It was cold.

It was dark.

And I was alone.

I was hiding in a dumpster in the parking lot of a grocery story at 11:25 PM and balancing precariously on a heap of eggshells and rotten veggies - I didn't want to think about what other surprises might be lurking below. But I'd been there for so long, that my nose had grown accustomed to the vile stench; my legs however had gone into spasms from the awkward crouching position I'd been maintaining for the last two hours.

It was freezing, my teeth were chattering, my nose was running and there was a family of rats nibbling dangerously close to my ankle.

But I love it!

This is what I live for.

Where I come alive.

When every single one of my senses is alert, tingling and on fire.

For me, Lizzy Brown, of 'I Spy Investigators', this is more than just a job. It's a calling. Catching lying, cheating husbands in the act, with their hands in, on, under, up and around the proverbial cookie jar, is my life. My trusty camera never lies and I always get my man. My phone rings constantly with desperate women seeking the truth. And the truth is what I give them. Truth is my currency.

And the number one truth is this; where there is smoke, there is usually fire. I always tell my clients that if they're hiring me, their husbands are probably cheating. Nine times out of ten I've caught him in the sleazy motel with his secretary pinned up against the wall (so clichéd), in the bar with his hands up the hooker's skirt (so trashy), bent over the chair and spanking his student (so kinky) and one time in Paris celebrating his one year anniversary with his mistress while the wife and kids were home alone (so devastating).

I've seen it all.

Once, a client thought her husband was cheating (the usual) so I began surveillance on him and got the surprise of my life. I'd followed him into what looked like an old abandoned warehouse (immediate red flag). But when I slipped inside, it soon became apparent that it was some kind of movie set, and a really cheap ass crappy one at that.

A pink and orange paisley lounge suit took up most of the room. A bilious green rug plastered with bizarre shaped stains covered the floor and wood paneled walls held generic motel pictures of flamingos and sunsets. The whole place was drenched in hot, bright light and there was a strange smell in the air that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

And then, without any kind of warning, a guy walked in and dropped his pants. And just like that, I was staring at a rather large male appliance. Let me elaborate....

... IT WAS HUGE.

Like an arm-wrestlers arm. An Anaconda. A Boing 747. I was just starting to feel sorry for the poor guy; shame, there's no way it's physically possible for him to have sex with that. It would never fit....

Oh no.

It does fit.

Yup.

There it goes.

Ah-Ha.

And it looks like it fits pretty well too.

Into several people in fact. At the same time.

It was glaringly obvious that this wasn't an ordinary movie set. And the leading man? The star of the show? Yip you guessed it, dear hubby with the huge dong.

The things I saw that night! S & M, threesomes, group sex, women on women, men on men, men and women on men and women with women and men and another woman/man and woman, and basically everything else in-between. Several of these activities were terribly disturbing, especially the one that involved the electric cake mixer. I won't elaborate.

Oh, and by the way, I know what those stains on the rug are... but I'll spare you the details. All I'm going to say is that it's not what you think. Not in a MILLION years.

And what was big boys excuse? It was priceless... sex addiction. He couldn't help himself. He needed a twelve-step program, a sponsor and a key ring. What he needed was for someone to go 'snip-snip'. I would happily volunteer.

Men are swines. I don't like them. I don't trust them and it's my duty to expose them and bring them to their sad, pathetic, begging knees. Because that's the other truth - nine times out of ten they beg.

"It was the first time", "It will never happen again", "It meant nothing" blah, blah, blah etc. trust me, I've heard it all. Every lame excuse in the book, including demon possession. "The devil made me do it."

I wondered what this guy's excuse would be as I watched him in the car with the mysterious blonde. Nothing had happened yet, but it was only a matter of time. His poor wife had been so desperate when she'd walked into my office, their ten- month old baby in tow. That had really pissed me off, especially when she'd stared blaming herself...

"Maybe it's all my fault, I've been so focused on the baby, and so tired and of course I've put on weight. Maybe he doesn't find me attractive anymore, maybe I need to go to Weight Fighters..."

And then the moment I'd been waiting for, the money shot. (Or as I call it, 'The honey shot'.) The man leaned over and placed his hand on the woman's perfect heart shaped face. He whispered something into her ear and then kissed her. My camera fired into action.

Bingo!

I'd got him.

Things started heating up. The woman ran her fingers through his hair in a kind of mad frenzy. He was desperately grabbing at her shirt, pulling it over her head to reveal perky breasts, abundant and bouncing in a red lacy thing - I thought of his poor wife in that uncomfortable feeding bra and my blood boiled.

It became even hotter as the man reached round and undid her bra strap in one fluid motion. Yes, this was a professional serial cheater. He'd done this before. It takes skill to unfasten a bra strap with one hand in relative darkness and the confined space of a car.

I stopped clicking and turned away. I didn't want to watch this anymore. I knew where it was going. And most importantly, I wanted to spare his wife the sordid details.

I slipped my camera into my bag and with one arm, lifted and flung myself out of the dumpster. I've spent many grueling hours in the gym lifting weights to ensure I can do stuff like this. In my line of work, it's a necessity. Because over the years I've had to climb walls, jump off roofs, leopard crawl through drainpipes, jump out of planes and trains. I've even had to run away from dogs, angry husbands, heavily armed cops and a half-naked politician (who shall remain nameless.)

But I love it.

The intense rush of adrenalin that comes from narrowly escaping danger, or the high you get from catching the bad guy. Obviously my lifestyle comes with certain limitations; I'm unmarried and haven't been in a serious relationship in over seven years. I live alone in a small apartment that's in desperate need of a clean and I have a small - ever shrinking - group of friends who grow tired of asking me out, because I never go.

My only companion is Sid, my goldfish. Man, I love that dude. He's always there for me. He's quiet, never demanding and easy to please; a few flakes of fish food and some fresh water always do the trick. He's the perfect gentleman. If I could find a man like Sid, I might consider settling down.

But alas....

I know different. Because I know men.

At least they're good for one thing. Just as long as that 'one thing' comes with zero messy emotional attachments. I used to have the perfect arrangement with my neighbor, Byron. I'd call him whenever I had an itch. He scratched it and then went home. No strings, no complications, no feelings! But one night, while I was on top, he said those three terrible little words...

"I love you."

That was it...nail in coffin! I climbed off and sent him home immediately.

Naturally it's been pretty awkward and I've often caught him loitering in the passage, or lurking in the lift, purposefully trying to bump into me. And let's just he shouldn't quit his day job because—

"Hey, oh wow, yeah, hahahah, fancy bumping into you here. Mmmm, coincidence."

"Hi, oh I was just going out, hahaha, crazy bumping into you here. Weird. So strange. Hahah."

-he's not gonna be winning an Oscar anytime soon, that's for sure.

But since neighbor boy has gone all psycho-stalker on me, I've been actively seeking a new no- complications friend with benefits. There've been a few potentials, but none of them have been attractive enough. Don't judge me. I have high standards, okay! I take very good care of my body and expect the same from my partner.

I eventually crawled home at 1:00 AM that morning and immediately started running the bath. My nose was no longer desensitized to the dumpster stench and I had what looked like a banana peel stuck to my ass. I took the memory card out of the camera and put it into the locket I keep around my neck. I never take it off. Ever. I had it specially made for this very purpose; it holds one memory card perfectly and is water and fire proof.

You can never be too careful. Especially not in my line of work.