The cold wind burned my ears as he leaned in for a kiss. “See you around?”
“Yip,” I smiled. I knew what he really meant, and I was fine with it.
We’d spent one night together: laughed, kissed, had drunken sex in his car, cuddled up under the blankets to stave off the frosty winter air.
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We’d gotten along, he was athletic and gorgeous, and it’d been a nice night. “See you around?” meant “This was a once-only deal”.
But, for the first time, I wasn’t in any way heartbroken. And it scared me.
I’ve always been an emotional person. I feel deeply and fall in love quickly. I was a virgin until 21 and before marriage had only one real intimate partner: a longtime boyfriend who I’d known for over a year before we started dating.
I wasn’t interested in casual sex in my 20s. There were a couple of one-off kisses with strangers. A guy at a new year’s party, the colour running out of my green top onto my bare arms as we kissed in the rain.
My first kiss at 16, also my first experience getting drunk and first offer of sex, which I turned down politely.
A friend’s friend at a party who stayed the night in my bed, but our clothes stayed firmly on. There were others, mostly forgettable.
I wanted sex to be special.
I wanted it to be loving and with someone I trusted. I had a wonderful sex life with my long-term boyfriend, but in the end we had to admit we were more “friends with benefits” than marriage partners.
We ended it after a year and within a few months I was dating the man who would soon become my husband.
Our relationship was the complete reversal. We were best friends and knew everything about each other. We connected at every level. We were deeply in love. But the sex was… mediocre.
We got married quickly and I tried to stay present when we made love, but in the end I closed my eyes and let myself slip into fantasies of other men, other places.
As long as I orgasmed did it matter how it happened?
Over the decade of our marriage, the sex became worse, rougher, and more selfish. He no longer cared if I wanted it or not.