And if I could have it any other way, I’d have him in my bed. But this world isn’t perfect; it’s grimey and crooked and confusing. He sits in a chair in the corner of the hotel room, watching me undress as Interpol plays in the background. I like the way his gaze feels on my shoulder blades as I slip my bra straps down my arms. I can feel his urge to eat me up. The danger of being desired is becoming addicted to the game. My husband has never desired me like my men do. He has never taken me, pushed me up against the wall, torn a skirt off of me. But these men, my men, feed me sexually. Once my bra hits the ground, he charges at me, the chair his the wall with a loud thud from the momentum. He tackles me onto the bed, biting and kissing at my neck and collarbone. No my husband could never want me this much for he lacks passion. And without his passion, I remain unfaithful.