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 flew to his city to see him. It had been six months, which felt like ten minutes and fifty years all at once.
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.
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.
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.
The door to my room is ajar in preparation for her arrival. She enters and when I look up, it takes my brain a second to register how much I adore that face. Then the perma-smile forms. I can’t remove it if I wanted.
I don’t know if there’s a term for a semi-pro blind double date, but I definitely experienced one this weekend.
Lots of moments like that together. Lots of badly needed phenomenal hours-long infinite-orgasm sex. Lots of beautiful looks from her – I have at least 10 different personalities of her face in my head – just now she looked at me with #9, one of my favorites. We’re in our own world.
Clothes peel off faster than you would think possible. Within seconds she is gloriously bare, leaning against the edge of the bed. My heart skips a beat in anticipation.
Tonight is the first night in my own place in 17 years. Ratified the contract last week, settle in 2 weeks, but the place was empty and the owners were OK with me moving in early.