bad bad thing sexylittleideas
or Wicked Game


I did a bad thing, and I felt bad about it. But I didn’t do it with bad intentions.

I was honest with the First Sister when we sat in my car late at night making out half drunk, and she knew exactly who I was.

I was honest with the Second Sister when the First One left to travel the world. She knew about me and her sister, and I told her we should just be friends. I don’t remember how that changed. Somewhere in between the piano and the sketchbook, our clothes found themselves forgotten on the floor, and our hands found themselves intertwined in each other’s hair. We bonded over everything, the lyrics, the music, the movement, and the moments, and then we drifted apart. She also knew exactly who I was.

I was honest with the Third Sister when the Second One fell in love, got pregnant, and got married to a beautiful man. She knew about me and her sister, and about me and her other sister, and I told her that I wouldn’t touch her because it might hurt the Second Sister or the First One.

She knew exactly who I was when she tackled me on a lazy afternoon, held me down and forced her tongue between my lips and my hand between her thighs. She knew exactly who I was when she took it upon herself to deliberately seduce me, then go straight back to her sister and inform her. And she knew exactly what she was doing when she showed up to my house a third time, pitch black and soaking wet, to seduce me again then go back to her sister, her own sister, and rub it in her face again.

I did a bad thing, and I felt bad about it for a long time. But then it occurred to me: Whereas that bad thing just makes me a horny dude who can’t say no to the tall, hot blondes in my life, what the fuck does it make her? What kind of a rotten, horrible, hateful, abusive person does something like that deliberately, premeditatedly, and repeatedly… to her own flesh and blood?

I did a bad thing, but I feel less bad about it.