Sex Love Repeat

By: Alessandra Torre

I love two men. I screw two men. I am in a relationship with them both, and they are both aware there is another. That is all they need to know, that is all I let them know. They don't need to know a name; they don't need to know anything, but that they are not alone in my heart.

They have accepted the situation. Stewart, because his life is too busy for the sort of obligations that are required in a relationship. Paul, because he loves me too much to tell me no. And because my sexual appetite is such that one man has trouble keeping up.

So we exist, two parallel relationships, each running their own course, with no need for intersection or conflict. It works for us, for them, and for me. I don't expect it to be a long-term situation. I know there is an expiration date on the easy perfection of our lives.

I should have paid more attention, should have looked around and noticed the woman who watched it all. She sat in the background and waited, tried to figure me out. Saw my two relationships, the love between us, and the moment that it all fell apart.

She hates me.

I don't even know she exists.

She loves them. I love them.

And they love me.

Everything else hangs in the balance.

Other Books by Alessandra Torre

Blindfolded Innocence

Masked Innocence (Feb 2014)

The End of the Innocence (Mar 2014)

The Girl in 6E

The Dumont Diaries

This book is for the girl with her head down,

and the inner strength I know she carries.

The heart is stubborn. It holds onto love despite what sense and emotion tells it. And it is often, in the battle of those three, the most brilliant of all.


I hear my name, but I cannot open my eyes. I try, pushing and pulling with the weak muscles of my eyelids, but there is no movement. Nothing to minimize the blackness, nothing to pull me from this rabbit hole of darkness. But I can hear. I have emerged into awareness with only one sense, and I grab onto it and pull upward, trying to raise myself into life through the elements of sound alone. I heard my name, heard Paul say it, crystal clear, his voice thick with emotion. I strain for more, worried he has left, tensing and pushing every muscle I have, trying for movement, trying to reach out with my hands and grab his skin, his shirt, anything.

Then I pause on my journey, all my efforts freezing, stalled in their worthless attempts, because a second voice has joined the first.


A voice I love—his deep, authoritative tone one that traditionally makes my breath quicken and my knees weak. But here, in this place, it makes my heart drop. His voice should never be heard in tandem with Paul's, their presences should never be intersected, much less raised in what sounds to be an argument.

And I know, as my mind closes off—pushes me deeper into the black rabbit hole of oblivion, my subconscious fighting tooth and nail as I am pulled down, down, down—I have failed. All of my attempts, my careful lives of separation …

"Madison." I hear my name one last time, but it is so faint, I cannot tell which man it comes from.




I am nosy. A meddler. Mom used to say it would be my downfall. She was probably right. It certainly got me in enough trouble early in life, my matchmaking skills often falling flat, my snooping ending disastrously. As an adult, I should know better. I should keep to myself—keep my curiosity to a minimum.

I haven't seen Stewart in two years. Ever since we had a big blow up over Thanksgiving dinner and his inability to have time for anything but work. I now regret that fight. It was valid, and I was in the right, but it wasn't worth the silence. Silence that stretched a week, then a month, then years, each passing holiday a reminder of my loss. I don't know if it's his stubbornness or the fact that his busy schedule has pushed thoughts of me out of his mind. I don't know what's worse—intentionally being snubbed or being forgotten about completely.

For me, it was initially stubbornness, our commonalities peaking in that one trait: pride. And since I, after all, was right, there was really no reason for me to break first—to weaken and reach out when he was the one in error. Now, it doesn't really matter whether I was right. I just want him back. Sadly, my point has been proven even more by his silence. He doesn't have time for me. He only has time for work. And for her. That blonde who holds his busy heart in her hands.

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