I got Herpes from a toilet seat. Yes, I’m the one. You can believe me or not, frankly I don’t give a shit either way. But if you were to look at me, my face without the hospital mask that I’ve been wearing for thirteen years, you’d know it was true.

It happened when I was working as a group supervisor for a large credit card company, and I was in love. Her name was Ashley and she was gorgeous, probably still is for all I know. She flirted with me daily, though she was married with a kid. I was married then as well, though we never had a kid. I’m glad for that, it would have made things at the end more difficult.

Ashley liked me, that much I knew. She’d tell me about the fights with her husband and sometimes even about their make-up sex, but that was more a rarity than the fights. I became her confidant. I’m sure people would talk about the amount of time I spent in her cubicle, but I didn’t care. No one at work knew my wife well enough to talk and Ashley didn’t work in my department, so there was no conflict of interest in that respect.

Ashley was younger than me by five years, which would have made her thirty-three then. I loved talking to her, but even more than that, I loved watching her talk to me. I loved watching her face and her eyes as she spoke. I loved watching her small tits through her blouses or light sweaters as she turned to quickly respond to an email. I adored her tight ass and how she’d cross her legs in a skirt to give me a view of those pale, shapely calves and thighs. She did this on purpose of course. Once, when I told her she was wearing my favorite top, a pink blouse with buttons that would flair down the center of her torso (buttons I longed to undo and trace the trail of with my tongue) she made sure she wore it at least once a week.