flings

Thrust.

topper

thrust (verb) – /THrəst/ – push (something or someone) suddenly in the specified direction

According to Newton’s first law of motion, a body at rest tends to stay at rest, and a body in motion tends to stay in motion.

In other words, I could’ve let things rest. He could’ve let things rest. Instead, we both put this thing into motion, and it would remain in motion for 5 years.

For him, the thrust to get the ball rolling may have been any number of things. Maybe it was boredom or feeling unappreciated at home. Maybe he needed to feel like a young man again, virile and on the hunt for conquest. Maybe he was just a cad, womanizing for sex or ego’s sake.

For me, the thrust was purely emotional. I needed to be needed. I know that’s an awful reason to become involved with a married man. However, I am here to tell the truth. I was feeling incredibly rejected and unworthy. I still had a 2 foot scratch down my back from being assaulted. I needed refuge. I needed to be rescued.

For us, once the ball began rolling, it was hard to stop. He took me on business trips. He attended concerts in my town. He planned “boys trips” that so happened to include me. He bent over backwards to find ways to see me. At any point, I could have said “no”. I could have walked away. But when you are feeling out of control, that’s easier said than done.

 

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Sex.

topper

sex (noun) – /seks/ –  sexual activity, including specifically sexual intercourse

This is my story, the story of a woman involved with a married man for 5 years. So yes, there was lots of sex involved. Why else would a man cheat, right? Of course as a home-wrecking whore, I also had to be in it for the sex… and power, naturally. So let’s do this. Let’s get the gratuitous sex out of the way…

The weekend we escalated, there was lots and lots of sex. Sex on the bed, on the floor, on the couch, against the wall, in a chair, and in the shower. There was manual, oral, vaginal, and anal sex. There was missionary, doggy, reverse cowgirl, and scissoring sex. There was mind-blowing, exhausting, multi-orgasmic, all-nighter sex. From Thursday night to Sunday afternoon, I don’t think we spent much time outside of his hotel room. It all had to be about sex, right? Why else would either of us risk ruining his marriage?

Believe it or not, somewhere squeezed into all of that sex, a connection formed. I know you think I’m deluding myself. Hell, I’m sure I am. But when I was on the cusp of leaving for home, planning to never see him again, he asked me to stay. He wanted one more day, one more night. And the sex took a backseat to whatever had driven him to ask me to stay.

In that extra 24 hours, we walked around town, sharing our secrets, our stories. We laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, laughing like kids up past their bedtime. We held hands and curled into each other. And when it came time to say goodbye, he couldn’t. He asked if and when he could be with me again. And when it came time to say goodbye, I couldn’t. I agreed and said as soon as possible.