I have often had close male friends, but I’ve never been attracted to any of them until Mark. Mark is the kind of guy who is kind to everyone, the life of the party, but always sincere in his dealings with others. Honestly, it’s amazing he is single. And since he’s so attractive, I would never have dared to talk to him in the first place, except that I am married. I figured my marriage would make it clear to him that I was “safe” to be friends with—that if I approached him, it wasn’t to try to hook up with him. He was out of my league anyway, so I didn’t want to set myself up for rejection. Over the next few years, we spent a lot of time together. We had a lot of shared interests, and my husband was constantly traveling for work and I was lonely. It isn’t that easy to make friends as an adult, so I was grateful that Mark wanted to spend time with me, when he could choose anyone! Eventually, our late night sessions of drinking and talking turned into sleepovers—each in different rooms of course, because I am married. And over time, we grew more comfortable touching each other in platonic ways: a playful elbowing of teasing, knees touching as we sit next to each other at the table, hugs hello and goodbye, that kind of thing. We were in a good place. Then one day, he invited my husband and me out to a bar with another couple we all knew. My husband was traveling (yet again), so I went by myself. It was a fancy bar, so I did it right—I don’t have that many opportunities to get dolled up, so I took advantage! I put on my New Year’s dress, a low-back, high front tight-fitting, sparkling black mini dress, with what my husband calls my “fuck me” boots, although I consider them fairly conservative. I did my hair and makeup to look nice, but not OTT. After all, I usually don’t wear any makeup, and I wanted my friends to recognize me! When I got to the bar, only Mark was there. Our friends had canceled, he said—they had been fighting again. It would just be the two of us. I was briefly disappointed, but not for too long; I was closer to Mark than our other friends anyway, and was looking forward to spending a nice night with my friend. I didn’t dream of it turning into anything else. Mark had dolled himself up a bit too: freshly trimmed beard, blue button-down that set off his beautiful blue eyes, a bit of gel to give shape to his wavy, sandy blond locks. And his signature leather jacket, of course. My heart skipped a beat. But I reminded myself that I am married, that I love my husband, and that Mark would never be into me anyway. We ordered our first round. As the bar filled in, we found ourselves squished closer together in the long booth to accommodate other parties. With the comfort of the martini warming my belly, I didn’t feel nervous or uncomfortable as our thighs pressed together along their lengths. I was, however, careful to make sure the skirt of my minidress didn’t ride up too far. We are just friends, I reminded myself. With the second round, we became a bit bolder. We talked about our exes. And somehow the talking turned around to our best and worst sexual experiences. His stories were surprisingly vanilla! He had only ever had sex with two people, always in one of their beds. He was vastly entertained as I told him tales from my reckless youth, which included a lot of outdoor sex (including once being caught by a nun near my paramour’s Catholic college). I explained to him that half the fun of doing it outside is the risk that you might get caught. He said he had always wanted to do it, but his previous girlfriends (both long-term) had been quite conservative. After our third cocktail, we both got up to pee. We met in the little hallway between the two one-seater bathrooms and giggled self-consciously. He teasingly asked me if I had washed my hands. I held them up for his inspection and he grabbed my hands in both of his, warm and damp from the clean water. He pulled my body close to him—so close I could feel his warm breath of my skin and thought I might hear his heart beating as loud as mine—but still not touching any part of me except for my hands linked in his. “You look really beautiful tonight,” he said. “Your husband is a lucky man.” Then the moment was broken. We went back into the bar and ordered another drink. Our spot in the booth was taken, so we headed to the patio. On the 5th floor as we were, the view wasn’t phenomenal, but it was still exhilarating to feel the cold early spring air on my inadequately clad legs and to see the people walking by on the street below. The patio was packed with couples our age, some dancing close together in the cramped quarters, some touching each other inconspicuously. We pushed our way forward to stand next to each other at the railing. I could feel his warm hand on my bare back. It was the kind of platonic touching we had already worked our way up to—but skin to skin like that, on such a beautiful night, after that moment in the hallway, it felt different. I leaned into him to show I welcomed the touch. As I moved closer to him, his hand stayed where it had been, slipping inside my dress. I felt his fingers curl around the softness of the side of my breast and must have started a bit, because he pulled