The sun is shining outside, and I should be enjoying the day, but it’s bitterly cold. So, I stay in. Wrapped up to my neck in a blanket, I scroll through my female Facebook contacts, browsing their photos. Ah, lovely legs. There’s a dress that’s a bit too tight, emphasizing full curves. One shows off her sporty side, another exudes elegance. And then there are the flirts. Yet, it’s always the understated ones, the inconspicuous ones, that surprise me the most and lead to the most beautiful stories.
Take the petite Spaniard, for example—she looks perfectly respectable. She wants to be a diplomat and clearly comes from a good family. I met her at a club. She was there with a friend. Within three minutes, I could tell she wanted me. She knows I’m not the man of her dreams. A child at heart who refuses to grow up. I’m not her future boyfriend, the guy who’ll take care of her or endure her occasional emotional dramas. No, it’s clear I’m just an adventure.
We lock eyes, and immediately, our connection feels different. It’s far more honest. A simple, straightforward relationship without any pretense.
No, she isn’t mind-blowing in bed. Most of these understated types aren’t. Maybe it’s a lack of experience—they don’t do this often. Perhaps she’s only had her second or third boyfriend. But what they lack in expertise, they make up for in gentleness, empathy, and sensitivity. They’re not about quick and dirty encounters. They offer those few hours of comfort, tenderness, and intimacy.
It’s the kind of warmth you miss when you’re alone, aimlessly drifting through life. I savor their closeness, their soft skin, their scent. I can’t help but pull them closer. I want to feel their bodies, hold them tight. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling deeply, unable to get enough. Damn, I love women.
Most of them have boyfriends—some even husbands. What else would you expect? The good ones are always taken. They’re bored, they go out, and they meet me. A lone wolf. A wandering lion. An adventure. From the beginning, it’s understood that they won’t leave their partners. The stability of their relationships, their shared lives, the familiarity—through good times and bad—grounds them. They’ve weathered storms and settled into compromise.
They need that stability, that sense of security, of being protected.
No, they don’t want quick and dirty sex. They want emotion. Tenderness. They seek sensuality. They want a lover. Someone who does what their partners used to do five years ago. Someone who loves them and shows it. Someone who looks deeply into their eyes while they’re making love. Someone who takes care of them, who isn’t just there for his own pleasure, finishing while thinking about his colleague in the office—the one with the short skirt and high heels.
They miss that feeling, that attention. Where did it go, that passion? Somewhere along the way, the butterflies decided to leave, taking the passion with them. It vanished, lost somewhere between shared morning coffees and bedtime movies.
I don’t think she gets ready for the evening thinking, Tonight, I’ll pick someone up. Her boyfriend’s away, and she finally has time to go out alone. Tonight, she’ll let loose. Tomorrow, she’ll sleep in, take a long bath, and laze around. It’s Friday night, and she’s at a bar. Talking to strangers. And then suddenly, she’s standing in front of someone whose gaze is different. His smile is somehow special.
And then the thought crosses her mind: I’m alone tonight. But her friends are there. What will they think? She’s in a relationship. She’s one of the good ones. Not some flirt. Another drink, and she tries to push the thought away.
What happens next, I still don’t understand. I only know how it ends. We head to another club together, dance, and lose ourselves. Slowly, our hands wander over each other’s bodies, exploring while giving tenderness. Then the night winds down. We get into a taxi together. Often, there’s no need to ask, Your place or mine? She simply gives the driver her address, then leans back, exhausted, onto my shoulder.
I pull her even closer. She looks into my eyes, and we kiss. Briefly, I think about how she belongs to someone else, but I don’t feel like contemplating morality or decency right now. Yes, I know it’s selfish. Where’s the respect? The man-to-man code? Sorry, I can’t help myself. She’s so beautiful, her voice so sweet, and she smells amazing. I’m curious about how she’ll be in bed.
Tonight, she’s mine. Just for one night, and then you can have her back. Somehow, it’s your fault. You got complacent. You neglected her. I’m just doing your job. If you’d been more attentive and less superficial, this wouldn’t be happening. Yes, I know. After so many years together, it’s tough.
The next day, we wake up beside each other. First, we had a passionate night. Then we smoked and talked. Everything has been said. The lines are clear. We both know where we stand. It’s liberating—a unique kind of honesty. We’re like Bonnie and Clyde. We’ve done something forbidden, something we’ll never forget. It creates a whole different connection.
Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again? Maybe I’ll become her lover. Maybe we’ll avoid each other in the future. But we’re honest with each other. We don’t have to lie to keep up appearances or maintain a relationship.
We don’t have to, but we want to. Precisely because this connection is so honest and free. She lies on my shoulder, and I hold her tight. She likes this feeling of security, being in the arms of a strong man. Exhausted from the night before—the music, the dancing, the alcohol. And the sex, let’s not forget that.
For a moment, I wonder what it would be like if we ended up together. What if she left him and stayed with me forever? I feel her. I like her. Do I love her? I could love her. I feel it in my heart, but I suppress it because it can’t be.
But what if we did get together? A free relationship? She could live freely, even have the occasional lover, as long as she gives me the same freedom. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be honest with each other? Not just on this level.
She’s special, and I sense that she thinks the same about me.
Maybe I’m holding the woman of my life in my arms right now. Maybe I should fight for her, take her from him, and make her stay. But I know that’s not how it works. In the end, we’d get caught in the same web of a relationship. We’d fall into the same patterns, face new problems—not the same as before, but similar ones. Then we’d find compromises.
The passion would disappear anyway, lost long before we even realized it.
No, I have to savor the moment. The here and now. Relish it. The clock is ticking, and soon I’ll have to leave. If I’m lucky, the next day. Sometimes not until Sunday evening or Monday. If I’m unlucky, there’s less time.
“Last night was wonderful,” she says. “I’ve missed this.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I feel the same.”
She clearly wants to do it again, no matter the risk. I don’t want to know what she’s putting on the line.
“Of course, we’ll do this again,” I say. “Call me when you have time.”
I pull her close one last time, kiss her cheek. For a moment, I pause, taking a deep breath. God, she smells amazing.
Out on the street, I replay everything in my mind—the best moments, the impressions. It’s like a film reel. Yet, I’m smiling. Passersby probably think I’ve just smoked a joint.
There were many women like her. Sometimes I didn’t care. Sometimes it weighed on me. But I always felt something unique for them.
Always, it was the unexpected nights that turned out to be the best.
Sure, it was dangerous sometimes. A father disapproved of our affair. A husband turned out to be a major drug dealer in New York. I often wondered if I’d end up dead in a river.
It’s risky, but it’s worth it. Every moment. Every second.
Because these are the moments that make life worth living.
Photo by Valerie Sigamani on Unsplash
