By Susie Forestal

I have this little problem: I have two boyfriends and I can’t decide which one I like more.

Brian is my perfect, public boyfriend—the one all my friends know about, and the one I brought home to meet Mom and Dad on Thanksgiving. The one I talk about when my girlfriends and I contemplate marriage and babies. We’ve been together for six months. He’s rich, and has a sweet smile, cute eyes and a nice jaw, though he’s a bit short—only 2 inches taller than me. Every night, he either cooks me sumptuous dinners in the eat-in kitchen of his garden apartment in Soho, or takes me out to sweet, romantic dinners at dimly lit French bistros. He laughs at my jokes and makes plenty of his own, and he lets me complain about all the dimwits at my law firm while he massages my shoulders and kisses my neck. We then cuddle and spoon and kiss for a while before he removes his clothes and makes sweet, gentle love to me in a reasonable variety of positions. His penis is a bit small and his butt a little large, but our sex life is fun and he manages to make me happy enough that I feel like coming, even if I don’t actually succeed.

Danny is my other boyfriend. The one I tell no one about—except my psychiatrist, my journal, and my pillow. Danny has thick, wavy hair, broad shoulders and a firm, tight butt, and he stands 6-foot-2 in bare feet. Once every two weeks or so, we meet at my apartment and wait approximately two seconds before tearing each other’s clothes off in a frenzy of wild attraction. He whips out his long, beautiful dick, and I sigh a little every time I see it. We do the craziest things together; he fucks me in the shower, in the hallway, and the ass. It’s pure passion and I come like a machine every time, thanks to his endlessly inventive methods and his firm, confident handling of my body. He knows where everything is and how to use it.

How did I get into this mess? Oh, right, I remember. I made it clear to Danny on the first night I met him—at a loft party on Laight Street last October, when Brian was spending a week in Atlanta on business and Danny was flirting very effectively with me in the bedroom as I was looking for my leather bomber jacket on my way out the door—that I wasn’t interested in a relationship. He nodded, smiled and looked into my eyes so deep I thought I would come right there. When he kissed me it was so perfect I fell backward onto the pile of coats and pulled him on top of me, risking exposure from anyone who might wander by.

So not my style, and yet…

Two weeks later, when Danny called me to propose a drink, I quickly suggested that he come over to my place for a glass of wine. New York is big, but not big enough to avoid every last one of Brian’s friends, and I was already feeling guilty for what I wanted to do to, with and all over Danny. I told Brian I was having dinner with my mother—could I have concocted a more mendacious lie?—and Danny came by around 8 p.m. for our drink. After a few sips of Pinot Grigio in my kitchen, my curiosity and hunger became insatiable, and within ten minutes he held me trembling in his strong arms, after the most powerful orgasm I’d ever experienced. Six months later, he still has that same power over me, enough to weaken my resolve. For the span of an evening I’m able to forget Brian and allow my animal instinct to take over, as we make love over and over and over again as though it were the first time ever. It doesn’t even bother me that Danny must have other women who fall equally hard for his magic; honestly, it turns me on a little.

Lately I’ve been wondering whether Brian can sense the truth. There’s no question Danny has awakened a sexuality in me that surfaces in our relationship, too; the other night, without blinking, I asked Brian to stop stir-frying vegetables and come fuck me in the ass. He said yes, but we ended up on his bed in our usual missionary position—and I didn’t push the issue because I knew I’d be seeing Danny the next night for our bi-weekly fuckfest. But as Brian and I lay together after our last lovemaking session, a 10-minute hay-roll that left me hornier than when I started, I wondered if he could feel my longing for something… longer. It’s not fair, I know, but it’s true.

But when I finally confess all this to my best friend Linda, she reminds me (after grilling me for 20 minutes for the steamy details of my latest Danny encounter) that guys like him don’t marry and have kids and build Ikea furniture and change light bulbs. Is that really true? He does have a job (something to do with distribution) and an apartment (a one-bedroom in Brooklyn Heights) and nice clothes (at least the ones I haven’t ripped apart). But it’s accurate to say that he’s not likely to lower himself to one knee anytime soon—at least for the purpose of proposing.

Meanwhile, Brian keeps talking about kids and cars and summerhouses like we’ve already signed the papers and had the blood test. And I know he’d make an excellent husband. But would he mind if I went to visit Danny every couple of weeks for a good hard fuck? It is decidedly so, my Magic 8 ball says. I guess I’ve got a choice to make and I plan to make it this week. No, not this week, next week. Soon, anyway.