from London to New York. It’s also what she wanted me to call her.

The book was handed to me by an old Russian lover in 2020 — a self-depracating memoir from Greenwhich Village in the late 1940s.

But that’s a story for another time.

Sheri was a ball of luxury fabric with loose edges and frayed thread spreading out in a dozen directions — each one an exquisite invitation at my fingertips. There was opinion here, a look there, a reference to some part of her life as if you had been part of it for years and should have known already — then just as you would go to pull at a thread, the ball would unravel some more.

She said things which somehow made all the sense in the world and no sense at all, like how this was her first time in three years, but she’d leapt at me with the carefree confidence of a lion cub on a daily adventure.

Or the way she asked for feedback so quickly, but lay in my arms a little too long.

Or the way she told me she had a Reddit /gonewild.

We fucked against the window as the sun set over the city and after 5 hours I came all over her.

After 20 years of fucking around, someone finally matched my brand of effortless, gorgeous chaos.

She was all true
And all made up
And perhaps she just wanted to be seen and to hide
All at the same time,
Dark and light,
Just like me
So there we were
Knowing and
Not knowing,
Lost and found in our shadows on the wall

I’d hooked up with strangers before but none stuck with me the way she did.

​

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Not even PR Girl, who used me and I loved it.

She was direct, Polish and gorgeous; functional, but had a great ass.

Multiple times a week I’d get a text saying “Come over”.Every now and then I’d soften the exchange with an offer of coffee, keen for her not to think I was using her.

Through her blue front door, up the stairs, into her room.

“Take off your clothes” she’d say.

“Put your legs together.” she’d follow it with.

I felt like some free, reverse prostitute. I loved the sex but hated the coldness.

Nobody was paying anyone, but there was no emotion, and she wanted it more than I did.

She’s with a French millionaire now but invited me for a drink in town last week.

In hindsight I think she loved me and still does, but has a strange way of showing it. I might fuck her again soon.

_

​

Back to New York after my hazy night with Sheri Donatti.

My alarm woke me at 5am and I sat stunned on the sofa in my hotel room. A few hours later I was sat in the shitty Admiral’s Lounge of a shitty airport watching the sunrise — was it all a dream?

I am still not entirely sure.

​

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Talking of airport lounges, the Russian and I are still friend but we don’t fuck anymore.

She went abroad and fell for a shaman. I have the deepest respect for them.

Sputnik and I met in an airport halfway round the world; it turned out we lived a few hundred meters aside in West London.

I grew up Catholic and took the command to “Love thy neighbour” very seriously. I took my marriage less seriously, and didn’t count on a four-month affair with a neighbour that turned into a journey of self-discovery and self-acceptance.

Like Aeneas leaving Trojan shores behind and screwing over a Carthaginean queen to the point of suicide en route to founding a new world order, the social sin of infidelity is rarely acknowledged for the way such a trespass often returns lost men to their true path: it is not that their affair takes them off track, but that they were off track to start with.

In leaving the false home I’d made for my false self; I came home at last.

My priest would say it was a sin, but was the best prayer I’ve ever prayed.

_

Back to my wife, who I never started with. I divorced her for her own sake.

NSFW: yes

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