I don’t generally care about jewelry, but I do care about that ring. I picked it up shortly after I broke off the engagement, so it’s become my anti-engagement ring, a vintage thing from the thirties. I feel naked without it.

The engagement ring itself felt like a noose. A hard, sparkly finger-noose capped with a giant rock that caught on everything, never fit properly, and attracted the wrong kind of attention. I’d roll the diamond to the inside of my palm whenever I’d enter a social situation, or I’d keep my left hand in my pocket, a challenge for a girl who favors her left hand for everything. Anytime I’d pull my hand out, the ring would refract light in a thousand different directions to alert others, mostly women and gay men, of my quasi-marital status.

The engagement ring also screamed conspicuous wealth, and that was someone else’s wealth strapped to my ring finger, tripping up my writing hand, marking me as another bought thing. I think back on that block of time and I don’t regret it — I appreciated the opportunity I had to reflect on things. But the moment I removed that ring, I felt relieved. I felt like myself again.

Since then, the anti-engagement ring that’s sitting on James’ bedside table has become important to me. I think I’ve invested it with talismanic qualities — I have the habit of rubbing my thumb across the back of my index finger when I’m thinking. I suppose it feels like a good luck charm. And it reminds me that I walked away. Why I let it go on for as long as I did, I don’t know.

Actually, that’s not true. I do know.

My cell phone will buzz and I’ll know he’s downstairs. I’ll spend a few minutes searching for my bag, I’ll curse like a sailor, and then I’ll find it. I’ll toss in my phone, some lipstick, a toothbrush, a couple of condoms, a powder compact, a couple of twenties and an ATM card, my keys, some Sominex, some Vivarin, mascara. And then I’ll remember the stories. I’ll text him a message that says I’ll be right down, and then I’ll run to my computer and wait for it to print. I’ll grab the print-out, fold it up, and tuck it into my purse. Then I’ll grab a light sweater.

He has a driver. We’ll chat and I’ll actively avoid certain subjects because I’m still not comfortable talking openly around drivers. We’ll be deposited at the front door of an expensive but uninteresting restaurant full of finance types like himself and we’ll chat about work – his work, mostly. The food will be good. And then we’ll leave, and we’ll get into the car, and the driver will take us to his place.

When we get there, I’ll kick off my shoes, drop my bag, and tell him about the tampon in my cunt to preempt a fingerbang, and then I’ll slump into the sofa and fight a wave of existential angst.

And then he’ll ask me to pull out the stories. And I will. The tightly folded square will unfold in my hands and I’ll hold it between my fingers and read it aloud. He might masturbate. Or he might touch me. I’ll try not to be too critical of myself, and I’ll try not to edit my own language as I read it. I’ll want him to come on my tits.

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.