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4. Pants on fire

Is it triple-dipping if you go back to the original dip on the third consecutive night?


Ollie messaged me Sunday morning (yes we are still on the same weekend) saying he’d broken up with his girlfriend. ‘You can’t stay with someone after cheating on them, you just can’t’. It sounded like he expected a pat on the back for being morally sound, even though the cheating had already demonstrated a lack of moral compass. We decided to meet for a drink to make it less awkward for the journey with Kate on Monday. We agreed not to tell anyone from work about what had happened. We had sex again.


Sober sex with Ollie was a lot better than the rushed drunk sex. It felt a bit more intimate and I adopted the art of standing on the bed frame so our height difference was less of an issue. This time the room was lit and the rhythm of the sex was varied rather than a ‘jackhammer mode’ fuck.


For the rest of the week, Ollie stayed over most nights. My ex still had access to the flat and I wanted to respect that. (Well, as respectful as you can be when you are sleeping with someone new in the bed you shared…) I tried to keep our rendezvous as subtle as possible. We used the same towel after a shower, I washed up our crockery by hand rather than putting it in the dishwasher and made sure Ollie put his overnight bag in his car so as not to arouse suspicion.


We kept up the secret in front of Kate. Ollie would leave the flat and drive to our meeting point in a separate car. I would arrive five minutes later and we would chat during the duration of the car journey to work about our evenings as if nothing had happened. Ollie and I enjoyed keeping the secret whilst sending the occasional sext, trying to keep a straight face in front of Kate and our other colleagues.


We didn’t have much in common, but we loved drinking, we were having hot sex and the flirting was a welcome distraction from other things going on in our lives. The following weekend arrived and Ollie invited me out to meet his friends for the first time. Four years their senior, I found myself at a ropey student pandemic party with six 22-year-olds. Ollie and I played our usual game pretending we were ‘just friends’ before going home together for some great sex.


This was the sort of sex that was group chat-worthy. A variety of positions were used and interchanged for a two-hour period, which with my level of cardio felt like a marathon. It wasn’t until I caught sight of myself in the mirror, bright red, sweaty, and legs spread in an unnatural way that I realised I was more Prince Andrew than Porn Hub.


‘Don’t you think it’s funny that everyone thinks we are just friends?’ I asked Ollie. ‘Well, we are just friends. That is what we want, right?’ Ollie replied. I felt the slight sting. ‘Yeah, great friends with great benefits’ I lied.


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