After 15 years of marriage, I drove my wife up to a local mountain, parked on the side of the road, and came clean: I’d been fooling around with men behind her back, and after a lifetime of grappling with my sexuality, had come to accept the fact that I am bisexual.
“Our marriage is over,” I told her. “At the very least it’s over in the way it used to be – which is a good thing, because I’m not very happy, and I don’t think you are either.”
The experimentation had gone on for a couple of years. I’d had relations with half a dozen or so guys (always safe). I had quickly discovered the lively, burgeoning world of secretly bisexual married men – most of whom are in their 40s when they get enough courage to step out. My gay father had always told me how many married guys he’d meet at the bars – and now, I was one of them. When I made the decision to sleep with a guy behind my wife’s back, I also decided I’d never tell a living soul about it. Ever. Of this I was certain.
But there I was, spilling everything to her. I thought it would be the end of us. Instead, it was a whole new beginning.