Why I Had The Best Sex Of My Life With Not-So-Happily Married Men

We ached for something, anything to make us feel something again.

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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. But he was married — hell, I had even met his wife and children — when we were first introduced 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 "the other woman" cheating with married men; everything is done in secret, 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 so bad, it's good 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 hookup, 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,” I said. He looked skeptical.



“BEST. SEX. EVER.,” I exclaimed.

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