UBT: “I have the best sex with married men.”

Boy, the UBT never runs out of material.

Today’s I’m a Terrible Person Who Did a Wonderful Naughty Thing! submission comes from www.yourtango.com — an enterprise with a never-ending surfeit of clickbait — by Lynn Stephens entitled “Why Do I Have the Best Sex with Married Men?”

Short answer? Because you don’t have sex with any other sort of man. You wouldn’t know “best sex” from a rabbit vibrator, a restroom stall, or a corn muffin.

(Sigh…) Clutch your bodices, chumps.

We both ached for something, anything to makes us feel something again.

On our mornings together, Bri would wake me up by poking me with his index finger to see if I was awake. If I stirred, he would kiss me directly in the middle of my shoulder blades and then run his hand up and down my back, a signal for me to turn around. He wanted more. He wanted me.

He was married – hell, I had even met his wife and children – when we first met through mutual friends. We had shared interests before we shared beds in hotel rooms up and down the east coast. This is what happens when you become involved with a married man; everything is done in secret thus making those moments of being able to show PDA that much sweeter. I also suspect that our time apart—coupled with fights over the state of our relationship—is what made the sex so amazing. By the time we laid eyes (and hands) on each another again, there was a visceral reaction, an almost insatiable need for one another.

This probably sounds like some terrible romance novel or, worse yet, the start of a Lifetime movie. My apologies. The fact is that I was (and have long been) a broken woman who spent most of her 20s with a desperate need to feel desired. I was a late bloomer, not having sex for the first time until 24. Making up for the lack of sexual anything in high school, I threw myself at men who showed the first sign of interest in me. I had a skewed perception of myself and felt that if I didn’t at least attempt to flirt back, I would remain a nothing.

I was imperfect: I had a belly that made me look perpetually 19 weeks pregnant despite never having a child. Thanks to genetics my breasts sagged. I had terrible acne scars. I had stretch marks across my hips and thighs. I was not conventionally beautiful, so when this married man flirted with me while toying with the piece of metal adorning his left ring finger, I flirted right back. Flirtation eventually led to bed which led to some truly fantastic sex.

We both had something missing in our respective lives thus a mutual longing in hopes of finding whatever joy we had lost. I was lonely (and somewhat damaged) and Bri was escaping the damage of the most important relationship of his life: his marriage. We both ached for something, anything to makes us feel something again … and we fell into bed together. One day he told me that he loved waking up to my shoulders and my back, he loved to reach around and grab me. We didn’t sleep during our sleepovers; instead we tossed and turned on one another. These evenings of feeling most alive, who knew that something so wrong could be so damn good?

So, I did it again. I had sex with another married man, two more to be exact, though not at the same time or anything. I’m terrible, this I know.

Conner was my last. Long story short: On the day of our ‘hook up,’ I had never felt that kind of pain before. A profound loss in my life had occurred on Saturday. Sunday, I mourned and cried my makeup off and by Tuesday we were sitting across from one another at a bar. Our once collegial relationship swiftly turned sexual when he told me that he had been staring at my breasts all evening. We departed almost as quickly as he told me that he had always found me attractive. We found a nearby hotel and checked in for the evening. I went to freshen up and upon emerging from the ladies’ room he stared and said, “You are so incredibly sexy.”  I got into bed, he held my arms down and away we went. In a moment of wanting to feel whole again we got caught up in ourselves and in the sheets.

Two weeks later we had coffee and said our apologies. I had spent a few days looking at myself in the mirror, not necessarily disgusted by my actions but questioning why I did what I did. Was it because I liked the attention? Because I enjoyed being wanted? Whatever the reason it was never as if these married men remained with me. We both got what we needed in the short-term, but in the long term—and despite the great sex—they went back to their wives, and I went back to my life. In my conversation with Conner, we had one of those thoughtful heart-to-hearts in which we both admitted that what had happened was all timing. He was upset with work and home life and I was suffering my own bit of grieving. It would never happen again, we both decided. Internally, I also decided that I was done with married men.

We finished our drinks and I stopped him, “But you should know one, important thing.” He looked skeptical. “What…?”

“BEST. SEX. EVER.,” I exclaimed.

He blushed. It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Now for the UBT.

We both ached for something, anything to makes us feel something again.

Yeah, affairs aren’t cures for sociopathy. I’m sorry you don’t feel anything. If you’re looking for an adrenaline rush, why not bungie jumping over a bridge span? For an extra thrill, don’t anchor the cord.

On our mornings together, Bri would wake me up by poking me with his index finger to see if I was awake. If I stirred, he would kiss me directly in the middle of my shoulder blades and then run his hand up and down my back, a signal for me to turn around. He wanted more. He wanted me.

He was married – hell, I had even met his wife and children – when we first met through mutual friends. We had shared interests before we shared beds in hotel rooms up and down the east coast.

Isn’t that a nice aside: “I had even met his wife and children”? You must feel so wanted. I’m glad you clarified that this wasn’t just about sex, that you shared interests. The UBT is always gratified to learn it was one of the Better Sorts of Affairs. The sort that build organically and just happen when two people have a mutual affinity for Pokemon cards, skeet shooting, or stamp collecting. Yes, one minute you’re innocently discussing philately, and the next it’s fellatio. Could happen to anyone.

This is what happens when you become involved with a married man; everything is done in secret thus making those moments of being able to show PDA that much sweeter. 

