I slept with a married man. Well, not so much 'slept with' as 'fucked repeatedly.'
It started because I was bored, with nowhere to go on a Friday night on that shithole colony that Heero and Relena were on that week. Heero was vainly looking for conspiracies, Relena was hobnobbing, and I was along for the ride because... I'm not sure. So maybe it started before then, Heero dragging me along like the lagging tail of a comet, stretched out behind him but not quite able to let go.
Relena was at a state dinner. We played poker, which he won by grace of the fact that he has, as far as I know, only one facial expression. Then we watched some violent movie with lots of tits, and I used the free bar to mix suicides.
And then, just to top off the evening, I bent him over the arm of the faux-leather couch and fucked him until he ripped one of the throw pillows in half, screaming my name. At least I think I did. We were really drunk, but there was cum on the couch and pillow fluff everywhere. Besides, you can't mistake the Cheshire smirk that sex great sex with the wrong person leaves behind.
I stumbled home before Relena returned. I don't know how Heero covered it up. I was too busy saying a thousand empty prayers to beg God for forgiveness for fucking a man, and a married one at that. Even with that, I didnít feel very sorry.
Heero called me the next morning, sounding like someone had taken a cheese grater to his vocal cords. "Never again," he rasped.
I was face down on the couch, ice pack on my head, contemplating a bottle of booze. It had a sombrero-wearing cactus on the label, which grinned nauseatingly during all five seconds of the call. "You're right," I said. "I feel like shit." I caught the first shuttle out there once I could stand without puking.
Another colony, and he was over the arm of another couch, his cries mixing with explosions from the TV. He tasted like vodka and orange, and smelled like gunpowder. The throw pillows survived, but the TV remote control, caught under him, did not.
When he lay, panting into my hair, he murmured, "Never again."
"You're right," I said. "I've already helped you commit enough moral outrages." I meant it. I didn't want to spend my life that way.
That was how it went. Never again. Again, and again, and again.
The seventh time, he had carpet burns on his knees, and I went home and did my confession, then drank a bottle of Mr. Happy the sombrero-wearing cactus tequila. I was still drunk when I got on the shuttle. The stewardesses on that trip deserve a medal.
Heero always called me. Just for poker or a movie, nothing more. After the first time, I damnwell knew what it meant, but I went anyway. Then I'd run away, hide, pray, and try to believe Ďnever again.í I mightíve been on top, but I wasn't in control. He had me caught in with the gravity of those needy blue eyes, and I wasn't strong enough to escape.
I didnít mean for it to happen, but I also canít say I truly want your forgiveness.