I like to spend my favorite part of the day (lunch) with a rotating list of my favorite people. My most favorite lunch date is one man in particular. I like this man because he’s smart and confident. I like him because he gets me. I like him because we have good conversations. Conversations that make me think. Conversations that stay with me for days. Conversations we keep coming back to.
One day this man suggests we go for drinks instead of lunch. He suggests a Friday night. I agree to go. I put lipstick on. I wear a dress that’s not too tight, but that’s too short. We get drunk and I enjoy the conversation. Then this happens:
Bartender: Do you guys want another drink?
Me to Bartender: I don’t, but my friend does.
Friend to Me: If I have another drink, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.
Friend to Bartender: We’ll have two shots.
Friend to Me: You know The Standard is right around the block
Me: More silence
There are a couple problems here. The first one is my friend is married. The second one is my friend has kids.
After we do the shots, my friend proceeds to tell a story he’s already told me. I don’t listen. Instead, I shock myself because I’m suddenly debating about taking him into the ladies’ restroom and locking the door, who needs a hotel?
My friend and I are a lot alike in many ways, one of them is that we’re always in control, except when we’re not. We both know that, generally speaking, we’re capable of going off the rails. So it isn’t long before he insists he has to leave or else we’ll get ourselves in trouble. I’m still unable to process how fast the tone of our conversation shifted, so I don’t argue. He pays the bill and we leave.
After we go our separate ways, he texts me a blushing smiley face. I’m unclear why or what he’s trying to say or what he wants me to say. I don’t know if I should read into it or just take it for face value. I decide I don’t have the patience to figure out what he wants, so I thank him for the drinks and tell him to have a good rest of the night.
When I get home, this is what proceeds to play out in my mind as I lay in bed:
One day in the near future, when we aren’t in control I say to him: let’s do this. I think about how he’d turn red, hesitate, then give into the temptation. I think about us getting a room at The Standard. I think about how on the elevator ride to the room I’d laugh giggle for no reason. I think about how he’d ask me what I was laughing about. I think about how I’d tell him it was an inside joke with myself that wouldn’t make sense to him. I think about how instead of laughing insecurely, he’d kiss me forcefully. I think about how the elevator doors would open and someone would enter. I think about how we’d exchange a look of relief that it isn’t a co-worker. I think about how he’d slip his hand into mine as we walk down the dark hallway. I think about how my stomach would be doing somersaults as I stand behind him while he opens the door. I think about how I should run back to the elevator, but instead I’d follow him inside. I think about how once the door is closed, I’d nail him against the wall and kiss him with the same passion he kissed me in the elevator. I think about how we pull his shirt over his head, let it drop to the ground, and I’d push him to the bed. I think about how he’d lift himself up on his elbows and watch as I stood above him, slipped off my dress and bra. I think about the look in his eyes as he’d take in my body for the first time. I think about how he’d take control. I think about how he wouldn’t have to ask if it was good because he’d know. I think about how I’d be so high it would take me an hour to fall asleep. I think about how I’d get addicted to that high. I think about how I’d end up wanting him too much and too often. I think about being the other woman. I think about how I wouldn’t be able to have him when I wanted him. I think about how everything would be on his terms. I think about how he wouldn’t be able to give me what I need. I think about how that’s not what I want. I think about his wife and how nice she was to me at the holiday party. I think about his children. I think about the weekends when I’d want to be with him, but he’d be with them. I think about how I’d be jealous. I think about his wife finding out. I think about the pain it would cause. I think about it all. And I know how it would end. So I know it could never begin.
But that doesn’t stop me from savoring every second of the fantasy. I can because fantasies hurt no one. The thing with fantasies is that they aren’t meant to become a reality. That’s what dreams are for. In reality, he’d probably be nervous, perform poorly, and I’d be disappointed with him, as well as myself for making the choice to sleep with a married man.
So the next time he crosses the line, this time in text and so far over the line, there’s no mistaking his intentions, I remind him he’s married and clarify that I respect him, enjoy being friends with him, but am not interested in a sexual relationship with an unavailable man.