She is not here overtly for a shower, but that is where we quickly end up.
A year ago I wrote him a scathing email. It was during one of our angrier exchanges when Matt told me for the umpteenth time that he was going to give his marriage “one last shot.”
I tried not to ask when he was planning on finally telling her, but inside I was anxious for things to get moving.
I admit it. My pass is out the window
I flew to his city to see him. It had been six months, which felt like ten minutes and fifty years all at once.
“Kneel on the mattress. Face away from me. Put your hands behind your back.” A subtle smile creeps on her lips.
I wondered why she got to go on trips, taken out to nice dinners, and be his spouse while I was the one dealing with his insomnia and panic attacks.
We stand there for a moment. Kissing, squirming, rubbing. The water gradually heats up.
Of all of the things I regret most about my two years with Matt, it’s that I didn’t get up in the middle of that conversation, get in my car and drive away.
There is that quiet moment when we are laying naked together that is missing something for me. It is very FWB. There is no real connection between us.
The second time I saw Matt, he asked me to get myself off in front of him. Curling his body next to mine, he started to whisper things in my ear.
Matt, I knew, was married. I also knew we shared the same niche kink.