The First Confession

Here's what prompted me to start this little bit of sacrilegiousness:

Last night I went out with a very old friend named M. He was in town for only a week, having just returned from Iraq and having to report back to base very soon. He's known me since I was thirteen and had terrible fashion sense and sported a hairstyle that can only be described as "electrocuted." The fact that he even stood next to me back then without insisting I wear this:

is reason enough to love him.

I sat on the bar stool while he regaled me with tales of monster sized camel spiders, heat rash and IEDs while I sipped my Red Headed Sluts.

Here's my confession. Suddenly M started to look really good. Why the hell do I fall for all of my guy friends? I didn't have this problem in high school and I would think that being a married woman would only make being around men easier. Evidently not for the whorish at heart. As he talked in disgusting detail about the blisters on his back from heat rash and the excruciating pain of wearing full gear while oozing, I desperately wanted to throw down my black cigarette, grab his face in my hands and jam my tongue down his throat. I didn't. But I sure as hell wanted to.

The fact that I'm ready to screw just about anyone who treats me nicely for more than an hour makes a pretty pathetic statement. I'm not the cheatin' type, but it doesn't mean I don't think about it. Having someone listen attentively to my ramblings is like therapy for me. Therapy that I wouldn't hesitate to pay for with blow jobs.

Perhaps if I was happier in my marriage I could stop fantasizing about my guy friends. But I'm not. And I'm having a damn hard time not expecting M and all the other guys to play Knight in Shining Armor and whisk me away to live in a nice sized Tudor with something sporty in the garage and a skating rink on my left ring finger.

This is what happens when you marry the first guy you screw folks. You spend the entirety of your marriage fantasizing about that glorious appendage hanging out in the pants of the males that surround you. Thank God for my BOB.