In my mind, I cheat. I fuck other people with insurmountable
lust and passion. The lean blonde guy from way back with his
soft lips like an air of this down pillows pressed together
always in a smirk. The dark Indian with his black hair down
to his neck and that huge, huge cock. The milky, silky skin
of that beautiful girl, her round and perfect breasts, her
pussy sweet and sumptuous.

They're real people, though. Missed opportunities, lost
chances, my haunting past chasing me around like a nagging
child crying for it's supper. Are they really conceptually
different from that woman in Playboy just because I know
them? I try so hard to convince myself they're not. It's
only their body I'm after. My heart is with someone else, he
is my present and my future.

Weird though, that as I write this I notice I'm not wearing
my engagement ring.
Sure, loneliness plays the biggest role in this inner debate
I'm holding. Had I had him with me here my thoughts would
only rarely wander off, and even then, to images of
strangers. I know fantasizing is perfectly all right.
Natural, healthy, whatever. But I can't stop thinking about
them. They take turns visiting my dreams, each one more
sensual than the other. These people not only have faces and
bodies, but personalities and voices I know.

I go on flirting. I play with the notion that I could have
them all if I wanted - and I can. I just care too much for
what I have to throw it all to fucking hell just so I can
get a quick fix. I'm reduced to the only reasonable outlet,
writing out my fantasies, and even then I feel guilt seeping
through the keyboard. Am I wrong for loving one man, yet
craving many others? Am I actually cheating, or is this the
same as whacking off to videos of Jenna Jameson?

I voiced this hypothetical dilemma to some friends before
class. One claimed that as long as it doesn't feel like
cheating, it isn't. No help there. Another said it depends
on whether you act on your impulse or not, which leads to a
whole new hell hole of trouble - what's precisely ''acting
on it''?

Is flirting allowed as long as nothing physical happens? Is
phone sex innocent? And cyber sex, what about that? Is
dirty-letter correspondence out of the question?

I pull my hair out pondering these various versions of sins
of the flesh. And then he shows up.

We've only ever exchanged hellos in class, nothing more. But
you go out one night aftre school, share a couple of
innocent bottles of wine. I tell him about my fiance and my
devotion to him. He tells me about his girlfriend. Our
smiles reveal completely different thoughts which I quickly
drown with more wine until my lips and tongue are an
embarrassing shade of purple. With the alcohol sloshing
about in my belly we call it quits and go outside, heading
towards Grand Central. I just follow, at that specific
moment all my navigational skills are reduced to putting one
foot after another successfully while staring at that
gorgeous butt. And he's friggin smart and funny, too. We
walk around, talking and laughing. Finally someone my age,
exactly my type. The disadvantage of being 21 rears its ugly
head - the conversation steers to drugs and sex all too
easily. He reminds me of everything that I miss.

The rain is spitting at us, urging us to run inside and hide
from it, and from ourselves while we're at it. So we go in
and all I want is for this torture to stop, or for him to
slip n a mysterious subway puddle and fall face first on me,
preferably on my lips. He doesn't, but he does walk me to
the ticket machine. I tell him he's hot and smile, fidgeting
with the screen. He admits he thinks I am, too. I'm not
embarrassed for saying that, which completely embarrasses
me.

We share a smile that may or may not mean more then ''let's
call it a night''. We hug. He pulls me close.

And grabs my ass.

Why, oh why did you grab my ass? If I wasn't on the verge of
losing whatever remnants of sanity I still had before, I am
now. All I can think of is how to stop my lips from finding
his and my hands from grabbing your crotch.

I break the hug. ''I'm too turned on to trust myself now'' I
confess, and he nods, eyeing the bulge in his pants. Oh god.
We smile again. He promises he'll call.

On the way home I take the local train. More time to think,
or daydream, to continue our little game in my head.
Liquored up and horny as hell, my mind flooded with
desperate thoughts - like is it cheating if I'm raped, and
if it isn't then how can I get myself in a position to be
raped by Mr. Ass-Grabber, and how many times before it
becomes suspicious? Or otherwise devise a contraption to
erase all these distractions from my life.

All the while I keep remembering My Guy - how casual sex
would never compare to what he and I share. Corny, but
true.

I sigh a lot these days