To the wife of Number 36,
I’ve slept with my share of ‘taken’ men. Men who’ve had girlfriends, wives, lovers at home waiting for them while they were enjoying their fun, no-holds-barred frivolity with me. Take your husband, Number 36, as an example; a happily married man with a gorgeous wife and a beautiful baby at home, yet he slept with me on a number of occasions and we probably shouldn’t talk about all of those stolen moments we shared with his dick in my mouth. I’m pretty sure that’s what kept him coming back, actually. He always said I gave him the best head of his life.
I slept with him because I crawled my way in. Because I wanted to. Because I could sleep with him. I was the girl he could drink beers with. And the girl he could finish an entire 18-inch pizza with and then make not-so-jokey jokes about getting dessert. I was the girl who didn’t want him to pick up diapers or baby formula on the way home. I didn’t expect him to pay the bills or provide a roof over my head. I had my own soldier for that. Between Number 36 and I, it was just sex.
I was married too.
I was the chunky girl with no confidence or self-esteem because my husband beat me, and the closer I got to your husband, the less anyone cared or noticed! You were the beautiful one: a tiny size-zero chick with the big brown eyes and the perfect rosebud lips. You were tiny and so cute. Annoying, but cute. No one would ever believe I’d slept with your husband. Me, the fat girl with an unhappy marriage and constant drama. I was no threat to you at all.
That’s what worked between us, me and Number 36. The late nights he spent at mine, drinking beers and playing video games, those nights actually happened. He didn’t lie about them. What he did lie about, was the clothes-rippingly great sex we had while he was there, right before he drank his last beer and headed home to you.
When did he last rip your clothes off? When was the passion between you so great that you literally couldn’t wait to get each other’s clothes off? That’s what he had with me: passion.
I really wanted his cock in my mouth when I was sucking on it, deep-throating it as far as it would go to impress him. He’d push my head down so my nose would touch his toned, tanned stomach and listen to the little gag noises escape my throat, a bottle beer clutched in his other hand so tightly than his knuckles were turning white. When did you last time you did that together? He said you used to do it, but you didn’t anymore.
He fucked me in my ass on the living room floor as I played with my vibrator, bringing myself to a toe-curling orgasm while his hand covered my mouth to try and keep me quiet.
He tore my sweater once, the first time, after telling me that he thought it looked nice on me. I remember every second of that rip, one that came in the midst of furious and passionate kissing. The kind of kiss that had been building up for a couple of years, hands grappling through hair and faces smashed together frenziedly.
That’s the thing, these ‘taken’ men: they’re looking for something they no longer find in the comfort of their own relationship. It’s exciting, keeping things on the down-low as we did. Sneaking around and telling little white lies. I remember the night you knocked on my front door at the exact moment he came in my mouth. When I answered the door, you asked if he was there, and I managed to keep you talking for just long enough for him to tame his still-raging erection and put his clothes back together again. You asked what we had been up to as you’d tried calling him and I lied. “Just watching some shit documentary,” I said. How could I tell you that I’d just pushed your husband’s phone down the gap in my couch cushions to stop it vibrating and buzzing as I enthusiastically sucked and lapped at his cock and lightly tugged on his balls?
From my point of view, his sexual interest in me gave me the boost I needed. He was choosing to fuck my mouth that night rather than worshipping your tiny size zero body. He looked at me with lust in his eyes during that water fight in my living room, moments before he ripped my sweater off with his teeth.
He wanted me.
I wanted him.
I had him.
I am sorry for fucking your husband, though. I’m sorry for all the husbands I’ve fucked along the way. Number 25 was another prime example. He told me all the stories in the world about why he was fucking around behind his wife’s back. Back then at 18 years old, I believed him. A few years later, with Number 36 – your husband, I knew he wouldn’t leave you, but I never asked him to. I wasn’t that naive, plus that’s not what I wanted him for. I just wanted his beautiful cock in any which way I could get it. He gratefully obliged.
You’ve broken up with Number 36 now and you both have new partners. Maybe you should know what happened between your husband and I? Maybe, deep down, you already know? There were other girls, plenty of them. I could probably tell you a few stories. I won’t, though. I’ll just keep them to myself.
Men like that: your husband, my husband, all those husbands … those leopards will never change their spots. And from what I’ve heard, your now ex-husband still hasn’t changed his.
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