_Run

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
A woman thinks about her recent sexual misbehavior while running.

Submitted: November 02, 2015

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Submitted: November 02, 2015

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My feet are pounding the pavement.  I’m running so hard my lungs can’t keep up with my legs.  But it’s not fast enough.  I lean my shoulders forward, push my elbows back, and lift my knees, just like coach taught me.  But this time there were no other competitors on the track.  I was running from me, my problems, my mistakes. 

So fucking stupid.

Why was I so desperate?  So needy?  I knew the answer but it doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t change it. 

What the fuck is my problem?  I have a good man, a good husband, a beautiful stepdad to my perfect little boy.  Was I self-sabotaging because on some level I think I don’t deserve it?  Sure, I’m a shitty person on some levels.  But don’t I deserve good?  Can’t I just be happy with what I have?  I thought I was over needing to be needed. 

Last night I deleted all the apps, I stopped all the conversations; I blocked all the users.  That was step two.  Step one was deciding to stop.  Check.  Step three, berate self. 

I brought my hand temporarily to my side to pinch a cramp, which broke my stride some.  Three deep inhales followed by quick, forcefully short exhales to bring oxygen to the failing muscle.  The cramp lessened but did not cease completely.  No matter.  It’s not like I was going to stop now.  I can’t.

I was scaring myself with what I had gotten into.  But it was also so enticing.  Exhilarating, really.  Confessing my deepest desires to faceless strangers and role playing it with them via text.  Masturbating in a public parking lot in the middle of the day while live streaming with a sexy stranger.  Recording my first experience with anal beads-—that’s when I knew I was sexy.  That video was hot.  I sounded good, looked good, responded so well…so sexy.  Goddamn-—why wouldn’t someone want to fuck me?!  I mean, Jesus.  Too bad it’s gone.  All of the pictures and all of the videos were gone.  I deleted them on the sofa last night, sitting right next to my husband.  Gone forever, and he never even knew.

I had felt myself losing control.  Men were asking for it, actually: to control me.  I had several men and I had sworn to be only theirs to each of them-—how the fuck would they know?  They didn’t even know my real name, my real city, nothing.  And if I was busy with one and the other pouted, I just blamed it on the husband.  Piece of cake.  I was “having my cake and eating it, too.” 

I shake my head while still running, undoubtedly looking like a crazy person now.  I can’t believe I just used that stupid saying.  It made NO sense.  Why the fuck would you want cake if you can’t eat it?  That is the sole purpose of food: consumption. So dumb.  But still, the meaning that was supposed to be derived from it applied here.  I don’t get to be a good wife, a good mother and a whore to random guys online.  It was bound to catch up to me.  And it did.

“No,” I say aloud, not caring that the passing cyclist heard and cast me a strange look.  I’m not thinking about it.  It happened.  Well, almost did.  Thank god for my husband’s privacy settings on social media.  Back to chastising myself.  Now, where was I?

Oh yes, I was losing control.  It was as though I had stepped off the ledge and I was free falling.  Falling into the world of porn, sexting and all-out sluttiness. I relished being called a whore and a slut by these strangers because it was so true.  I was exchanging my dignity for their satisfaction and I liked it.  A lot. 

But my husband was trying.  Wasn’t that good enough?  He had noticed I lost weight, even though he didn’t know it was for the sexy pictures he wasn’t seeing.  He didn’t want to see.  It was “silly” just like everything else.

I looked both ways before crossing the street to start my return run.  I allowed myself to settle in for a slightly more comfortable pace.  I was now half-way through my run but still had a lot of thoughts to process.  And only two miles left in which to do it.

It was amazing to me how many men were dogs.  And how many people were just plain stupid.  Not that I give a fuck; I was just there for attention.  But so many married men, so many boyfriends without complaints about their partner.  Just there, because they can be.  And some men looking for real connections.  Ha!  On those shitty apps?  Good luck, bro.  And them trying to force feelings and attachments on me, warning me not to catch feelings.  Talk about “L-O-L.”  I didn’t give a single fuck about those guys-—sure, some I favorited more than others.  Some were super funny or super naughty and I liked our interactions.  But fuck all the rest of it.

When I wade through all the bullshit, I realize all I want is for my husband to want me.  To crave me.  To need to have me.  Not in some platonic, best friend, roommate sort of way, but as his lover.  As a sexual partner with which to explore and find new things to fall in love with each other about.  New ways to drive each other crazy in the best way possible. 

I stepped off the pavement and into the grass to yield the roadway to the approaching traffic.  Paying attention to where I set each foot down, I wanted to be sure to avoid ant piles, uneven ground or dog shit. Definitely wanted to avoid that.  When the cars passed, I stepped back onto the pavement, found my pace again, and resumed my self-analysis.

I was surprised how easily the lies came.  Not to my husband, he never asked; never noticing, trusting me.  But to the men.  So many lies, I couldn’t even keep up with them all.  They ate them up greedily not caring, and I distributed them like a baller in a strip club; shit was everywhere.  I felt I was becoming an expert too quickly; they were too easy.  I remember the first time I got off while chatting with some guy-—oh my goddddd it was amazing.  Then it was standard; he became boring.  Easy, predictable, mine.  Next.  I feared it would actually progress to cheating.  And that was never the goal.  The goal was sexual attention.  I wasn’t getting it at home, so I looked elsewhere.  But how was I expecting to fix anything at home when all of my energy was going to any man who would talk dirty to me online?

I picked up pace, lengthening my stride.  I didn’t want to continue these thoughts.  What’s done is done.  I can only move forward.  He will never forgive what I had done, nor will I, and I can never tell him.  My breath was increasing out of control.  My muscles strained but I pushed through.  I felt the endorphins kicking in, the pores in my skin opening up in an extreme attempt to cool my body.  I knew I was close to maxing out. 

 Endorphins were surging through me as I steadily pushed harder, forcing my body forward, my limbs struggling to persevere.  The neighborhood was in view and steadily getting closer.  I’m going home.  I’m leaving all this out here; I’m done with it.  I overcame the temptation, the sickness, and I was going back home.  


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