The Downside of Being The Other Woman

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Abstract

ers.</p><p id="1b5d">I don’t have to vacuum kale chip bits from between your van seats or chastise you for your disgusting habit of trailing your hot-chocolate-and-whipped-cream-covered fingers across radio dials.</p><p id="e8e2">But it also isn’t my arms about your waist and my lips softly brushing yours before you grab your keys and back your vehicle out of the driveway.</p><p id="8a5b">I don’t have to scrub pre-cum from the sheets, or nighttime drool from your pillowcases.</p><p id="35f6">But it also isn’t my face you see last before snuggling into the cocoon of covers.</p><p id="6feb">I don’t have to organize plane tickets, yell at kids to continue their packing lists, or prebook airport parking.</p><p id="e50c">But I also don’t get to lie beside you on a beach absentmindedly waving for a fresh mojito. I don’t get to be the one at midnight rubbing your thigh on the patio balcony, praying the kids won’t wake up to our soft moans.</p><p id="8019">I get to be here.</p><p id="e0f7">While you get to be there.</p><p id="5e2a">Do I want to be your “other half”?</p><p id="e94d">Nah.</p><p id="2b91">But it all sounds so much nicer than being where I am. Cleaning toilets. Dreading food-covered hands brushing against my shoulder. Repeating the weekly weather forecast for the fiftieth time — between pretend chuckles at kittens tumbling from curtain rod videos that are lovingly shoved in my face. And lying lonely in a bed that might otherw

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ise be filled with moans, sheet-ripping orgasms, and very little sleep.</p><p id="b9c2"><i>©Jennifer J. McDougall 2021</i></p><div id="b982" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/why-is-it-so-hard-for-people-to-accept-my-situation-ef3b497de67f"> <div> <div> <h2>Why Is It So Hard For People To Accept My Situation?</h2> <div><h3>Honestly pondering why people don’t get lonely me wanting love</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*fcoWOMOXgipJ_Ij4KmRN-w.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="dff1" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-other-woman-is-actually-trying-to-keep-your-marriage-together-1f522128f46b"> <div> <div> <h2>‘The Other Woman’ Is Actually Trying To Keep Your Marriage Together</h2> <div><h3>I bang him so he keeps coming home to you happy</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*3CzvFLHvt-LQQnp_aJgVHQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Sure, it’s mostly good but there are some negatives

There are orgasms. Oh, there are orgasms. But there’s another side to it, too.

I don’t have to scrub your toothpaste from the edge of the sink. Swearing and cursing as I also notice your stubble bits curtaining the overflow while reminding myself to purchase a new barrel of Drano.

But I also don’t get to be the last one touching my lips to yours before the lamp dims and the snores start.

I don’t have to wipe the ketchup smears from the side of the recycling bin where your non-Ray Allen skills landed the almost empty container.

But I also don’t have the opportunity to watch your sexy asscheeks wriggling as you stumble over dank leaves carrying the trash to the curb. Attempting speed so the neighbors’ staring at the rising sun don’t observe you in only your boxers.

I don’t have to vacuum kale chip bits from between your van seats or chastise you for your disgusting habit of trailing your hot-chocolate-and-whipped-cream-covered fingers across radio dials.

But it also isn’t my arms about your waist and my lips softly brushing yours before you grab your keys and back your vehicle out of the driveway.

I don’t have to scrub pre-cum from the sheets, or nighttime drool from your pillowcases.

But it also isn’t my face you see last before snuggling into the cocoon of covers.

I don’t have to organize plane tickets, yell at kids to continue their packing lists, or prebook airport parking.

But I also don’t get to lie beside you on a beach absentmindedly waving for a fresh mojito. I don’t get to be the one at midnight rubbing your thigh on the patio balcony, praying the kids won’t wake up to our soft moans.

I get to be here.

While you get to be there.

Do I want to be your “other half”?

Nah.

But it all sounds so much nicer than being where I am. Cleaning toilets. Dreading food-covered hands brushing against my shoulder. Repeating the weekly weather forecast for the fiftieth time — between pretend chuckles at kittens tumbling from curtain rod videos that are lovingly shoved in my face. And lying lonely in a bed that might otherwise be filled with moans, sheet-ripping orgasms, and very little sleep.