I want to start off by saying that this isn’t a love story. The guy and the girl don’t end up together. Happily ever after isn’t a reality for them. She’s not going to write him out of her life until one day he’s outside her window, standing in the pouring rain, saying he can’t live without her.
This isn’t that story. This is a story about sex.
It all started when I packed my bags and headed across the county. I was young, I was driven, and I was given the opportunity of a lifetime. This competitive internship that I’d worked my ass off for would put me on the direct path to my dreams. The only problem? I had a boyfriend back home, and doing long distance for five months at the age of twenty-one seemed like a pretty challenging feat. But when I went to accept the offer in California, he told me to take it. We’d be fine. I knew that I would never cheat, and he assured me he felt the same. So I packed my fears away as I loaded up my luggage and felt confident in myself, my skills, and “the love of my life” waiting for me back home.
And then, as it happens in the most classic of tales, I met him.
It was my first month on the job, and I was backstage at a talent audition. He walked by me carrying a big guitar case, his dark hair the perfect combination of careless and styled. He glanced up at me and smiled. My heart — it slowed down and sped up all at the same time, and I stood frozen in that spot, in that moment. He kept walking down to a performing room to audition for a show, and I slowly crept around the corner to get another glance. He was bending over the case, his jeans highlighting his ass (told you it wasn’t romantic) and his white t-shirt straining against his biceps.
My face flushed as he strummed his fingers across his guitar. His hands turned the nobs and caressed the the neck. I want his hands on me, I thought, as I watched him flex his calloused fingers. It was the classic musician magic. He was hot. But more than that, he knew he was hot. There was something in his easy confidence, his perfect body, and his natural good looks that made me want to grab his face and sit on it. To have him take me by the back of the neck and kiss me hard and deep. The feel of him as he pealed off my shirt, pushed me down on the bed and — Wait a minute. What? What was I doing? I had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who I loved. I backed away from the door and told myself that this was dumb. Crazy. Just hormones. But then his husky, sexy voice floated down the hallway, and I hesitated.
I wanted to fuck him.
I wanted those hands on me, and I wanted that mouth to cover my body. Flushed and confused I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I glanced up into the mirror, into the eyes of the girl who swore that she would never cheat on anyone. What was I doing? I needed to snap out of this. I pulled out my phone, and sent a quick text message to my boyfriend. We exchanged hasty “I love yous” and I felt better. This was silly. I didn’t even know this guy.
At the end of the day, however, “this guy” turned out to be named Casey, and we had gotten each other’s numbers. I was new in town. He lived in town. I don’t remember or care what the excuse was. I had his number, and this could end very, very badly.
Now before I keep going, I need to tell you: I was in a very bad relationship. I’m not just saying that to make the rest of the story okay. No matter what, there’s never an excuse to cheat (I haven’t even said I cheated yet, so calm the eff down). I’m saying that my relationship was shitty because it’s true. He was mean, unkind, and verbally abusive. Despite it all, however, I was in love.
But maybe I wasn’t as in love as I thought. As the weeks went by, I stayed busy. Working 12+ hours a day didn’t give me much time to do anything. I would Skype my boyfriend and we would talk, but slowly we were drifting away. Our conversations were becoming stale as the distance took a toll on us. We became less trusting of each other, which made me want to break free from him even more. Still, I stayed loyal. Considering that my job made me go to different places, I didn’t see Casey again for weeks. I had yet to text him, and he sure as hell wasn’t reaching out first. Chances are, he didn’t even remember me.
And then he remembered me.
It was one of the first weekends I had had off in months. My best friend from out of town was visiting, and we were going to get drunkity-drunk-drunk with a few girls I had made friends with. We were all getting ready, taking shots and laughing at each other’s outfit choices. You know, normal rom-com shit. The music dropped in volume for a second as my phone buzzed with a text message. Expecting it to be my boyfriend, pissed that I was going out, I glanced at it. The name at the top caught me by surprise. Casey. Blood thudded in my ears as I hastily unlocked my phone.
