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.

He rolls onto his side and tells me about the hooker who came and went this afternoon. He asks me about my day, and I tell him, and I tell him about the site, and he walks through his material and asks for my opinion.

I lean to one side to block the sunlight from his eyes. “I love this city,” I say. He tells me he’s thinking of buying a place here, and I tell him that he should. I’d love that. I’d rather he be here than L.A.

Then he sees someone in an adjacent building and tells me to close the blinds. “I doubt they saw us,” I say, assuming that nobody knows he’s here, but then he tells me about a member of the press who spotted him in the lobby. When he says this, the force of it hits me all at once, and I drop from the window and flatten against the floor. “I can’t get photographed with you,” I say.

He laughs at me, or with me, but most likely at me, and drops the blinds. He says something about us being mutually fucked if we’re caught together, and then he turns up the music.

I jump up and take my own flying leap onto the bed. He settles in beside me and slides his hand into my drawers.

I’m on my period but Paul is never fazed by my womanly cunt. He loves my body so completely, and I love him loving my body, even when I’m like this, premenstrual and unpleasant in ugly cotton underwear.

He’s in a relationship. I’m in a relationship. I’ll call him Paul.

The other night I knelt between his legs and took his cock into my throat. It was during another one of our clandestine encounters in a new hotel, and he was still flushed and alert from his performance that evening. We kissed at the door, and my first impulse was to curl up against his chest and breathe a sigh of relief. I imagined all the defenses slipping from my body as I’d melt into the crook of his arm, my hair liquid, my body sleek.

My second impulse was to take his cock into my mouth.

When we kiss, it’s a short step to mutual nakedness. He opens his shirt, I lift mine, he opens his fly and then I see that delicious cock with its perfect arch and its smooth, hot head. So there I was: clandestine encounter, hotel room, my dark-haired man sinking into the sofa, and I’m kneeling there on the floor.

While I was down between his legs, he whispered that I should make a video from the woman’s perspective. I withdrew and let the head of his cock rest against my lips – “During sex?”

“No, during this,” he said, gesturing.

“Well, it’s hard to see much from down here,” I said. “It’s hard to tilt back and look up.” And then I dropped my eyes and let his cock slide past my lips and sink into my throat to prove my point. I held it there the way I always do, with intoxicated reverence, his shaft pulsing against my tongue. On the slow upstroke I glanced up — he was looking at me with half-closed eyes, his dress shirt was unbuttoned and open. I saw the chest that I love so much, that bit of black hair in the dip between his pecs that I’ve touched so many times with his heart still pounding hard under my fingertips. He’s beautiful.

Maybe I should shoot a video from the woman’s perspective.

Men seem to love that upward glance during a blow job. I do it, I glance up, but usually it’s only for a moment, just to give them my eyes but never to look. With him, I was looking.

I caught my breath and let the tip of my tongue play over the head of his cock while I watched his response. I watched him breathe with parted lips. I watched him close his eyes and tilt his head back. I listened to him moan, and then I dropped my eyes and drew him in deep again. I stroked and licked and sucked and drew up to the tip, ravished the underside of his cock while I kept a steady stare. I was excited by his vulnerability.

I felt deliciously slutty, as I often do, but I also felt such intense affection. I wanted it to last forever, I wanted him to never come, ever, so I could keep going, keep licking and sucking and watching. And then the groans. The movement of his hands. His lifting hips. I couldn’t help myself – I needed to take him in and hold him there, ride my high of lust and love and asphyxia.

He pulls out and we’re both out of breath, looking at one another. “I’m too close to coming,” he says, and I nod. But then my eyes drop down to the perfectly curved cock, wet with my spit and his precum. His eyes roll closed and I take him in.