You are the tenth person I’ve had sex with, but you are only the fifth person I’ve had sex with more than once.
You have a girlfriend (of nearly four years!) and she’s a friend of mine. Your best friend is my ex-boyfriend. I see you, her, and him frequently. He and I text every day, and usually spend at least a couple days together a week. I guess he’s one of my closest friends. Your girlfriend and I text occasionally and see each other out at group get-togethers. Sometimes we go to movies together, because we have the same bad taste. You and I text occasionally and have only hung out alone twice, and both times we ended up in my bedroom.
The first time you were drunk. Last night you were sober.
The first time you kissed me and put your face in my hair. Last night you rubbed my back and assured me that I would enjoy your cock inside me.
The first time I was nervous, awkward, and self-conscience. Last night I was hungry. I wanted you to turn your face into mine; I wanted to feel your beard scratch against my cheek, and your voice on my skin. I wanted to hear you pleading with me to crawl on top of you. I wanted to feel you throb against me in unabashed need. I wanted to feel wanted.
I felt all the same things last night as I did the first time. But you didn’t kiss me. I wanted to kiss you, but I was too shy to do it. I was terrified of the rejection. And even at that particular point in time, when I was losing my mind with desire, I knew why you weren’t kissing me: You don’t kiss whores. You kiss wives, girlfriends, ladies. Not whores.
Now, we both know I’m not the text-book definition of a whore, but for all intents and purposes in this situation, I am close enough.
The first time I was terrified that your girlfriend would find out and hate me. Last night I was terrified that anyone would find out and be disappointed with me.
I am disappointed with myself, but…
For the short amount of time I spend in my bed with you, I feel good. I feel whole, and wanted, and silly, and giggly. I feel pleased that I have such an attractive man focused solely on me.
I’m not fooling myself: I know that you’re not interested in me beyond our casual friendship and now casual lovemaking. I realize that when you’re murmuring pretty words to me, they aren’t exclusively mine. I’m not romantically interested in you, either. Believe me. If there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s my fickle heart.
I’m not a homewrecker, or a whore, or a shitty person, but I can’t justify my behavior with you. I know it’s wrong. And the truth is if anyone were to discover our clandestine relationship, it would injure a lot of people. It would destroy friendships and irrevocably change relationships. I’m not ready to be a catalyst for any such changes in either of our lives.
But I know if you were to text me tonight, I would say yes, please come over.