My Therapist Says I Have a Husband and a Boyfriend

I’ve never kissed a man whose stubble burns my upper lip.

This is a confession and a farewell. I mean it this time.

Listen. My husband says I can’t fuck you anymore because

he’s in therapy now, and the therapy’s helping him not jerk off

to pictures of his ex, or his friends, or his boss’s daughter.

Listen. My husband is the man I text what I want for dinner,

and my boyfriend is the one I beg to fuck me in the parking garage.

Stop judging me. We’re on a break, kind of, I guess. Married people don’t go on breaks.

I didn’t tell him the break started but he didn’t tell me about the porn.

We’d just have to get divorced, but that’s a lot of paperwork. I’ve never asked,

but I’m sure God doesn’t like divorcees.

God wouldn’t like me leaving my lease to fuck you

in the house your parents still own. Listen –

Will you just listen to me? Yes, I’m masturbating to your Instagram again,

Can you stop texting my phone? I keep re-reading our messages every time I touch myself,

but they’re a hassle to delete and then restore.

My husband doesn’t fuck me like you do even though his dick is bigger.

When I first fucked my husband he was still my boyfriend

and that must’ve been why it felt so good.

If my boyfriend became my husband and my husband became my boyfriend,

I’d like my husband-boyfriend better than my boyfriend-husband,

just because someone is saying I shouldn’t.

Everything is better when you are done with it and

I can’t leave a good thing without breaking it

to make sure there’s nothing left inside.

Can God hear me? Do married people go on breaks,

or can my boyfriend’s cock inside me make up for the fact

that my husband wanted this with another girl?

Listen, I’m a bad example.

The first guy I slept with was eight inches. I thought they all would be.

Or maybe it just felt like eight because it was my first time.

I keep telling my boyfriend that this is the last time I’ll jerk him off in my car.

This is the last time I’ll sext you while we touch ourselves in separate rooms, separate houses,

before I wish my husband goodnight.

Listen. You should stop listening to me.

I go to sleep and think about asking both of them to wear a strap

just to make them eight inches, but Eight Inches is dead,

and he was probably never even eight inches at all.

I guess I could dig him up and check. I guess

I could pray to God to let me know the truth. I guess,

while I’m there, on my knees for once without a cock in my mouth,

I should ask God if he still loves divorcees, too.

I think about Eight Inches when I think about my boyfriend

thinking about my husband, and think about how

there is always someone else.

But I don’t think God loves me.

I am not a sinner. God would agree with me if He knew

that you can love someone and not leave them behind.

God is always leaving. He doesn’t understand this.

God is never in the room where it happens.

He is in the chapel or the cave or the closet with its locks.

He can judge me all He wants, but

everything is smaller from the sky and the sun He made

is always making someone else’s grass greener

no matter which side you stand on.