Late Night Bars and Uber Receipts [FM]

So I was recently in a long term relationship. This long term relationship was with a guy I knew from high school; we’d dated then (I lost my virginity to him, actually) and broke up and then, later, got back together. I was like twenty when we reconnected, and by then I’d gone through a fair number of hookups. I’d done some things I wasn’t proud of but thought I’d learned from, and the idea of stability and of actually being cared for as a person was appealing, as it should be.

And for several years, this was mostly true. I knew I tended towards a little darker sexual experience than he cared for, but I also knew that I was sometimes a little dangerous to myself. The rabbit holes I’m prone to go down aren’t always safe; I’ve detailed some of them in here before, you can look up my past stories if you want details, but the fact of the matter was that when I was twenty I had scared myself by the things I was allowing myself to do. I knew I needed to get my shit together; I was struggling with a lot of things, in school and in my family life and with some depression, and some stability seemed good.

The problem was that this relationship went on a little longer than it probably should have; we were obviously different people five years later, and where once I was attracted to the stability over time the sex became rote and the relationship became a little controlling. I didn’t mind the controlling at first; I kind of liked the idea that I was worth that attention, frankly. But over time I realized that the controlling behaviors weren’t coming from a place of caring about me but from a place of severe insecurity. I was more successful, I was the one with the degree, I was the one with ambitions.

I had a decent job as a middleperson in an insurance office. I helped the outside reps, I created quotes, all of that. I was also sort of being groomed to go into a more leadership based role, and to that end I was given travel assignments. Seminars, mostly, trainings, visiting the other offices. Usually it was a two night, three day kind of thing, and usually there wasn’t much to do.

I’m not going to lie, when I would travel I would become a different person. My main acting out behavior when I was younger involved meeting men online at bars and then going back to their hotel rooms. I kind of reverted to that alter ego when I traveled; nobody knew me and I could be whatever and whoever I wanted to be on these trips. I’d get dressed up, go out, see what would happen. It wasn’t that I was looking to cheat, per se; it was like I was this person who didn’t need to worry about cheating, because I wasn’t me anymore. I was her.

On one of those trips [I came very close to cheating](https://www.reddit.com/r/stupidslutsclub/comments/9p1kh9/the_back_seat_of_an_uber_ff/). It wasn’t my proudest moment but it wasn’t one I was ashamed of; when I got home it was like it never happened. I could compartmentalize it and put it aside and not think about it until I went back out on the road again.

This last February I had had a break from the relationship for a couple of weeks and had been cheating off and on since that point. I’m not proud of it, I don’t advocate cheating; I’m not bragging, I’m just telling you where my head was at. And in May I went out of town again, to a town where there was no night life, and decided to try and make my own excitement.

So I did what I do: I got dressed pretty, a little slutty looking, more eye makeup than usual, more cleavage (what cleavage I can accomplish, anyways), the heels that made my ass look good. I went out to get drunk, mostly, but in the back of my mind I knew I was going to flirt. And when you’re a single girl alone at a bar, when you’re obviously and deliberately putting off a certain vibe, you get attention. I’m not unattractive, but it’s not really about how pretty I was or how nice I looked; it was about the aura, about the way my eyes teased, about the idea that there was something more exciting going on under the surface. I felt dangerous. I’ve been told that many times, actually; random nights out where I flirt a little more aggressively, where I am teasing in a way that you know is intended to be read a certain way, when I’m leading you on a road that I may or may not want to go down with you. I play with fire a bit sometimes.

Usually, though, there are situations to pull me back. I’ll show you the light but we’ll both know we can’t touch it. This particular evening, though…the light was there and I had nowhere else to be. My seminar was done, I was just waiting to fly back the next afternoon. I had no responsibilities. And that’s where Mark came in.

Mark isn’t his name, either the name he gave me (which I’m positive was fake) or his real name, it’s just the name I’m using here. His name doesn’t matter, really. I didn’t want a relationship with him. He was funny. He made me laugh. He was a little more forward. When I backed off he didn’t take my cues, he kept pressing. I was very drunk. And before I knew it I was making out with him in the back of an Uber, on the way to his house.

