Don't record it

I shook my head no,”“I don’t want to risk you getting turned on knowing I would be listening to it later.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to act when he gets here and you're not,” she said finally. “Do I treat this like a business meeting or a date, or what?”

“Just do whatever he wants you to do. Don’t think about me,” I said, but the words left a bitter aftertaste.

She nervously bites her lips “You could, like, be here when he gets here. So, it less awkward…”

“No Sarah… We have to make sure it not because I am here. So I can’t see him at all before he does… you know…” I couldn’t bring myself to say fuck her.

We sat there, counting down the minutes. I watched her check her hair in the mirror, reapply her ruined makeup, pace the room in tight circles. I watched her hands, fingers trembling even after the cigarette was finished. I watched the light change from late afternoon to evening, the warmth draining out of the apartment until all that was left was the blue glow of Sarah’s phone.

There was something almost sacred in the way she prepared—like a soldier buttoning up a uniform before deployment. She didn’t look at me again, but I could feel her awareness tracking my presence, the way you notice a house settling in the night.

Sarah “Well he going to be here in five minutes, so you better get going.” I look down at my phone… Wow time flied. So, I quickly grip my wallet and run.

I drove around aimlessly for about an hour, my mind a tornado of conflicting emotions. Part of me wanted to circle back home, to catch them in the act, to confirm with my own eyes what I already knew was happening. Another part wanted to drive until the gas tank hit empty, then keep walking until I couldn't remember my own name.

Instead, I went to the best movie out, hoping it would distract me. I sat in the dark theater surrounded by laughing couples and families, staring blankly at the screen. The movie might as well have been in a foreign language. I couldn't focus on a single scene, couldn't follow the plot. All I could think about was Sarah and Wiley, their bodies tangled together in my bed, her making those sounds that haunted my dreams.

When the credits rolled, I realized I couldn't tell you a single character's name or what the movie had been about. Complete waste of money. Which was odd for me, as I loved movies.

I checked my phone. No messages from Sarah. I imagined her lying there with him, maybe laughing, maybe sleeping, definitely not thinking about me.

I drove to a bar downtown, one where nobody knew me. I ordered a whiskey neat and nursed it slowly, watching the minutes tick by on my phone. Every time the door opened, I tensed, half-expecting to see Wiley stroll in with a victorious smirk on his face.

After my third drink, I started composing texts to Sarah in my head. Angry ones. Pleading ones. Some where I told her I reggretted everything, others where I begged her to tell me what he did differently. I didn't send any of them.

By the time I ordered my fourth drink, the bartender was giving me concerned looks. I must have looked like exactly what I was—a man drinking away his problems and failing miserably at it.

At 11:59 p.m., my phone finally buzzed. I nearly knocked over my glass grabbing for it.

Sarah's text was simple, but devastating: "Sex was still great :(. Our plan didn't work..."

I quickly asked "So what did he do that made it so good."

She messaged me "Can't text much... He sleeping on my tit."

"Sarah. we need to know these things before you forget again."

Sarah message "Ok one second.." It takes her a full minute to message back.

The next text was a photo—dark, slightly blurry, but unmistakable. Wiley's round face pressed against Sarah's right breast, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. His arm was draped across her stomach possessively. She'd taken it from above, her expression unreadable in the shadows, but I could see enough to know they were both still naked.

My stomach lurched. I downed the rest of my drink in one burning gulp.

Another text followed: "Sorry about the pic. Needed you to see I wasn't lying."

I stared at my phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What could I possibly say?

"Just tell me what he does," I finally typed.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Whatever she was writing, she was thinking hard about it.

"It's hard to explain," she wrote. "It's not any one thing. He's just...different."

"Different how?" I demanded.

Another long pause. "He's gentle but not too gentle. Like he's afraid of hurting me but also not afraid of what I'll think. He willing to take charge but also do what I need. Does that make sense?"

It didn't. Not really.

"And," she continued before I could respond, "he talks a lot. Says things. Not dirty exactly, but...personal."

My hands were shaking now. "What kind of things?"

"About how he's always wanted this. How beautiful I am. How he can't believe it's happening."

I felt sick. Those weren't special techniques. That wasn't some secret sex magic. That was just...Wiley being himself. Being honest.

"He's waking up. Gotta go," she texted. Then, quickly: "Don't come home yet. Please."

I sat at the bar until closing time, nursing one final drink and staring at that photo of them together. When the bartender finally kicked me out, I drove to a 24-hour diner and ordered coffee I didn't want, just to have somewhere to be that wasn't home.

Around 3 AM, my phone buzzed again.

"He's gone. You can come home now."

I drove slowly, taking the long way, postponing the inevitable. When I finally arrived, the apartment was dark except for a single lamp in the living room. Sarah sat curled on the couch, wearing one of my old t-shirts and nothing else. Her hair was still wet from the shower.

"Hey," she said quietly.

I stood in the doorway, not sure what to do with my hands, my body, my face. "Hey."

"I'm sorry," she said, and her voice cracked a little. "I know this is all messed up."

I shrugged, trying to appear casual despite the storm inside me before we sat down at our table in silence as we both try to think of a solution. Eventually, she speaks up and out right ask "So did you think of anything?"

“Sarah Honestly your message made zero sense. Everything you said contradicted itself. He gentle and not. he does what he wants and what I want. Like what all that.”

Sarah “I don’t know… Here you seen him do it. Let just go to bed and do exactly what he does.”

I stared at her, my mind reeling. "You want me to pretend to be him?"

Sarah nodded, her eyes downcast. "Maybe if you do exactly what he does, it'll feel the same with you. Then we can figure out what it is that makes it work."

The idea was both repulsive and intriguing. The thought of mimicking Wiley's every move, his words, his mannerisms—it felt like the ultimate humiliation. But if it could solve this problem, if it could make Sarah respond to me the way she responded to him...

"I don't know if I can do that," I said.

"Please," she whispered. "Either that or admit defeat because I can’t keep going on like this. I can barely look myself in the mirror anymore."