It was a warm Saturday night in September, and my husband had invited his old college buddy, Can, over for drinks and to watch the game. They’d been close for years Can was the best man at our wedding, always around for barbecues and holidays. He’s 36, tall, ruggedly handsome with a thick beard, broad shoulders, and that easy confidence that made me notice him more than I should have. My husband, Emre, is great, but lately our sex life had been routine, and I’d been feeling neglected, horny in ways I couldn’t shake.
It was a crowded Saturday night in a popular downtown bar last summer, the music loud, lights flashing, everyone half-drunk and loose. I’d gone out with a couple of girlfriends to blow off steam after a rough week at work. I’m 25, wearing a tight black mini dress that hugged my curves, no bra, heels high enough to make my legs look endless. I felt sexy, confident, ready for anything.