I’ll be in London soon. Paul and I have an agreement that there will be no sex – I’m monogamous. Monogamous and underfucked. Monogamous and perpetually wet. My dreams are thick with gangbangs and jaw-cramping cock.

Paul calls me from an hotel with his cock in his hand and I’m pacing around my apartment with frustration. I say, “You realize we can’t fuck when I’m over there, right?” And he’s cool with it. “We’ll hang out instead,” he says. “We’ll get room service and chat.”

We’ll lie in our underwear side-by-side and pretend that my cunt isn’t radiating heat, or that his cock isn’t straining against the cotton of his colorful pants. We’ll lie like awkward tweens on a first date and talk about the weather. And then we’ll try to negotiate the boundaries of monogamy. Like, if I lick his cock, just a bit, just over the cotton, then it doesn’t count. And if he buries his face in my cunt with my panties still on, then that can’t be cheating, can it? And then what if he moves the panties to the side, just for a second, just a split second? And what if he uses just the tip of a finger to see how wet I am. That’s still not cheating, is it?

It’s trouble. I just know it’ll be trouble.

I’ve neglected my fuckbuddy for the sake of monogamy too, but I still dream about the heft of his cock in my hand. I don’t want to date, I don’t want a relationship – would it still count as cheating if I just rode his erection a bit? If I use a dildo I’d still be a monogamous girl, and my fuckbuddy’s really just a complex, multifunctional sex toy. And he has such a beautiful cock and rides me so hard and growls such deliciously dirty things into my ear. But no. No fuckbuddy. No Paul. I’m monogamous.

I’m monogamous. I’m underfucked.