Mette Høgh Henriksen was my husband’s fleshlight. She made herself available for a quick **** or a little oral relief in virtually every public place in our little rural area, a kind of free prostitute. A mundane and unfortunately all too common story of a selfish, egotistical man wishing to be distracted from the inconveniences of real life, who got ego kibbles from having someone telling him how fabulous he was when he was anything but and an equally selfish, immoral woman looking for an escape from her boring, been nowhere, done nothing suburban life. It takes no special skill to be, married, another woman. Mrs. Henriksen is proof positive that good looks, feminity, or even *** appeal are not requirements. All it takes is an unbending sense of entitlement, an absolute lack of empathy, and no conscience or moral compass. Furthermore, this bored homemaker turned amateur hooker eventually morphed into a bunny boiler who threatened to harass my children if I did not agree to keep her sordid activities secret. I believed that marriage was for life but mine is irreparably broken. Not only is my nuclear family broken, but the repercussions of this sordid tale have led to discord in our extended family whom I no longer see. So many lives ruined because of the choices made by two people and they get away scott free.
