I’ve been having sex with a married woman while I was in high school.

It started when I was tutoring her son. I was 18. She was mid-30s, stuck in a bland marriage, and practically starving for attention. One “harmless” glass of wine turned into a blowjob in her garage. She gagged the first time, told me she hadn’t done that for her husband in years-and never with enthusiasm. Now she’s a lot better at it.

She and I have been meeting regularly for over a year. My room. Her house. Hotel rooms. Once even behind a grocery store. And every time, she gets a little bolder. A little nastier. She’ll beg for it raw. She wants the risk. Says it’s the only time she feels “wanted.”

The other night, she was bent over my bed, looking back at me, moaning like she forgot her husband even exists. I grabbed my phone. She didn’t ask me to stop. She posed. She told me to make sure I got a shot of her face—so she could remember what she looked like “being properly fucked.”

She talks about him during. Not in a sweet way. She calls him pathetic. Tells me I make her feel things he hasn’t in over a decade. I ask her how I compare, and she says things I wouldn’t repeat out loud-but let’s just say he wouldn’t want to hear them.

Sometimes I wonder if she wants to get caught. Maybe I do too.

She’ll text me later-“Still thinking about your cock.” Or “Wish it was you in our bed right now.”

I know it’s wrong. But I’ve stopped pretending to feel bad. I’m not the one who made vows. I’m just the one she keeps choosing.