It’s not romance unless you must travel several states away to kiss!

I also suspect that our time apart—coupled with fights over the state of our relationship—is what made the sex so amazing. By the time we laid eyes (and hands) on each another again, there was a visceral reaction, an almost insatiable need for one another.

It’s a fact that the insanely Wanted fight over the state of their relationships. Only the most desired cannot publicly be introduced as “your girlfriend.”

Does he fuck me to shut me up about the “relationship”? Smaller minds would say “pity fuck.” I say “insatiable need.”

The need is so insatiable I have to nag him to need me. But, um, whatever.

This probably sounds like some terrible romance novel or, worse yet, the start of a Lifetime movie.

I would love to be a Lifetime movie!

My apologies. The fact is that I was (and have long been) a broken woman who spent most of her 20s with a desperate need to feel desired.

I’m not bad, I’m broken.

I was a late bloomer, not having sex for the first time until 24. Making up for the lack of sexual anything in high school, I threw myself at men who showed the first sign of interest in me. I had a skewed perception of myself and felt that if I didn’t at least attempt to flirt back, I would remain a nothing.

See? I have affairs to give meaning to my existence. To bolster me! I’m trying to show introspection here and head off your judgments. Did you say I was “desperate”? HA! Got there first!

I was imperfect:

And this makes you different from all women how exactly?

I had a belly that made me look perpetually 19 weeks pregnant despite never having a child. Thanks to genetics my breasts sagged. I had terrible acne scars. I had stretch marks across my hips and thighs. I was not conventionally beautiful,

It’s really amazing to think that all the saggy-titted, paunchy women in the world aren’t having affairs too! This can only mean one of two things — either you’ve got really lousy character, OR you’re super special and rise above your physical limitations to soar like a phoenix of sexiness!

The UBT can guess which one you think you are…

so when this married man flirted with me while toying with the piece of metal adorning his left ring finger, I flirted right back. Flirtation eventually led to bed which led to some truly fantastic sex.

Well, as long as the sex was fantastic, that makes all the difference. I mean, the UBT would hate for you to sell out your integrity for just mediocre sex and a limp salad at a chain steakhouse.

We both had something missing in our respective lives thus a mutual longing in hopes of finding whatever joy we had lost. I was lonely (and somewhat damaged) and Bri was escaping the damage of the most important relationship of his life: his marriage.

Yeah, he’s not an asshole. His wife was DAMAGING him!

I wonder if his marriage was damaged because he fucks around? Nah.

We both ached for something, anything to makes us feel something again … and we fell into bed together. One day he told me that he loved waking up to my shoulders and my back, he loved to reach around and grab me. We didn’t sleep during our sleepovers; instead we tossed and turned on one another. These evenings of feeling most alive, who knew that something so wrong could be so damn good?

GakkWWZZZ….ppppTT!

Excuse me. The UBT just coughed up a hairball.

Who knew something so wrong could feel so good?

So, I did it again. I had sex with another married man, two more to be exact, though not at the same time or anything. I’m terrible, this I know.

I think I’m so terrible, I’m publishing an article telling you this was the Best Sex of My Life. That’s the kind of thing ashamed people do.

Conner was my last. Long story short: On the day of our ‘hook up,’ I had never felt that kind of pain before. A profound loss in my life had occurred on Saturday. Sunday, I mourned and cried my makeup off and by Tuesday we were sitting across from one another at a bar. Our once collegial relationship swiftly turned sexual when he told me that he had been staring at my breasts all evening.

Am I the weak antelope in the herd? Or do I have nice saggy tits? I have nice tits.

We departed almost as quickly as he told me that he had always found me attractive.

That’s all it takes, gentlemen! Tell me I’m attractive, stare at my boobs, and I’m yours! I’m sure all the women will appreciate this public service announcement that we just LOVE to be propositioned by strangers in a bar. Compliment our tits sometimes! It works wonders!

Or, um, results in sexual harassment lawsuits or a slap upside the head. But risk makes you feel ALIVE! Go for it!

We found a nearby hotel and checked in for the evening. I went to freshen up and upon emerging from the ladies’ room he stared and said, “You are so incredibly sexy.”  I got into bed, he held my arms down and away we went. In a moment of wanting to feel whole again we got caught up in ourselves and in the sheets.

Two weeks later we had coffee and said our apologies. I had spent a few days looking at myself in the mirror, not necessarily disgusted by my actions but questioning why I did what I did.

I am not the least bit disgusted by my actions.

Was it because I liked the attention? Because I enjoyed being wanted? Whatever the reason it was never as if these married men remained with me. We both got what we needed in the short-term, but in the long term—and despite the great sex—they went back to their wives, and I went back to my life. In my conversation with Conner, we had one of those thoughtful heart-to-hearts in which we both admitted that what had happened was all timing. He was upset with work and home life and I was suffering my own bit of grieving. It would never happen again, we both decided. Internally, I also decided that I was done with married men.

Yes, timing makes people cheat. I’m sure if Conner had not been upset with work, he’d never compliment a strange woman’s tits in a bar and go fuck her.. for weeks. I’m sure that is entirely outside the scope of Who Conner Really Is. Sometimes the copier jams and things can take a turn. Conner took the path less traveled. Can anyone blame Conner?

We finished our drinks and I stopped him, “But you should know one, important thing.” He looked skeptical. “What…?”

“BEST. SEX. EVER.,” I exclaimed.