The Hardest Thing

Before I even do it, I know it’s a mistake. I wasn’t looking for this, but now that it’s here, right in front of me, I don’t know if I can turn away from the temptation. His username is intriguing. It shouldn’t be as tempting as it is.

It was a harmless enough question, on a public message board—okay, so that’s not true. I’m constantly on these blogs, answering questions, asking questions, doing research for my job.

I almost never answer them, but still, I always get random messages from internet strangers. Guys sliding into my DMs isn’t anything new.

I can’t figure it out. It’s not even like it’s a temptation. It certainly shouldn’t be with my husband sitting next to me on the couch. He’s got his face buried in his phone—some war game he plays.

I close the app, deciding not to respond. That’s the smart thing to do, considering the topic thread we found each other on.

Why does it feel like I can’t ignore it then? I look over at my husband again, and this time, he looks back, smiling at me.

I lean across the couch, planting my lips on his. His smile is broader when I pull away. His focus goes back to the phone in his hand and I swallow.

My anxiety is getting worse again. I need to go back to my therapist, but when I get like this, it’s like adding therapy to my to-do list is just too overwhelming.

It’s not as bad as it’s been in the past, when I couldn’t leave the house without throwing up. I just feel…unsettled, like so much has changed in the last couple years that I don’t know who I am anymore.

He doesn’t know how much I’m struggling. I should tell him, open up. But the phone in my hand feels heavy, like something’s drawing me to it in a way I’ve never experienced before. Like maybe opening up to a random stranger on the internet is easier than sharing my inner turmoil with the man I’m sharing my life with.

I don’t think about my actions or the consequences. Just respond.

I close the app and turn my phone over, setting it down and walking away. My heart hammers in my chest. I’m not doing anything wrong, but I know the intentions behind what I’m doing aren’t innocent.

Something is missing. I can’t put my finger on what, but it is, and I’m not sure how to fix it. The kink? I’ve lived without it for years, and it’s never been a problem before.

A few minutes go by before I dare look at my phone again. When I do, there’s another message.

Again, it’s nothing spectacular. The smart thing to do would be to delete and walk away, but I don’t.

I glance at my husband again, and he’s still looking at his phone. I’m not even trying to hide my phone. He’s never looked at it, always trusted me.

Because the truth is, I’m looking for attention—attention I don’t feel like I’m getting. A space to figure out who I am now.

I fidget with my phone, trying to focus on the television, not like I’m anxiously awaiting a response from a perfect stranger.

I laugh out loud this time, and my husband smiles at me, probably assuming I’m talking to one of my friends.

Something about him being married makes me feel better. He’s ten years older than I am, but that’s not a problem. He’s the same age as the man sitting next to me on the couch.

I don’t know what possessed me to ask that question immediately, but I’m not sorry I did. There’s a pit in my stomach as I wait.

I’ve been lying to myself. I know exactly what I’m doing, what I’m trying to do.

Yes, right now it’s innocent, but if I let it get out of hand, it won’t be anymore.

My phone beeps again.

My heart hammers in my chest. Am I really ready to tell him? I look at my husband, see him laser focused on the game he’s playing.

My heart thrums. My husband knows about the kink, but it’s not his. By the time I realized it, I was already in love with him. And the sex was amazing without it.

Truthfully, I don’t know why it’s becoming an issue now. I like when a man takes charge, is dominant, guiding, making me feel submissive while we fuck. It goes hand in hand with my praise kink, and a little with the degradation I like thrown into the mix.

I set the phone down again, sliding closer to my husband. His arm lifts, welcoming me into my happy place. I snuggle against him, but the entire time I’m itching to reach for my phone, see if I have a message from a man whose name I don’t even know.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I whisper, snuggling deeper into him.

That’s not the real answer though. The real answer is that I don’t know who I am anymore, and if I don’t know who this new version of me is, how can he?

Ohio guy is safe. He’s far away. And it can just be an online friendship.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

Unable to wait any longer to see if he’s responded, I pull away from my husband and grab my phone again, taking it into the kitchen to read the message.