back. But by this time, I wasn’t thinking about my husband or my vows or the life we had promised to make together. Fueled by alcohol and the warm touch of his hands on my skin, all I could think of was how much I wanted him. I whispered to him that I was cold and boldly stepped in front of him, wrapping his arms around me for warmth. At first, his arms rested around my shoulders. But as I began to press my hips back into his with gentle rocking motions, his hands slid down—one inside my dress and one outside, each resting on one of my breasts. As crowded as it was, no one could really get a good look as he rubbed one nipple through the slinky fabric and the other skin-to-skin. “Do you always skip the bra?” he murmured in my ear, just above the loud music of the bar. In answer, I arched my shoulders back, pressing my breasts more firmly into his hands. I could feel him growing harder, pressed tight against my ass. “Is it just the bra you went without tonight?” He murmured rhetorically as one hand dropped to my thigh. He moved it slowly up my lightly tanned flesh until he found the crease at the intersection of leg and pelvis. He traced the crease gently, from front to back, then adjusted his position to take my right buttock in his big hand. “I guess not,” he said. I was dripping wet and ached to be fingered. His hands were so close—but not close enough. I started grinding against him involuntarily, urgently needing him to know how badly I wanted him. I could feel he wanted me as well, hard up against my grinding ass cheeks. I let out a soft gasp of disappointment when his hands left my body, only to gasp again moments later as he reached inside my dress from its low open back. The fingers of one hand traced delicate circles around my nipples while the other reached down the front of my dress to finally find the slippery, throbbing proof of my desire. I felt his fingers circling my clit, then his thumb as his fingers slid inside me. It was all I could do not to cry out and draw attention to ourselves, crowded as it was on the balcony. I reached behind me and began to stroke him through his pants. As I neared climax, I turned suddenly around and stood up on my toes to bite him hard on the ear as I whispered, “I need you to fuck me now. But not here.” I practically dragged him through the crowded mass of people and into one of the bathrooms, locking the door behind us. Half crazed with drink, lust, and the temptation of the forbidden fruit, I hastily unbuttoned his shirt and slid my hands across his chest, pressing my body close to his. He bent his head down to kiss my neck. His lips felt soft and foreign on my skin, and I realized how long it had been since anyone other than my husband had kissed me. I unbuckled his belt, fumbled with his button and zipper, and slid his pants to the floor. His tight boxer briefs looked uncomfortably constraining, so I hooked my thumbs in and pulled them down as well. Out sprang a beautiful cock, soft and silken, not so long but quite thick. I dropped to my knees and was surprised to see that he was uncut, not that it looked that different at his current state of arousal. Aching with the pent-up attraction I had tried to hide for the years we had known each other, I licked him gently around his head as he groaned softly. I licked the length of his shaft before taking him into my mouth, then into my throat. His hands clutched my head, pulling him deeper into me as I sucked and licked and toyed with his unfamiliar member. I reached around his shaft, then slid my hand further to explore his tightening balls. My other hand traced up the inside of his thigh and up into the cleft of his tight butt. I knew he was close when he suddenly yanked himself out of me, gasping for air or for self-control, I couldn’t tell. He looked at me with his intense blue eyes and demanded, “tell me what you want. I’m going to give it to you.” In answer, I stood up, bit him on his lower lip as I wrapped my arms around his neck, then hiked up my skirt and hopped on the edge of the sink as I pulled him close between my legs. “Give me everything you’ve got,” I said. He grabbed my hips then and thrust himself into me with a fury matching the lust I felt. He slammed into me over and over as I buried my nails into his back. I almost never cum from penetration alone but his thick cock was filling me up and smashing my g-spot and I was already so aroused that I just lost it, squeezing his cock with my vaginal walls over and over as I came with an intensity that left me drained, only seconds before I felt his own throbbing match mine. We held each other’s shoulders, foreheads pressed together, as we took a moment to recover. We talked a little afterwards but went home (separately) almost immediately after that. I wish I had a more satisfying ending, but the truth is we couldn’t stay friends after what had happened—not if I wanted to stay married (which I do). I miss him a lot sometimes—his company on the long nights when my husband travels, and the comfort of his body touching mine with the electric shock feeling that gave lie to my “platonic” justification. I miss having him in my life. But my only regret about the experience was that I never kissed him on the lips.