At times, when I read back on what I have lived through and chronicled, it feels dishonest. I write as though I had full awareness of the treacherous situations I was walking into, when the reality is vastly different. My mind is apocalyptic, and I focused on the weak points. But if there wasn’t some part of me that believed it could work out for the benefit of everyone involved, I am not certain I would have moved forward. Robert is an exception. Though my love for him long turned into an addiction that no longer has a hold over me, he is still an exception.
I continue to attend coven gatherings. They are nothing short of an excuse for them to drink, make gaudy crafts, and discuss male genitalia. This has scared off the only man to join the Order of the Frustrated Cunts. While not their official name, I have taken it upon myself to refer to the group as what befits them. To their credit, they are highly entertaining.
It is through that coven that I met Jennifer, who began attending gatherings the same day I did. She is a full-figured, socially awkward, red-headed woman in her early thirties. Through a cloud of cigarette smoke, Jennifer introduced herself, then quickly added that she is a virgin. “But I am having an affair with a married man. I just kiss him, and give him blowjobs,” she says. I told her my name, and she repeated it before continuing. There are two other men, also married, that she engages in sexual activity with at work. None of this shocked me, because the rapidity in which she spoke didn’t allow for me to process the information I was being given. I told her I was not having sex with anyone, because I felt the need to divulge something personal. We smiled at each other, and she told me that we were going to be friends, and there was nothing I could do but accept it.