Most people cheat, then confess. But, I’m not most people.
I broke up with my charismatic, funny, talented, extremely sexy boyfriend—whom I still love deeply— because I was curious about someone else, who doesn’t even live in my city, state or country. Because I’m a scumbag. Because I’m a hopeless romantic. Because I believe that a relationship is a farce without multiple levels of compatibility. Because I tremble and seethe with fear and rage when I’m being yelled at, even if it’s just from someone with a "raised voice." Because I like affection and not aggression. Because I hate needless, incessant arguing. Because I’m terrified of settling down and having to work hard for a possibly futile future. Because I want what’s best for everybody. Because I want to be treated the way I treat the person I love. Because I love myself.
Although it would’ve been possible to get away with, cheating wasn’t an option for me. It was bad enough for my conscience that I had developed romantic feelings for another person, so I couldn’t imagine the moral torment of infidelity. So, I stuck to my principle of honesty first and told him.
It was the hardest conversation of my entire life.
I cried in my car all the way to his apartment. I sat outside and took deep breaths and tried to shake off the nerves that crawled under my skin, into my guts and out of my eyes.
The fear of him yelling at me did not cancel out my need to be forthright, before acting on my suppressed feelings for another man that I have more in common with, is as affectionate as me and has better communication with me. A wave of anxiety about being foolish flooded my brain as I sat with the engine idling. I reminded myself it was more about a lack of compatibility and less about looking for someone else. Because I wasn’t looking—he just showed up at the same time my reluctance manifested. I really wanted it to work between my boyfriend and I, but without the constant work.
Truthfully, it had been a difficult relationship for me, since the first month we were together.
I was on top of him, "practically jumping up and down" on his dick (as he described), when he slipped out. A warm gush of liquid streamed out of my pussy and onto my thighs. Immediately, I knew it was blood, but I told myself it was an early onset of my period from his huge cock (and not a sliced labia).
"Are you okay?" we asked each other.
I told him I wasn’t sure and needed to check.
"It’s probably just your period," he said. "It’s not the first time it’s happened with me."
I went into the bathroom and tried to crouch over to inspect my lady parts. I couldn’t get a good look.
"Are you okay?" he asked as he stood behind me.
"I don’t know," I said.
"It’s just your period," he said, then bent me over the vintage tub and fucked me for a few more minutes.
I can’t recall if we stopped because he came or because the blood kept coming. But, we stopped.
I rushed to grab a tiny mirror from my purse, so I could check my pretty pussy for wounds. I passed the puddle of blood on the sheet and knew it was actually an injury. I retreated into the bathroom with shallow breath and quivering hands.
I pulled my inner labia apart and saw a slit inside my slit. It was about the length of my thumb. Right then, it stung. My heart raced with a zillion nightmares. I was going to die. I was going to bleed to death in his bathroom. I was going to get MRSA. I was going to lose all feeling in my vajayjay for the rest of my life.
Tears streamed down my hot cheeks. I threw on all my clothes in less than five seconds.
"I got hurt," I said as he cleaned up the giant blood stain, naked. "Can you take me to the hospital?"
"I don’t know. My dog has been home alone all day..." I cut him off before he could finish.
"Never mind."
I ran to my car and cried hysterically all the way to the hospital, mortified.
"Blunt force trauma," the doctor said.
I ended up getting five stitches. He ended up feeling like a jerk and endlessly apologizing, saying he thought I was probably just exaggerating, but he feels terrible that I wasn’t. I told him it was alright, that I forgave him, but now I’m not sure I ever really did. His initial reaction has always haunted the back of my mind. A phantom that set the stage for how I perceive him. I tried to erase my resentment, but a tiny sliver always lingered.
But, this time, his reaction impressed me. It made me love him even more. It made it hard to say goodbye. I still don’t know for certain if we should remain broken up.
The door was unlocked. I let myself in and petted his dog. It felt like his dog knew, because he ran circles around me and licked my ankles.
His big studio smelled like he just showered. He stood naked in the bathroom. His striking beauty blinded my mind with the urge to back out of the whole plan.
I sat on his bed in silence. He dried off and said, in a sad, low voice, "Are you unhappy with me?"
I barricaded the tears before they gave me away.
"Why do you ask?" I said.
"You haven’t been sending me sweet messages as often this week," he said.
I joined him in the bathroom, sat on the cold porcelain tub and gripped it with both hands.
"Am I that easy to read?" I asked.
"No, but are you unhappy? Did I do something to upset you?" he asked.
I told him everything. That even though he raised his voice when he was upset with me only a handful of times over the last year, it was just too much for me to handle. That the last time a week ago had me thinking that we should break up, which I did say we should break up then, at the time a week prior, as a knee-jerk reaction to yelling at me, because I wasn’t on my way to his house yet.
He calmly looked at me with a great love in his eyes and told me he was sorry, and that he wanted to do whatever it took to make it work. That he’d try as hard as he could to refrain from raising his voice when he’s frustrated. That I have every right to call him out and say I can’t talk to him until he calms down. He offered realistic and doable solution after solution. He told me he’d do anything for me, and I knew he meant it.
In that moment, I absolutely hated myself for what I needed to say next.
"You deserve to know—I’ve started to wonder about someone else," I said.
He slouched on his bed with heartbreak, now fully dressed, shoes and all.
Upright, near the closet, I sobbed uncontrollably. He stood up from his bed and told me he loved me and that he was sorry, that it was probably all his fault. He held me as I cried into his chest, near his heart. I squeezed him like I was about to fall off a cliff. Because I was, into a sea of sorrow.
We kissed and made love one last time. I said goodbye to him and his dog and cried all the way home.
I’ve since met with the other person I have feelings for—and it was fantastic as expected—but, I’m still unsure if I made the right choice by breaking up, although being honest about my feelings for another was definitely the right choice. I feel like a scumbag, albeit an honest scumbag.
