I will be honest. I am not sure what I was thinking when I got myself into this mess. I thought that my situation wouldn’t end up like every other situation where someone shits where they eat. I was going to make this odd relationship work.
I was wrong.
I am a stepping stone in his quest to stave off the boredom. Sexual boredom. I am not important to him. And yet when he writes me notes, they seem to come from the heart. When he whispers those sweet nothings into my ear, they put butterflies in my stomach. His scent is intoxicating. His touch burns my skin and makes me feel alive for the first time in a long time. His lips on my neck and my chest start a chain reaction that always ends with us no longer in his car, somehow in his room, me laying under him on his bed. And before I know it, my clothes are gone and I’m lost in his intense gaze, matching his intense rhythm. And only when we are done does sense return to me enough to question whether he used protection.
I am hopeless. I am angry. I am frustrated. I am happy. I am sad. I am everything in between.
“So why do I continue to allow this to happen?” I think. And then I meet his gaze and he gives me the signal to meet him when I get off. I say I won’t. But on my way out, he grins and says something stupid and laughs that sexy laugh of his (who knew a laugh could be sexy?) And suddenly I’m back to square one, my resolve broken.