I have a confession to make.
And I need to know that I can trust you to respect my confidentiality one hundred percent on this one.
I once had an affair with a married woman.
And I paid for it.
In my defense: 1) I was only 21 years old and horny virtually all the time; 2) I really thought the guy was out of the picture (that’s how she always presented it); 3) I hadn’t fully internalized the concept of The Sanctity of Marriage yet; and 4) I was 21 years old and horny virtually all the time.
We worked at the same cafeteria together. I was the cashier and frozen yogurt machine technician, she made egg salad and tuna fish sandwiches. A classic love story.
One hot August afternoon after work, she took me to her place way out in St. John’s. I’d never been to her place before. It was one of those lower-lower-middle-class homes with lots of wall-to-wall carpeting, family photos, an entertainment center, linoleum. She and her husband had recently broken up. Or something along those lines; it wasn’t entirely clear.
We were making out on the couch. Things were going great when all of a sudden I heard what sounded like a Trans-Am pull up just outside the window. I felt her body freeze. Suddenly she shouted, “OH SHIT! MY HUSBAND‘S HOME!!”
According to scientists, when a potentially threatening sensory stimulas enters the brain, it is first routed to the thalamus, which then sends information to the appropriate sensory cortex (visual cortex, auditory cortex, etc.); the amygdala then processes these signals, which activates the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) system. This stimulates the production of glucocorticoids, which marshall the heart, circulation, and immune systems into action. Blood flow is rapidly increased, the rate of breathing intensifies, skin becomes cooler, and digestive activity is shut down.
I went from a reclining position to frantically climbing out the bedroom window to save my fucking life in just a few hysterical seconds.
My shoes and shirt were left behind. I didn’t care. I ran mindlessly for blocks.

After about a half mile, I felt physically removed enough to finally stop and assess the situation. It wasn’t pretty. I had no money, I was wearing nothing but a pair of cut-offs, and I was about ten miles from home.
I had never been in this neighborhood before. The streets had strange names, and they were lined with used car lots and taverns and convenience stores. I didn’t recognize anything, not even my own reflection in the store windows. I had to ask someone where downtown was just so I could point myself in the right direction.
I had a lot of time to think about the logical consequences of fooling around with a married woman on the long walk home. The pavement burned beneath my bare feet. I walked across the vast expanse of North and Northeast Portland, shirtless and shoeless, for miles, across the Steel Bridge, then through Northwest Portland to my studio apartment, like a penitent trudging wearily toward the cathedral, longing for blessed redemption.