My roommate’s boyfriend comes over way too often. I hate it when I catch them kissing. I hate how I touch myself in the shower, hoping that he hears me, how I “accidentally” leave my lingerie in the living room, how I happen to do my squats in skin-tight leggings at the same time he says goodnight to her every night, how I was closer to him until she snatched him up. I hate how many parts of me drool over the thought of him, as a good Christian girl, and how, if these thoughts became public, I would be excommunicated by my boyfriend, family, fellowship, and friends.
One ovulating Tuesday during finals season, I rushed back to the apartment to hear their moans emanating from the bedroom. He sounded exactly as I imagined in my recurring fantasies– nice and breathy, calling me a good girl while pounding me to bits.
I couldn’t stop myself from sitting quietly on the couch and touching myself. With the other hand I fumbled my phone out and messaged her: *hey, Pastor Paul wanted to move your bible study earlier. Could you make it to St. John’s in 10?*