Sick and Twisted Affair.

He's chatting up some sleaze; leaning against the wall at the venue we just got done playing. I'm leaning against the wall opposite of him, taking a hit from my joint, watching him.

I have a boyfriend. I don't need a sleaze to chat with. He has a boyfriend too.

But he's not faithful; he's shit at having relationships. Always have. He's always taking some sleaze back to the bus, fucks them above my own bunk. The next morning she'll be stumbling out of the bus, wearing a bra and a tube top for a skirt.

I'm faithful. Always have been.

I love him, but I sometimes think he doesn't at all. He only wants a fuck, and he doesn't need to talk me into sex. I guess I'm just that easy. The guys tell me he needs to go, oh trust me, I know. Don't get me wrong, I've tried to end it with him.

But I can't bring myself to do it. Not ever.

I watch his fingers curl into the jutting hipbone of the sleaze, takes her to the bus with a smile and lustful eyes. I blow out the thick, grey smoke quietly. They're gone, to fuck, probably. He'll tell me nothing happened the next morning, and I'll nod.

I throw my joint to the ground, and squish it with the heel of my boot. I didn't smoke at all, but I certainly do know what I'm going to do. It's really the most sober thought I've had today.

Revenge is sweet.

When I get back to the bus, I don't come back alone. It's my revenge; I don't know his name, I hope he doesn't have an STD.

I don't know why I'm doing this, really, I don't. I hope it was worth it. It was just a blow-job for the time being, then just full on fucking with porn star moans on my own part. We rocked the hell out of the bus.

I didn't hear anything coming out of his bunk all night. Good, I wanted the bastard to hear me getting laid. By morning, my fuck was stumbling out of the bus with come stained boxers.

I sunk to his level. I felt dirty.

I didn't want to leave from my bunk; I didn't want to see anyone. I lay in my spot, under the blanket, curled up. I couldn't believe what I did.

The red curtain leaves before my eyes, and the color is replaced with his. He waits for me to scoot over to slide in. He lays beside me, and stays quiet for a while.

He eventually speaks up and asks why I did it. I give him a shrug.

"You deserved it," I tell him.

He's quiet again, lips pursed and eyebrows knitted together with a slight frown. He's thinking, maybe.

I think ten minutes have gone by, and he speaks up again. He tells me it hurt, and I agree with a nod. It does fucking hurt. Again, he deserved it.

"I'm sorry," he says. I doubt it, but I nod. "Maybe we should break it off," he adds.

I quietly respond with a, "No."