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I’m withholding my name to protect my marriage, but the people, the places and the dates are just as I describe.
My next date was lunch with an architect at Alice Fazooli’s.
Over a drink, he told me he’d fallen in love with me.
His intensity frightened me—he seemed desperate and a little unhinged.
Once I’d finished, I found myself sitting on my bed, a glass of red wine on my night table, my laptop resting on my thighs and my eyes fixed on the landing page of Ashley Madison, or AM as it’s known to regular users. The site listed dozens of available married men in my general vicinity: Nice Guy Oakville, etobicokedude, Fun_in_Mississauga, Burlington1on1.
But before I could view their profiles, I had to create one of my own.I should have felt guilty embarking on this betrayal. The ages of the men contacting me ranged from 27 up to the mid-60s.