Last night I connected with a friend I haven't talked to in forever. Saw him briefly a couple of years ago but we haven't talked. We grew up together. Our families are intertwined. He was the boy who was supposed to grow up and marry me. My parents thought so. His parents thought so. And then he went away to college and met someone else. He came home that summer and I insisted that he have sex with me. We'd done everything but. We were partners in crime. I knew he was a virgin and I was a virgin (according to ME) and I just couldn't let someone else have that. It was mine. It had always been mine.
So we had sex with each other and it was the first time for either of us. It was wonderful and strange and awkward and bad. I wouldn't change my decision. It was exactly what sex your first time should be like. I wanted to stay on the bottom bunk of my littlle brothers bed forever. Then he invited me to his wedding. Yes, that's right. Mailed me a mother fucking invitation to his wedding. I'm STILL mad at him.
And he is still happily married. Happily. I asked. Has a child. Has a life.
Today I had my nails done and I told Jennifer I wanted them painted leave-your-wife pink.
Leave your wife. You were supposed to marry me.
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