She was sitting in a coffee shop when his pomegranate hair came into her vision like something out of a dream. She jumped up with the intention of waving or running out to throw her arms around him. Then she saw that he was with his wife and she became paralyzed, though her flesh tingled still. It was not jealousy that made her freeze. As she watched him pass, she stood there like a naughty cat told not to pounce. She watched him with wide eyes and curled tail, as if he was a bird on the other side of the glass and she was on a sill several stories high. Then she remembered how he fed her the night before, and her thwarted instinct melted into the pleasure of his sweet lips upon her breast.

Behold the predicament of the “other woman.” She’s usually at least 10 years younger, often prettier and more sexual than the one with whom he shares his bed. Her independence and unattachment to lovers are what draws him into her life; these qualities set her apart from the flocks of attractive, yet cloying single women who prowl the bars in search of Prince Charming. She’s beautiful and mysterious and devastatingly sensual. She doesn’t criticize or make demands or push his buttons unless the buttons are connected to his penis. She’s his low-maintenance source of pleasure and joy, the non-committal angel who made him feel like a man again, replenishing the sexual spring that dried up in the desert of marital dissolution. She does all this without expectation, without hope, without need for anything more than what he can offer her—pleasure, power and maybe love.

That’s how it started. I gracefully stepped into the role of the “other woman” while rehearsing the kissing scene for a play. After one heated rehearsal in my apartment, my fellow actor said, “I know I’m going to have a raging erection during the performance.” Since I knew he was married, I wasn’t sure if he was implying sexual interest in me or merely stating a physiological reaction. “That’s OK,” I said, “It’s important to have chemistry for the scene.” “Oh, I feel the chemistry …” he exhaled in an obvious release of sexual tension. “But, you’re married,” I said. “I am married, but I have an agreement with my wife.” Eureka! (Despite the signals he sent me up until this point, I naively assumed that he couldn’t possibly be interested in me because he was married and didn’t seem to be polyamorous). How convenient!

What perfection! I was not looking for a serious relationship and his marriage would keep him at a delectable distance, allowing me to maintain my freedom without struggle. Then there was the added benefit of playing the mistress, a juicy role … even with his wife’s consent, I would be the infamous “other woman.” After that day, our rehearsals took on a whole new meaning.

Being the other woman is a common experience (estimates reveal that 60 percent of men and 40 percent of women will have an extramarital affair so at least one partner will have an affair in approximately 80 percent of all marriages), but it is not usually openly discussed without defaming the O.W. as immoral. Society does not spit upon the other man as they vomit upon the other woman—she is wrapped in the myth of a cool, mysterious, libidinous serpent preying on married men without having to do anything other than be available and have no conscience about the poor victimized wife.

My lover’s marital agreement took care of my conscience, but I still felt like a myth. I’ve often felt desirable and powerful attracting men with girlfriends, so the prospect of having an affair with a married man seemed like the ultimate sexual power trip. At first it was easy to be everything he wanted me to be without losing myself. Although I felt powerful during the incipient lust phase, romance got in the way. I didn’t want marriage, nor did I want to tear him away from his wife, but I fantasized about carrying on the affair for years like Kate Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, floating forever in the limbo between serious romance and committed cohabitation. We would never have to cross that line, and why would we want to? Instead, compassion metamorphosed into frustration and it ended with me feeling controlled by his wife: a woman who knew nothing of our affair and had not had sex with her husband in over a year, a woman I only met once, by accident.Although they had an agreement to sleep with other people, the caveat was that she didn’t want to know if he was sleeping with someone. So even though he had “permission,” he was deceiving her.

After the initial thrill faded, his deception and the limitations of his situation—the fact that he had to regularly check in with her, the fact that he had a curfew and that he could spend the night with me only when he was fighting with his wife—killed it for me. It’s demoralizing for any mistress, even for a woman who prefers to have multiple partners, or a woman who balks at marriage and cringes at the thought of having a family, even for me, the cat on the windowsill.