Me and Them.

Right before my January trip to San Francisco, it happened. The inevitable. Another girl. He sent me pictures of her tattooed thighs soaking in a tub. My heart hurt, and I said she had pretty legs, and then he told me she was ruining sex, and my heart found itself again because he's mine and I wanted her to suck. I'm sorry, I said. No, not ruining sex, he clarified. Life Ruining Sex.

Life Ruining Sex, the kind of sex that ruins sex for every sexual encounter that comes after because it's so good. But he and I were the ones that coined that term, our sex was what ruined all other sex. The bottom dropped out. I threw my phone, with her thighs still in it, sailing across the room.

Days later, arriving in San Francisco, he told me she was awful. She's the worst. Where are you? I sent him the same photo I always do, some shot of the skyline or a bridge. The one that says I'm here again, can you feel me?

Which brings me back to that night in San Francisco, days after her thighs flew across my living room back in LA, hours after he'd told me she was awful, when I asked this entirely familiar stranger of a man whether he wanted to spend the night together while I was there.

No.

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