It was the summer of 2014. I was at a music festival in Brooklyn with some friends, and couldn’t wait in the enormous lines for the port-a-potties. We spotted a firehouse across the street and dashed over, hoping they’d let us use the bathroom. It was a moment worthy of a sitcom — not only did the firefighters on duty say yes, but they were ridiculously good-looking and asked us to stick around to play pool. We couldn’t resist.

When the alarm went off, the firefighter I’d been flirting with — let’s call him Martin — jumped into his gear and onto the fire truck, sirens blazing. He told me he’d see me soon, and I melted into a pile onto the floor. Martin was the kind of hot where the New York City Firefighters Calendar asked to photograph him every year, but he didn’t take them up on it, because he said he was too timid. He was the kind of hot that was simply too hot for me to handle.

Martin and I never dated seriously, but we saw each other regularly for months: We’d shoot pool and down shots of whiskey, never shying away from PDA. We had sleepovers several times a week and were even photographed arm-in-arm at an event together by a party photographer. He came to my house crying when.....

https://livelystones.ng/2021/02/10/how-i-finally-forgave-myself-for-being-an-unintentional-mistress/