I’m sitting in my car outside a wine bar. My hands are shaking. Inside is a man named Tom—tall, kind eyes, divorced, no connection to my social circle. We matched on a lifestyle app three weeks ago. We’ve exchanged dozens of messages. Mark knows everything: his name, his photo, his STD test results (clean).
The second near-wreck was jealousy—but not the kind you expect. Mark wasn’t jealous of the men. I became jealous of his excitement. I started to feel like a performing monkey. “You’re getting off on my adventures,” I accused him once. “But what do I get?” diary of a real hotwife