One time, she suddenly asked me, “Have you had sex with anyone else?”, which she used to imply as between the last time and what we were about to do. It was a valid question, since we’re both sensitive to the proliferation of Cupid’s itch and Venus’s curse.
I was insulted that she asked, because at the time I felt like sex with someone else would have been cheating on her. As uncommitted as the relationship was, she still had my heart, and consequently, other parts of my body as well. I’m also not like that, and it takes a lot before I decide to be intimate with someone. But at the same time, I was flattered that she thought I would or could, a little boost to my ego that is rarely ruled by machismo or testosterone.
“I haven’t either”, she reassured, which was something I naturally assumed of my modest muse, so it was of little comfort to me.