That
was fun. And that was all he wrote. In his text
message, that is, ten minutes after he dropped me off in front of my apartment.
At three in the morning.
It was a gentlemanly booty call. There was no
other name to it. “Gentlemanly” because he still had the manners to pick me
up and drop me back off. But a booty call, nonetheless. He was feeling frisky.
I was feeling lonely. And we’d been texting
the whole day. There would’ve been nothing
wrong about it entirely, except for the catch in the story. He’s married. And I am supposedly in a
relationship with a different guy. Fuck.
Goodnight.
Delete this. :) I replied before I deleted the entire thread
of mostly dirty-slash-flirty messages from my conversation list and the logs on
my phone. I wasn’t entirely sure
if he’d have been
offended by me reminding him to delete our conversation on his end. Could he
maybe think that I think he’s stupid enough
to leave incriminating evidence? Maybe. But I’d much rather play on the safe side than get
my hair pulled by a random stranger on my way to the hospital where I work.
Where we both work. Double fuck.
God, I can’t really believe I just did what I’d just done. It has yet to sink in, I
suppose. I just slept with a married man and cheated on my boyfriend. How low
could I go? It wasn’t even a spur
of the moment thing where “I had a drink
too many” or “I wasn’t thinking” could’ve been an excuse, albeit being totally
invalid.
It had been a conscious decision for me to
engage Andrew, a third year Anesthesiology resident, and his sexual innuendos.
Perhaps a different junior would have shouted “SEXUAL HARRASSMENT!” on the get-go, but not me, no. I basked in
his attention and the fact that he was so into me, he’d considered cheating on his wife to get in
my pants.
There was no remorse. I searched myself
thoroughly and came back with nothing even remotely close to that. There was no
guilt, no gnawing I’m-so-sorry-I-just-cheated-on-my-boyfriend
kind of feeling. I even felt… vindicated. As
if I had just levelled the field. It's
just sex, I thought apathetically.
I mechanically changed back into my pajamas,
taking off the red tank top I wore which revealed just enough to amp up Andrew’s “thirst” while we were still in his car more than a
couple hours earlier. (He was more than amped up, alright.) Then I went to bed
and just stared at the ceiling of my studio for a while, recounting every
moment that led to this specific one and pinning my conscience down. We’re even now, I
thought, a bitter smile forming in my lips. But
you don’t have to know. You never have to know.
