I lay here in the darkness. I lay here in the darkness, listening to the rythmic thump of the headboard against the wall; The rythmic thump of the headboard against the wall, and the delicate gasps of breath from the parted lips of my lover, who is in the next room, in the arms of her lover, my not quite but almost friend. I want to cry. I'm longing for the sweet release of tears, but they won't come. They won't come and I'm stuck with this terrible ache.
I'm thinking, I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here at least while I can still here her breathing like that. But then, a shrill little moan, and another; a rustle of the bed and the breathing is heavier, deeper. The breathing is from down low in her belly and I'm transfixed with dread. What is this life that I've chosen for myself? I know that her orgasm is comming and I know that she won't be able to keep it quiet though his father is sleeping down the hall. Just as I know that I'll feel a terrible thrill in my chest and my stomache will drop when it comes, and God, I wish it would just hurry up and come. But no, the heavy breathing just starts again.
I'm reminding myself that I love her but she's not mine. That just a few nights ago I was happy to share in their lovemaking and it was a sweet little threesome that we had. But I feel my stomache drop even before I expected it would, and this is not that. No, it is a very different thing to share sex together than to listen helplessly from the next room.
On the long drive to get here, to his father's house, she and I had a hard talk that left my emotions coiled like a hard knot in my belly. She said that she hasn't felt hungry for me sexually since I got here. And I asked, knowing full well it would be disasterous, if she was hungry for him. Yes. Of course she is. And I still here her demonstrating it in the next room.
Would I feel differently about overhearing their lovemaking if we hadn't had that conversation? If I hadn't felt mildly snubbed first by being put in the seperate room, then by having to knock on the door and ask for sheets and a pillow? Then by her coming in to my lonely room to say she wanted a proper goodnight hug, oh, and by the way could she borrow a condom?
In every lull of quiet from their room I decide that I'm exhausted and done with my melodrama, then comes another little gasp and no, I am not yet done. But then, suddenly, to my surprize and against my narrative instincts, I am. Really done. The heart wrenching that was so unavoidable a few moments ago is now a bit forced and ina moment more I am laughing at my sub text of victemhood and mistreatment. Happy for the sounds of pleasure that are now slowing from the next room. And as it becomes apparent that I was wrong about the inexorability of a climatic orgasm, I'm a little sad that it didn't happen that way. Not too sad though; sounded like they had plenty of fun.
It doesn't matter whether I'm at the top of her list of men who get her going. It doesn't really say anything about me; about who I am. And even if it does, I can handle being the worst sex partner in the world if it's true. I don't need to secure her love. Her love is none of my business. It's my love that matters, and I find, in this moment, that I love her just fine.