As I pressed send and agreed to meet up with a guy who was not my boyfriend, I had no idea what to think. Why did I do that? I shouldn’t go, right? What would happen? Every answer, right and wrong, flooded my brain. Shit. I quickly filled my friends in, and after a whole bunch of “what about (boyfriend’s name)?” and “OMG are you going to hook up with him” we agreed to go to his bar to end the evening.
Dangerous, I know. But if I was going to play with fire, I was going to go all in.
We bounced around downtown LA, laughing and drinking and enjoying being young. Cliché, right? I was having such a good time (and I had had one too many vodka sodas already) that I almost forgot about my “date” with Casey. When I glanced at my phone after a few hours of forgetting about it, I saw fifteen angry texts from my boyfriend, and one simple text from my not-boyfriend. He asked if I was still coming.
Boy, did I ever want to come (sorry, sorry).
We hopped in a cab, headed uptown, and walked in the door. There he was. Standing behind the counter in a secluded bar, sipping a drink and fiddling with the music. He looked better than I remembered. As he glanced up at me, his eyes sparkled and a slow, sly grin spread across his face.
“You came.” He said, his voice husky and seductive.
“I did.” I answered, looking at him with meaning.
The next few hours were spent shamelessly flirting (I know, I’m the worst, okay?), laughing with my friends, and drinking all of the free drinks he gave us. As the night wound down, and one of my friends fell asleep at the bar, I knew I had to make a choice: Go home with a guy who isn’t my boyfriend or always wonder what might have been?
I chose the second option.
When I told him that I needed to leave, he asked me to go home with him. I declined. He tried to convince me, but I held out, somehow, saying that I needed to be with my friends. He came around the bar with a look of determination in his eyes. He pulled me into his arms, my skin feeling shocked as his arms folded around me. As I hugged him I felt his muscles flex and a jolt was sent to my, well, vagina. God I want him inside of me. As I pulled back, he leaned forward to kiss me. I turned my cheek at the last second, almost wishing that I would have just done it. Just kissed him.
The next few months we texted occasionally back and forth. He’d invite me and my friends out to his shows and I’d ask him if he wanted to grab a drink. But for some reason it never worked out. He had work. I had work. The Earth was stopping me from infidelity which was a total drag. As we kept shutting down plans, I figured that my dreams of putting his penis inside of me (beautiful, I know) would never come true.
Until one fateful day, he texted me the words every girl dreams of seeing:
“Do you want to fuck me?”
How badly I did. But in the moment I realized I couldn’t be that person. I could never do that. I said no, explained that I was in a relationship, and moved on. A month later I returned home and broke up with my boyfriend the first night I saw him. It wasn’t just because I had been so attracted to someone else. But I couldn’t overlook it. See, I couldn’t help but wish that I had broken things off sooner. A lot of time has gone by, and I have yet to see Casey again. Still, every once in awhile I’ll watch his videos, listen to his music, and stalk his social media and dream. Not of a life together and not of a relationship. I never wanted to be with him.
But my God, did I want to have sex with him. And the worst part is? I never got to.
So what’s the moral? What’s the point of the story? I don’t know, guys. I guess it’s just that life is short. And regret is real. It can take form in a passion you didn’t pursue or a dream you gave up on. Maybe you wasted your time on shitty people, or maybe you were too scared to tell someone how you felt. Or maybe, just maybe, you stayed in a shitty relationship and didn’t get to have sex with that hot AF musician that one time in LA. Whatever your regret is, it sucks.
So embrace life. Do what’s right, and listen to the little voice inside of your heart that tells you what to do. Sure, your head is the place of logic. But your heart? That’s where your true dreams lie. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t wait until you’re on the other side, thinking “what if?” Don’t be like me and wonder what an orgasm would have been like with the dick that got away..
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