CHEATING FIANCÉE

      

Infidelity is almost always at the heart of a failed marriage or relationship, and there's no particular gender tendency framed by popular opinion. It doesn't matter how the stats compare or differ; the cheating sex is either of the married and dating couples, or sometimes, both. This personal story may serve as an enlightening illustration of this subject.

I began attending college in my 16th year fresh out of High School. Having graduated brightly, it wasn't surprising how much the people in my life raised their expectations. The freshman coursework varied slightly from highschool scope, so I was confident I would get through with little effort. But I was gravely mistaken.  

When the results of the opening semester were published ahead of Christmas, my GPA had been horrendously low. I sunk into a depressive cycle that persisted through the best part of my college years. I developed a deep sense of self-loathing, and before long I was looking up ways I could end my misery.  My initial impulse were mostly suicidal, but then I had been scared of dying by my own hands.

   I may have belonged in a family who were passive members of a pentecostal church, but the strongly held the belief of life's sacredness.

   The story of my nonsexual relationship may have been triggered by the cajolery of the peers at school. They thought I was much too abashed for a boy, an uninteresting possibility for any girl around the school. Binging on pornographic websites hadn't been enough to ease my emptiness and despair, and somehow that brewed the yearning to chase my secret fàntasy.

I had my first real cell phone in my third year, and within that time, I started signing into different networking sites. Two years later, after a Melèe in a chatroom on messaging app '2go', I received a private message from one of the warring contingent. 

I had easily trumped her when she took me on, and maybe quite an impression, so she decided to check me out. There was something 'witchy' and seductive about the girl in the picture who feigned to bite an apple. But she was black and beautiful. And, until she told me her name, she was Black Diamond to me, the username she'd chosen for herself. In the days that followed she became my first girlfriend, or so I believed.

   There's so much story to be told, though. She was my first, I wasn't hers. I wasn't the second, or third. But I wanted her for myself- just me. There was another lover in the picture. That's the story that has to be told.

  '''Her name was Praise, and she was from the same place as me. I was 21 and in my last year in the university, she was 25 and in the third of four-year-long course. We'd both spent long hours into the night for days getting acquainted, and she had us talking dirty sometimes. I may admit to carelessly misusing when it comes to women, but hers was something of a delicious distraction. I felt vague pride in the heart I had won without a sweat, and maybe my friends come to see how quickly I was evolving. She was stealing off my study time, but I wasn't greatly worried about that since graduation looked almost uncertain. I had found love, and with that love the promise of a new life. A happier spell.

 

    Before Praise and I arranged for a blind date, she had told me of how she had been robbed of her innocence at a party when she was 18. Drugged and carried into a lonely room, she had a sexual contact she hadn't consented to. From then on she faced the world with unguarded sexuality; I had no sensual experience with anyone, but I wanted to love her beyond her body. I would save my purity for a time we both will wed, something better than what her previous lovers — and sexual partners — gave. I had known love, the feeling that painted my day and filled my nights, something so fast that was startlingly refreshing and fierce. 

  In that mood I hadn't cared a jot when she mentioned she was engaged. She wanted me as much as I did to her; we were two adults free to make choices inspite of any moral judgments. I never saw any photo of her fiancée nor had any meeting with him, but she spoke about him sometimes after I had been to see her at her school. There were times she had asked me not to call, that she would be spending time with her man. 

Were those intimate moments?. What was I, to her?. I couldn't bear to imagine her beneath the thrust of another man's crotch, so I spent the wait in jealous anxiety. Yet I loved and wanted to keep her, even if making love had to be delayed for a good time.

    I was winding up with schoolwork that year when she called one day inviting me over to her apartment. I caught a bus that rode 25 minutes when it pulled up in front of the address she'd given me. She came through a door dressed that had done little to flatter her broad waist. I timidly followed behind her, and she closed and lock the door after letting me in. We talked little before she advanced towards me. I sat leaning by the wall with my legs stretched out, so she heaved her ebony frame across to my thighs. Pulling her face to mine and blowing hot breath in it, her lips moved sofly on mine. My lips parted in confused excitement until it touched the tip of her tongue. My whole body erupted in a dizzying sensation. That first kiss seemed out of a book,  a fairy tale. Then she had enough of the kiss, and I saw her unfasten her gown. It was almost sheer, and I wondered how she had gone about without extra undergarments than her bra and panties. I blinked hard and uneasily as she unhooked the bra and asked me to take the straps off her shoulders. 

One strap before another and her bra dropped to bare her bust. I didn't know what she wanted me to do next, so she took my hand and guided it to the pointed skin on the mounds of her chest. That was when I got alarmed. My safety instincts had frozen my senses, so I sprung tensely and looked dully at her. She said something about me being frigid, and how she didn't call me up for foreplay. I didn't know what those words meant, but she was visibly upset as she walked to the bathroom to change into new clothes. I had come dangerously close to having sex; it didn't feel right.

 

   On the evening of the same day, she called to express how disappointed my inexperience had left her. But she seemed happier than I left her. We saw each other at her school a few more times, and she didn't stop talking dirty. One night she messaged to ask if I wanted to have sex with her before she finally gave her body to her fiancé. I said I wasn't and didn't want to talk about it anymore. The next morning I would neither answer her calls nor reply to her messages: I was calling time on our secret relationship.

 It's not as easy as I say it. My first love, the tempting sight of a shameless body. I still think about her, of the times we shared, of what could have been. Would I have refused sex if she had been single, or was much too overtaken by feelings of insecurity to end the relationship? I don't know what anyone may think of this, but it had been all wrong. This woman cheated on her man with me. I'm worried now about something, and that's if I will suffer a similar fate at the hands of my own fiancée, whoever she may be.'''