“If he’s home, run in and say you’re dying to go to the bathroom.”

I feel disgusted. I waited so long to act like a tigress and ended up being used like a mare. But that’s life; reality never comes close to our teenage romantic fantasies.

Perfect, I’ll do that.

“I’d like to see you again.”

Right. All it took was this simple phrase to transform what seemed like hell, a mistake, a misstep, back into heaven. Yes, I would also like to see you again. I was nervous and shy, but next time will be better.

“Actually, it was great.”

Yes, it was great. I just now realize that. We know this story is doomed to end, but it doesn’t matter now.

I don’t say anything more. I just enjoy this moment by his side and wait for him to finish his cigarette before getting dressed and going downstairs ahead of him.

I’ll leave by the same door through which I entered.

I’ll take the same car and I’ll drive to the same place I return to every night. I’ll run in, saying I have indigestion and need to go to the bathroom. I’ll take a bath, removing what little of him remains on me.

And only then will I kiss my husband and my children.

WE DID not have the same intentions in that hotel room.

I was after a lost romance; he was driven by a hunter’s instinct.

I was looking for the boy from my adolescence; he wanted the attractive and bold woman who had gone to interview him before the elections.

I believed my life could take another direction; he just thought that afternoon would mean something other than the boring and endless discussions at the Council of States.

For him it was just a simple, but dangerous, distraction. For me it was something unforgivable and cruel, a display of narcissism mixed with selfishness.

Men cheat because it’s in their genetic code. A woman does it because she doesn’t have enough dignity; in addition to handing over her body, she always ends up handing over a bit of her heart. A true crime. A theft. It’s worse than robbing a bank, because if one day she is discovered (and she always is), she will cause irreparable damage to her family.

For men it is just a “stupid mistake.” For women, it feels like a spiritual crime against all those who surround her with affection and support her as a mother and wife.

As I’m lying next to my husband, I imagine Jacob lying next to Marianne. He has other worries on his mind: political meetings tomorrow, tasks to complete, his busy schedule. While I, the idiot, am staring at the ceiling and remembering each second I spent in that hotel, watching the same porn movie over and over, in which I had the leading role.

I remember the moment I looked out the window and wished someone were watching us with binoculars—perhaps even masturbating while watching me be submissive, humiliated, taken from behind. Just the idea turned me on! It drove me crazy and led me to discover a side of myself of which I was altogether unaware.

I’m in my thirties. I’m not a child, and I thought there was nothing new about me left to discover. But there is. I am a mystery to myself; I opened the floodgates and I want to go further, try everything that I know exists—masochism, group sex, fetishes, everything.

I’m unable to say that I don’t want any more, that I don’t love him, or that it was just a fantasy created by my loneliness.

Maybe I don’t actually love him. But I love what he has awakened inside me. He treated me with zero respect, left me stripped of my dignity. Undeterred, he did exactly what he wanted, while I strived, once again, to try to please someone.

My mind travels to a secret and unfamiliar place. This time I’m the dominatrix. He’s naked, but now I’m the one giving orders. I tie up his hands and feet, and I sit on his face and force him to kiss my vagina until I can’t take any more orgasms. Then I turn him over and penetrate him with my fingers: first one, then two, three. He moans with pain and pleasure while I masturbate him with my free hand, feeling the hot liquid run down my fingers. I bring them up to my mouth and lick, one at a time, before wiping them on his face. He begs for more. I say that’s enough. I’m the one in charge!

Before I go to sleep, I masturbate and have two orgasms, one after the other.

IT’S THE same scene today as it is every morning: my husband reads the daily news on his iPad; the children sit ready for school; the sun streams through the window; and I pretend to be worried when I’m actually scared to death one of them suspects something.

“You seem happier today.”

I seem happier, and I am, but I shouldn’t be. My experience yesterday was a risk for everyone, especially for me. Is there some underlying suspicion in his comment? I doubt it. He believes everything I tell him. Not because he’s a fool—far from it—but because he trusts me.

And that just makes me more upset. I’m not trustworthy.

Actually, yes, I am. I was led to that hotel on false pretenses. Is that a good excuse? No. It’s awful, because no one forced me to go there. I can always claim that I was feeling lonely and wasn’t getting the attention I needed, just understanding and tolerance. I can tell myself that I need to be defied, confronted, and questioned about what I do. I can claim that this happens to everyone, even if only in their dreams.

But deep down, what happened is very simple: I went to bed with a man because I was dying to do it. Nothing more. No intellectual or psychological justification. I wanted to screw. End of story.

I know people who married for security, status, and money. Love was the last thing on the list. But I married for love.

So why did I do what I did?

Because I feel lonely. Why?

“It’s so nice to see you happy,” he says.

I say that yes, I really am happy. The autumn morning is beautiful, the house is tidy, and I’m with the man I love.

He gets up and gives me a kiss. The children, even without quite understanding our conversation, smile.

“And I’m with the woman I love. But why are you telling me this now?”

Why not now?

“It’s the morning. I want you to tell me that again tonight, when we’re in bed together.”

My God, who am I?! Why am I saying these things? So he won’t suspect anything? Why don’t I just behave like I do every morning and play the efficient wife tending to her family’s well-being? What are these displays of affection? If I start to be too affectionate, it may raise suspicions.

“I can’t live without you,” he says, returning to his place at the table.

I’m lost. But, strangely, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about what happened yesterday.

WHEN I get to work, the editor-in-chief commends me. The article I suggested was published this morning.

“We’ve received a lot of e-mails for the newsroom, praising the story with the mysterious Cuban man. People want to know who he is. If he allows us to print his address, he’ll have work for quite a while.”

The Cuban shaman! If he reads the newspaper he’ll see he never told me any of what is in the article. I took everything from blogs on shamanism. Apparently, my crises aren’t limited to marital problems; now I’m starting to slip professionally.

I explain to the editor-in-chief about the moment the shaman looked in my eyes and threatened me if I revealed who he was. He says I shouldn’t believe in that sort of thing and asks if I can give his address to just one person: his wife.

“She’s been pretty stressed.”

Everyone’s pretty stressed, including the shaman. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to him.