“Have you ever been with a woman?” a prospective lover asked.
Oh God, here we go again. Another dude with a triple-play fetish.
“No. I’m straight.”
“Not curious?”
If I were interested in women, I’d be looking for women. In fact, the longer we text, the more likely I am to change my search engine.
“So no 3sum?”
How many ways can I say no?
“Are you interested in men?” I want to say, but I don’t because you’d have better luck getting laid.
Men who are looking for an affair think with their small brains and not their big ones.
They think that women who are cheating are more promiscuous and libertine than the standard female population. We might be in some ways. We are bucking the general consensus but we might also be normal. Only 13% of women cheat, studies say.
I am one of those low percentages. I think there’s gotta be more. Women are just too embarrassed to admit it: the stigma, the shame.
Hester and The Scarlet Letter.
“She had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness…The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread.”
This book was written 170 years ago, and I am fully on board.
I have moral wilderness down. It’s called r/adultery.
170,777 *(as of yesterday) anonymous internet strangers comparing notes on adultery.
This is where my moral compass has gone haywire.
I cheat happily and share tips!
Why not? My little hand basket to Hell was packed long ago. I don’t need any extra luggage on this trip but I like being prepared. The extra raincoat, first aid kits, and flashlights. Hey, I raised an Eagle Scout.
There were lots of conversations in the “no tread zone.”
I had them all.
“What sexual fantasies can I help you fulfill?” another man texted.
“Hmmmm. Let me think about that.”
The fantasy that you might care about me as a human being. How’s that? Or, the fantasy of not feeling like an unpaid prostitute. Or, how about the fantasy of sharing something other than a bed?
I play along sometimes, just for fun.
“I really dig MFM porn,” I say.
“Really? How exciting!”
Yeah, it’s novel. Me and the other hundred million on PornHub.
“Anal?” he types.
“If I feel comfortable.”
Which is to say that I need to see your dick first. And your personality before you go anywhere near my back door.
He’s on his screen, high-fiving the air while I wonder how much I should reveal.
“You’re perfect!”
I am far from perfect, dude.
“Do you squirt?”
Why do men think this is an achievement?
“No. I doubt many women do,” I said.
“I can make you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I have my ways.”
Do I get a medal? Is there a distance calculator?
“You know that squirting is faked in porn!” I text.
Women shoot streams of water out their nether parts while keeping their foundation and lipstick intact. Uh no.
“No. There are plenty of women who can.”
“No, there are plenty of talented prop people in porn,” I answer.
“I bet you can,” he insists.
I bet you, I know the rest of this conversation.
I need to wrap this up. I’m tired of trying.
The next questions will be:
“What kind of panties do you wear?”
“What positions do you like?”
“What are your fantasies?”
“What turns you on?”
You stopping. That’s what’s getting me excited.
I know when the conversation rolls downhill, it’s a runaway train. I don’t want to crash and burn along with it.
I am promiscuous and looking for a lover. I don’t hide my sexuality. I am wearing the Scarlet A on my chest proudly for the internet to see. Yet I want to be valued for more than my pussy.
Is that too much to ask for?
No not too much to ask for