Today is what we should call date 3 with the Writer. He said to me today as we were in bed together. We will go out and doing things, it’s not just this. I laughed. I know. But as long as we end our evening like this . . .

When he walked through the door of my house, I wrapped my arms around him and we started kissing passionately as though it had been weeks or months since we had seen each other. It had been two days. This has only been going on for a week and I have seen him three times.

He’s tall, so I am balanced on the balls of my feet, a comfortable position thanks to years of ballet, and we want to be as close to each other as we can.

Kissing him might be my favorite thing about being with the Writer. That’s a rather high bar. Because nearly everything is my favorite thing about being with the Writer. He is smart and funny and charming and exceptionally well-read thanks to his actual job, with an encyclopedic knowledge of things deeply important to me.

And he thinks I am amazing.

We head down the hallway to my room, and again passionately kiss as I undress him. As has become our custom, we had already discussed and agreed on how this would happen.

Or at least how it would start.

We kiss and we undress him and then he pulls my dress off and we cannot stop kissing. This connection from our mouths, lips, tongues, as our bodies are intertwined is an amazing feeling. It’s so passionate, so intimate, so connected.

We have agreed to change things up a bit this time, and he loves it. It still feels as though he is significantly better in bed then I am. Then again, I am hotter than he is, so I guess that makes up for it a little. Then he goes on to prove exactly how much better he is than I am. My orgasm is so shaking, it hurts my head. Like I can draw a line to the pain in my brain.

We have been at this for under 20 minutes I think and we are both already spent. We curl up and start discussing literature. Every few minutes, we start making out, from time to time, we start to have sex, but we are really spending all of this time together laughing and talking.

I am aware of the passage of time. I know he has to leave at some point to return to his real world away from me.

We are in different parts of the same industry and he starts to tell a story about two very very very famous people in our business, who were married and whose marriage imploded earlier this year, taking with it their . . . project. It turns out The Writer knows the interloper, who happened to have been a bridesmaid in his wedding.

The world is a very strange and small place.

More importantly, our world is a very strange and small place.

But the story he is telling me is also about us.

Because we have a relationship — all of a sudden — outside of his marriage. And, as we have discussed, the primary relationship IS the primary relationship.

I am, in reality, the chick he is banging on the side.

The one he is not supposed to fall for.

I know this. He knows I know this.

We are being careful about this.

But, we can’t stop kissing each other.

He says to me that we will go out socially together — and I believe him. We genuinely enjoy each other in every way.

We are connected to each other in so many ways.

The physical connection is the least of it. It is also the least dangerous.

As he tells me this story about these very very very famous people, we discuss open marriages and what must have happened to have broken this one up. It’s clear that the man fell in love.

So, he tells me this story because these are very very very famous people and someone he knows and also because it is us.

And I hear him on both levels.

And we fool around more and kiss more and laugh a lot more and the connection between us is so strong and so amazing it is easy to forget — if I allow myself to — that he is married, that he can never be mine, that this is a relationship that exists purely outside of that.

And yet he is so deeply emotionally present and supportive I start to worry that this could impact his marriage.

I worry about this a lot.

I shouldn’t worry about it. That’s his job and his relationship, but I do.

He has talked me down from really fucked up things. He has been there as I sobbed on the phone. He is connected to me. And we laugh, a lot. Most of the sounds emanating from my bedroom on this naked afternoon are not of sexual pleasure but laughter.

We are laughing and kissing and curled up with each other. It is comfortable. It feels amazing. It is amazing.

He is convincing me that I have been wrong about a lot of things. We are in each others arms, kissing and I said something about the Bon Vivant. And I said, well, he was too young for me, and he was firm as he kissed me, “darling, they were all too young for you.”

He’s not wrong.

He is convincing me that I should have always had more, demanded more, deserved more.

I have settled — and suffered for it.

As our afternoon draws to a close and it reaches close to 645, we get dressed and kiss each other passionately over and over and over again. Even after he washes up and brushes his teeth we start kissing again in my living room. We joke about the record we are continuing to set — now at ten days — and the fact we will extend it the next day.

We don’t have a date scheduled next, which feels a little weird, but it’s been three dates in the past seven, along with now hundreds if not thousands of messages flying back and forth.

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