Six

Do you remember Numbers 6 and 7 from The Foursome That Wasn’t? Well, I’m not proud to admit that I went back there during my first slutty little phase. Not for both of them; just for him. Why? I have absolutely no idea. I think it was probably to prove that I could. Whatever the reason, it was bad. Generally, specifically, and in pretty much every other way that you could possibly imagine.

He sent me a text one night. I’m just going to call him Six for now. He’s not important enough for a real blog name, and yes, that is a touch of bitterness for reasons I will soon explain. Anyway, I read the text, responded to the text, and a couple of hours later, I was running to Six’s place with a dress on, so he didn’t have to fuck around with jeans or trousers.  

He wasn’t an attractive man. He still isn’t. He had that lager lout, beer belly, vulgar thing going on back then, and as far as I’ve heard, nothing has changed. Six wasn’t funny or smart and he didn’t really have any redeeming qualities, so I have no idea what compelled me to go there. None at all. Like I said, I think it’s probably just because I could. I did a lot of things just because I could back then. I pretend that I wouldn’t change things about my sexual history, but I’d definitely un-fuck Six if I could.

You see, me and Seven (Six’s girlfriend) were really good friends at one point. We’d faded away from each other’s lives as time went on, but we were still friends. Not close, but still. We knew things about each other. Secrets. Lies. Things that we wouldn’t want other people to know. Our friendship was why the foursome-that-wasn’t happened in the first place.

Six and I had a rumble around on the floor in his bedroom. It wasn’t long or memorable, and I didn’t come. It was just… shit, really. It actually wasn’t worth screwing her – my friend – over for. I felt so fucking bad for it. Afterwards, I was so ashamed that I didn’t want to face her, so it ruined our relationship without her even knowing about it.

Eventually, Six told Seven what had happened post-foursome (that wasn’t.) I didn’t know that at first, of course, so whenever I saw her around, I’d smile and wish her the best, confused as to why she was shooting daggers at me.

A friend-of-a-friend eventually told me. “She knows about you and him from back then, you know?”

Six had told Seven just after they’d gotten married, apparently. But why? What was the point in that? Had the guilt finally eaten him up, almost a decade after the event? I was annoyed that he’d spilled the beans after so long, but I didn’t really have a right to be. I’d done the deed, hadn’t I? I fucked her fella behind her back. I deserved everything she (and he) wanted to throw at me.

And that’s the story of how I became the slut in my friendship group before I’d even become a proper slut in real life.

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Number 10: Prison Micro Penis.