Truth told, we were better as friends. We would always be friends. Lifetime buddies who frequently filled in estranged gaps over a set of beers. We made horrible boyfriends and lovers. The worst. Clay could never be faithful, driven to have sex with numerous men and women behind my back, at all times and anywhere. His libido edged into hazardous and unstoppable. The man couldn’t live without sex even when he had a devoted boyfriend. Anyone who dated him could have clearly called him a nymphomaniac and agreed that he needed some type of psychological help.
Cheaters always cheat.
But I missed him. I loved him. I always would, even when he damaged me.
And he would always damage me, right?
Right.
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