The sushi I ate last night was subpar. The same thing can be said for the sake. On a cold rainy night in Chicago, I walked into the restaurant and I knew how my night was going to end up before I sat down. She had beat me to the table, and when she stood up to give me a hug I saw an outfit that, at least to me said, “If you don’t say anything too stupid tonight I’ll go home with you.” She had a high waisted black skirt on, a low cut white top with no bra, and a short black heel which really complimented her leggings well. In the dimly lit restaurant, you could hardly tell that I had been in a gory fight with a sidewalk just a few hours beforehand and for all intents and purposes, I was doing quite well.
The story about my tragic fall brought with it a lot of laughter and an ebb and flow of conversation that is rare for a first date. I didn’t ask her any questions about the “boyfriend” I had met on Friday night and she didn’t mention him. Together, we polished off two bottles of some bottom of the barrel sake, a couple sleeves of sushi, and a small order of sashimi because I fucking love sashimi. I wasn’t anywhere close to being drunk but I certainly wasn’t sober when, as we were walking out of the restaurant, I made my move.
I kissed her square on the mouth and she reciprocated. There was no hesitation or indication in any way that this girl was in a monogamous relationship with someone else. I got invited back to her apartment near the sushi restaurant and I didn’t have to explain why I won’t have a real mattress in my room until after Easter weekend. I’ll save you the gritty details of my encounter, but I will tell you that on a scale of 1 to dragon in the sack, she landed somewhere in the meaty part of the bell curve. I was back on my air mattress by 10:30 with a shit eating grin on my face and a belly full of mediocre sushi.
I got asked out on a date. I know it’s terribly disappointing to read about me actually succeeding, but that’s exactly what happened and I’m not going to sit here and pretend to be apologetic about it. It wasn’t a dinner between two friends and it certainly wasn’t a chance for her to have a “devil’s threeway.” Either this girl broke up with her boyfriend at some point between last Saturday and Wednesday night, or I just willingly participated in an act of adultery.
Most people I know have hooked up with someone who was in a relationship with someone else at the time of insertion and it’s never really been an issue. For one thing, if you’re the person hooking up with a guy or girl who has the significant other it’s really not your problem. That girl or guy who cheated has other issues to sort out, and they were a participant just as much as you were.
What do people expect me to do when I have a chance to have sex? Say no because she has a boyfriend that she obviously doesn’t like all that much? I’m an okay human being at best. I have empathy. I can be vulnerable and caring and all of that other bullshit but at the end of the day I’m not the one who has to sleep with a guilty conscience for cheating. I saw an opportunity and I took it. Call me a sleaze, a scumbag, or an asshole all you want but this isn’t on me. It’s on her. And I know I just said it, but I really think it bears repeating right now: I am not the one who cheated.
If it wasn’t with me it was going to be with someone else. Would I do it again? Probably not, to be honest. The sex was pretty meh, although the fact that she insisted on paying for half of the meal was really refreshing and a huge turn-on. If there’s anything this little fling has taught me, it’s that girls are awful people just like guys. Perhaps I’ll give her a call this weekend when I’m three sheets to the wind and not thinking clearly, but as of right now I’d rather remain a single man, unshackled by the expectations that come with the label of “boyfriend.” At least I can go to sleep at night knowing that no one is cheating on me. .