Excerpt: Mistress Memoirs by Lorraine Elzia

Affection and a need to belong are universal desires of man; the problem lies when one fulfills that need through the pursuit of Other People’s Property.
~Lorraine Elzia

Prelude to an Affair

How did I get here? I am lost in a place where someone like me should never be. I am in the land of the other woman. The inhabitants of this domain, as my girlfriends and I perceive it, are uneducated "hood rats" with low self-esteem – playthings for married men. “They” are body parts, deliverers of mind blowing oral sex and equestrians in the art of riding. “They” have nothing to offer a man except their bodies. “They” aren't the type of women men are seen with in public places. Nor are “They” the type men take home to momma or big ma. "They" are those rump-shaking girls you see in rap videos – video whores adorned with weaves that reach the small of their backs. “They” are the kind of women that men hover over in dark, smoke-filled night clubs - scantily clad, moral-less creatures of the night, “They” are flesh, and lust, and appeal to the carnal hunger men possess and yearn for, and these same men pretend, in their perfect world not to know them if they see them on a Sunday afternoon in church.

I thought "They" were a lot of things, but I never thought "They" would be Me.
But here I am; his woman; his mistress; his night-time concubine and obsessed succubus. The potential home wrecker, the enabler, the whore, and I can't seem to pry myself loose from him. He has a hold on me now; mind, body and soul; and I can't let go. Occupying my veins, I am like a crack addict, totally addicted and always looking for the next time I can score. Hopefully, he’ll find the Will and can let go for both of our sakes. For I have neither the Will nor the Strength.
Maybe it’s a good idea to introduce myself. Although it really doesn't matter what my name is because I realize now I could be any woman, given the right set of circumstances. Every woman out there who says she would not mess around with a married man, needs to know that I said those very same words myself. It’s conveniently easier said than done.

But for all practical purposes, I am Kahla, the total package. Well built, well raised, well educated, well groomed, well respected, well rounded, well-thy and any other adjective you can imagine beginning with well.

Clifton and Sandra Thompson accomplished their goal. They raised their only child, Kahla Marie Thompson, to be a pinnacle of success. I have done what most children strive to do to make their parents proud. I have shown them that all of their struggling to put me through high school and college paid off.

I am a Court Reporter for the Cook County District Court System, where notorious criminal felony cases in Chicago are tried. It’s irony at its finest, when you think about it. I am a tool in facilitating the enforcement of morality during my nine to five, yet my actions barely register on the moral compass.

Standing at a succulent, five feet ten inches, and weighing in at a svelte one hundred and thirty-five pounds, I am beauty in its most pure form. Curves align my silhouette in every possible perfect way. My fierce walk, the bounce in my stride, deliberate and bold, coupled with the protrusion of a set of perky breasts and a round, sculpted behind has the ability to make men silently sing, “She’s a Brick House” in their minds as I walk by. Without a doubt, I am the product of good genes. I thank my parents for that. Caramel-kissed, I am drenched with butter-soft skin and as my fine baby hair flows, dancing a jig around my face, I have what most people refer to as “good hair.”

I own a home in Hyde Park off Lakeshore Drive; I eat at the finest restaurants Chicago has to offer, have a phat bank account, and drive a luxury car. I’ve got it going on, as they say, and I’m well aware of it. All of this was achieved through hard work, dedication and careful planning through the years to ensure that I stayed away from acquiring any unnecessary baggage, such as a husband or kids, along the way.

My parents taught me to reach my goals and never stray from the light at the end of the tunnel. They taught me that there would always be time "later" for the "baggage." They told me to make sure I made KAHLA all that KAHLA could be, so that I would never look back on my life and wonder what I COULD have been.

So I did it. I jumped through every hoop and hurdle and became a successful professional. I have no questions as to what I "might" have been in life, but now the question is, "Will I ever be wanted or loved?"

As Billy Dee said to Diana Ross in the movie "Mahogany", “Success is nothing without someone to share it with.” At the end of the day, when I've had the case from hell, and just want to come home to the arms of someone who can say, “Kahla, it’s going to be all right,” there is no one for that, no one to offer solace or comfort, no shoulder on which to lean or cry on.

So instead I drive my luxury car home to my big house on the hill, put on my silk pajamas, slipped into my satin sheets in my king size bed, and roll over, night after night to emptiness; and a bed that is continuously cold and lonely.

I do not have the luxury of being able to complain about the little things my married friends whine about: no one snoring; no one hogging the covers; or leaving toe nail clippings on the floor. There aren’t any toys left at the front door for me to trip over; no dishes to wash; no laundry to do. I don’t have to pick up other people’s clothes left behind the bathroom door, and I don’t have the option of complaining about what I have to cook for dinner, because I cook for only one person, and for me it is usually a Lean Cuisine. There is no one to fight with over the remote, or ask to turn down the music. There just isn’t anyone to share anything with.

And that, my friends, is how he was able to get in. That feeling of loneliness, while lying in bed cold and alone night after night, is what opened the door and started my trip to the land of the other woman.

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