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 the end of my senior year, just a few weeks before graduation, and the school was buzzing with that end-of-year chaos. I was 18, captain of the volleyball team, with a tight athletic body I knew turned heads—especially Mr. Demir’s. He was our young history teacher, 32, tall and built like he still played sports, with dark hair, a trimmed beard, and those intense hazel eyes that always lingered on me a little too long during class. I’d been teasing him all year: short skirts on dress-down days, bending over his desk to ask questions, “accidentally” brushing against him in the crowded hallways.