The events there were a blur. We didn’t fuck. My shirt definitely came off. There was a lot of heavy petting, over my panties, under my panties, my panties ignored and pushed aside as his fingers went into me. I touched his cock, too, first riding him through his jeans, then rubbing it over his pants. We left that particular bar at 3; his apartment was nice enough, nice enough for an evening if not a life. I didn’t think of my boyfriend at all, just thought about the way this felt. There were limits but if he’d been more forceful he’d have found that I wasn’t patrolling the borders of those particular boundaries with any kind of diligence. He could have fucked me on his shitty couch if he’d had wanted to. If he’d had been less respectful.

He was fascinated with my tits; they were in his mouth, in his hands, he was aggressive with them, he was gentle, he loved my nipples, I moaned when he nibbled at them, my legs spread, dry humping him, feeling his hard cock against my clit through the layers of fabric. I remember liking that. I remember saying “no” and not really meaning it, being a little disappointed when he didn’t keep unzipping my skirt. I remember the blissful alcohol fuzz of the whole thing.

But morning came, and the heavy making out had stopped after he came (he didn’t say he had but I knew I’d done that, that I’d ridden him to completion, and I was sickly proud of myself for getting him off without touching him), and there was a different kind of haze, a “what the fuck are we doing?” kind of moment where he was ready for me to leave and I was anxious to get back to my hotel. And so I called an Uber at six AM and went home.

The flight was fine, the rest of the day was a tired, sleepy haze. I was planning on getting home, hungover, tired, and collapsing, Mark’s number blocked in my phone, a fake name in his contact lists that he’d never be able to track to me.

The problem was that my boyfriend somehow had gotten a notification. I don’t know how to this day; we didn’t use the same Uber account and we didn’t share e-mail addresses, but my iPad was at his place and I think that he saw an e-mail come through. So he had a log of my transaction. A six AM Uber ride when, the night before, he’d called me at eight and I’d told him I was going to bed, dressed to go out, getting him off the phone so I could get out to the bar that I’d had recommended to me.

This wasn’t the end of the relationship; that would come a couple of months later. But I had a reputation with him; there’d been some online things here and there, pictures exchanged, relationships that were entirely digital but still emotionally felt to him like cheating. There’d never been a reckoning for my entire history, either; he didn’t know about the hotels, or about the other things I’d been doing before him, only that I’d been busy since we’d broken up in a way that made him uncomfortable. And so I had the experience of being slut shamed by someone I was starting to realize I didn’t really love, of being called a slut by someone who only days before had been flirting with the idea of marriage. And in some ways, that was the part that most felt like me: not the behavior, the acknowledgment from him that this slutty side of me existed, too, that it was a part of me. He liked to pretend it didn’t; he didn’t like it when I asked him to spank me, or to choke me, or to do the things I was interested in, almost like it was acknowledgment that there was a side of me that was unknown to him that scared him and that talking about it or experimenting with it was a problem.

We won’t go into the breakup now; I was dealing with a different problem when this happened, and this incident became a footnote. But at the time…it felt good to be the harlot. It felt good when he finally fucked me out of anger, like he was reclaiming me from this stranger he didn’t know. It felt good to see him react with possessiveness, to be an object he wanted to own and not someone he cherished and respected.

I don’t know, this maybe isn’t the most exciting story ever told. I’ve done worse and done more and done different things than this, I’ve reveled in my sluttiness to myself at other points. But this experience was both my infidelity and his reaction to my infidelity, and the double whammy of that experience made me feel low in a way that the experience itself couldn’t have accomplished on it’s own. I was spiraling a little out of control at the time, too; that’s a story for a different time, but it’s part of this in a way. Because I was cheating on him, just not in the way he thought, and that was worth mentioning. I had proven that he loved me by how strongly he reacted when I strayed; sadly, though, it was too late for that to mean to me what it maybe should have.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/ebldvj/late_night_bars_and_uber_receipts_fm