Anomischief3

My longest and most shameful confession…

Confession #21: God, what the hell have I done?

It started innocently enough. Or at least, that’s what I told myself when I slipped into that little shiny tank and those tight denim shorts with half my ass hanging out. Sarah, Lisa, and Jen picked me up right on time, all of us giggling like we were twenty again. “No husbands, no kids, no rules,” Jen declared as we clinked our first round of shots at the upscale bar downtown. The margaritas went down way too easy. By the second bar—a darker, louder spot with pulsing music—we were already tipsy, leaning into each other and laughing too loud.

The flirting started there. A group of guys in their late twenties kept buying us drinks. One of them, tall with a cocky grin, kept brushing my arm and whispering how hot it was that we were out “letting loose.” I should’ve shut it down. Instead, I laughed, let his hand linger on my waist, and felt a rush I hadn’t felt in years. Sarah was making out with one of his friends in the corner booth. Lisa was grinding against another on the makeshift dance floor. Jen and I just kept ordering more shots, egging each other on.

Then we crawled into an Uber, handsy and loud, already buzzing. The club was all dim lights, thumping bass, and sexy, curvy girls. We got a booth right by the stage and ordered a bottle of something expensive. The first dancer came over, all confidence and charm, and before I knew it, I had a lap full of her. Her hips rolled against me while the girls cheered and stuffed bills into her G-string. I was laughing, blushing, and yeah… turned on. The way her hands ghosted over my thighs, not quite crossing the line but close enough to make my pulse race.

The alcohol hit harder after that. We got bolder. Another round of lap dances—mine was this tattooed girl with tits and hips for days. I let my hands wander more than I should have, feeling the heat of her skin, the way she whispered filthy compliments in my ear. Sarah pulled me onto the dance floor between sets, and suddenly we were kissing. Not just a peck—drunken, sloppy, giggling girl-on-girl making out while the strippers and random guys watched. Jen joined in, her hands in my hair, Lisa laughing and filming on her phone before deleting it immediately. It felt freeing, naughty, like we were reclaiming something we’d lost to marriages and motherhood.

The flirting with the men blurred together. More shots. More touches. I remember sitting on one guy’s lap in a darker corner, his breath hot on my neck as he told me exactly what he’d like to do to a “sexy mom like me.” I didn’t go all the way—did I?—but his hands were under my shorts and I was moaning into his mouth like a teenager. Everything after that gets hazy. More kissing with the girls. Another lap dance. Laughter echoing in my ears. Blackout.

I have no idea how I got home. My phone had a blurry selfie of all four of us with two strippers, lipstick smeared, eyes glassy. My shorts had a mysterious stain and were inside out when I peeled them off this morning. There’s a hickey on my inner thigh that my husband definitely won’t see if I’m careful. And a text from Jen: “Holy shit last night was epic. Never speaking of it again? 😂”

I should feel guilty. I do, a little. But lying here with the room still spinning, I can’t deny the thrill. Part of me—the good wife, the responsible mom—is already burying it deep. The other part? She’s wondering when we’re doing it again.

Just don’t ask me for details. I’m not sure I want to remember them all.