When I land in JFK it’s pouring rain and gross out. All the other passengers leaving the airport seem annoyed but I love it. I’ve been in sickeningly sunny LA for far too long and I welcome the change. Everything there is bright and shiny all the time and it makes me sick. Even my husband, a sweet, handsome and funny plastic surgeon, was beginning to frustrate me. I wish he would mess up or do something crazy, just once, instead of being perfect all the time. I shake off this thought as I get into my Uber.

I’m here for work which means going to a party. At the hotel I slip on my sheer black turtleneck dress that shows off my near perfect tits. My husband, the surgeon, is always trying to correct them so they’re fully perfect, but I won’t let him. Whenever I wear my black dress in LA everyone stares at me like I’m a psycho freak for not wearing colors. Here in New York, I fit in. I give myself one last peek in the mirror before I walk out the door.

When I arrive at the party I’m instantly immersed in the most pleasant of toxic energies. Every man in the space (a renovated basement turned art gallery) is looking at me but in a bored way, like he had seen and been on one to two dates with me before. I was thrilled.

About thirty minutes into the party I locked eyes with Booth Jonathan (HBO Girls seasons 1-2) the sort-of artist and total fuck boy. Upon first glance I didn’t know who he was, but he was walking around the party being rude to women so I could tell that he mattered. Finally he came over to me and pointed to a dead bird on the ground. “Are you liking the art here?” he said.
“Is that part of the exhibit?”
“Oh you silly stupid little baby girl,” he shook his head laughing. “Of course it is. I made it.” Then he turned on the heel of his chelsea boot and walked away. I was instantly entranced.

Booth spent the rest of the night ignoring me and I spent the rest of the night obsessed. I went around the room and collected rumours about him. He liked to have sex inside of a sculpture he made of a succubus. He had three assistants and they all thought they were dating him.

I couldn’t help it, I wanted him.

He was so different from my husband. The first date I went on with my surgeon husband in LA was an 11am picnic on the beach. Guys in LA are always trying to get you to hang out in the daytime. Guys like Boothe Jonathan texted you at 10:45pm saying they might be able to do 11, then they cancel at 11:05 and then show up to the bar that you’re at around midnight and don’t even apologize. He was the type of guy who I dated all of college, a man who tricks you into thinking he’s artistic because he screams when he talks.

I walked into the bathroom and called my husband. “Hi honey!” he said cheerfully after only one ring. I could hear the sounds of a surgery in the background. After all the years together I could tell. It sounded like a butt implant.
“What do you think about being open?” I asked.
“Sure, if it would make you happy,” he replied immediately.
I chucked my phone in the toilet, pissed. Suddenly the door opened. It was Booth.
I took my chance. “Do you want to jack each other off?” I blurted out.
“For sure,” he said.
We did and it was marvelous. The fingering itself was bad, very dry and his fingers were sort of spindly. He didn’t cum at all.
“Is that common for you?” I asked.
“Oh yeah!” he said proudly. “It’s like my thing, I never cum.”
When I walked out of the art gallery basement lobby and into the street I finally felt satisfied. My uber had arrived but I waved it off. I walked off into the night feeling as though an itch had truly been scratched.