I saw Highland Park this afternoon. His name is David. David. I love that name.

We kissed at the door. David and his fucking kiss. We stood there holding each other, kissing each other, feeling our bodies, unable to move from that spot.

His eyes. They slay me. Who once was so serene. Their great beauty shakes me.

A fierceness resides in his eyes.

We slowly made it to the bedroom.

And we began to talk.

I asked him how his date with another woman, not his wife, the woman he dated before me, went. He looked somewhat sheepish. I asked him if he kissed her. He said yes. I asked him if more happened. He said yes. I asked him if they had sex. He. Said. Yes.

And my heart dropped about 2 inches. Which isn’t bad, really. It’s not like it dropped through the floor like it did when My Husband told me he never wanted to have sex with me again. No. It wasn’t like that. It was a minor dip. But I felt it. A tear rolled out of my eye. I didn’t want it to. I willed it not to. But it didn’t listen. I was not even sure what I was crying about. I didn’t feel the hot sting of jealousy. I felt a dull ache of something painfully familiar. The feeling of not being important enough. Of not being a priority. Of being quickly forgotten. Passed aside.

Indifference and apathy- I know you well.

I told him I was sad because the time he spent with this other woman, should have been with me. I already share him with his wife, do I have to share him with this other person as well?

He said he wished he hadn’t done it. He said he felt obligated to. That having sex with her was more for her than him.

He told me; it wasn’t this. It wasn’t what we have. And that yes, this is special.

Is it, though?

How special, I want to ask.


I, for one, have never found it before.

I told him about My Husband, how we were compatible in every way, except for sex and communication and how it felt exactly the opposite with David, the two things we excelled at were sex and communication.

I wondered out loud if this type of connection could sustain day to day living. He didn’t know.

I spoke to my friend Rosa today. She assured me; it was. From her current experience. My heart ached to hear that a little. Only because we also agreed that finding, it is exceedingly rare.

Oh man.

I love looking in his eyes while he is fucking me. I didn’t even mind when I heard my landlord wandering right outside my window. Sex shame feels like it has been eradicated for me. Not only from my healing experience with David, but from listening to Sex Nerd Sandra and watching Erika Lust Films. I feel healthy and hungry for more.

Sex –positive – totally. No shame here.

My body loves his body.

We lied together talking for almost an hour afterward.

Then we both had to get back to work.

I felt like I asserted myself because I made him “pull out” instead of coming inside of me.

As we dressed, he told me about his birthday plans for the weekend. They were looking for someone to watch their daughter so they could get away. I didn’t think much of it then, but that comment came back to haunt me in the shower.

He left.

I went about my day.

I cried the entire way to pick up my daughter. I am not entirely sure why. I have tons of super ambiguous powerful feelings about David. About him sleeping with another woman other than his wife and I. I can’t put words to them. They just feel big.

He texted me later how lucky he felt that his wife liked me a lot, I liked her a lot, and we all liked each other a lot. I agreed. Then in the shower I had the crazy thought- wouldn’t it be sweet if my daughter and I knew his daughter well enough to watch her for them. I felt like that was some crazy commune hippy thinking right there and laughed at myself. I shared it with him. I haven’t heard back since. I think that is funny. I am who I am. I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks. At least that is what I tell myself.

Something shifted yesterday, though.

I think I should fuck the tattoo artist.

I need diversity.

I need a new experience.

I need to investigate and find out, if what David and I have is real.
Because if it is, I am truly fucked.

I never want him to leave his family. The thought makes me want to cry.

But I want to know if there is hope for me.

Out there.

And I know the tattoo artist is in love with me.

He adores me.

He will take care of my heart.

He will give me perspective.

A new experience.

I need that right now.

I love sex.

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