Broken Sticks

Before you left,
when you were looking for
your socks and underwear,
you said,
“You’re gonna find
pieces of broken sticks
all over the bedroom.”
And it occurred to me that
I had spent the last hour
needing to be hit with sticks
so hard that they
splintered and broke.
And needing to be
throat punched by your cock
so hard and for so long
that I would wince
every time I swallowed
for the next day and a half.

You have yet to tell me
you love me
other than that one time
when we were so very drunk
and it slid over your loose tongue
and slipped out
before your teeth
could catch it.

Your wife tells me she loves me.
And I tell her I love her.
There is an effortlessness
in the way
she and I love each other.
In the time we spend together.
Today we went to breakfast before work
and we met for pedicures after work
and we talked and we laughed
and just being in her company
makes me so fucking happy.
I love loving her.

Three people today told me
what a good friend I am to her and
how lucky she is to have me.
She knows she’s lucky to have me.
Although she doesn’t know
it’s partly because
she doesn’t have to let you
do the things to her that
I let you do to me
She thinks it’s because
of all I do for her and with her.
She calls us a throuple.
She calls me your girlfriend.
She calls me second wife.
She really has no idea that
It’s true
in almost every
fucking
sense of the words.

I wonder sometimes if
I should feel guilty or grateful
rather than jealous as fuck.
I get the best of both of you.
But not quite in the way I want.

What I want is to be in your bed,
to be in her bed,
between you.
With my arms around her and
your arms around me.
I want to be a part of
the romantic dinners out
and the weekends away
and the handholding while you sleep
and the sweet gifts on Valentine’s Day.
I want us all to be able to
touch each other
openly and lovingly
without any guilt
or any jealousy
whenever and as often as
we choose to.

Last night she walked out
of the kitchen
leaving us alone there together.
You were cooking.
I was sipping wine and watching you work.
There’s something so fucking sexy
about watching you move with
absolute confidence and control.
About the determination in your jaw
and the way your muscles flex as you move.

Usually when she leaves us
alone together
you grab or smack my ass
or pull my hair
or pinch my nipples
or squeeze my throat.

But last night
you turned around and
caught me watching you.
And you smiled
and walked over
and put one arm around me
and kissed me
on the top of my head.
And then went right back to cooking.

And it was in that moment
that I knew
I was fucked.
It was in that moment
that I knew
I love you
as much as I love her.

And maybe that’s why
I allow you to break sticks on my body
and pummel my throat with your cock.
Because maybe
I deserve to be punished
for having fallen in love
with the husband
of my very best friend.

Because having you
hurt me that way
is so much more bearable
than the hurt I would feel
if she hated me
for loving you and
I couldn’t have you
or her
at all.