Married Slut: A Hotwife Bull Romance

You know what I love about the internet? You can bond over anything.

No matter how weird or wild your life is, there’s always a forum, Facebook group, or chatroom packed with other people going through the same crap or fantasizing along the same lines.

That’s part of the reason I’m air-high-fiving the suburban badasses in my laptop Facebook group chat.

We’re all housewives, yoga instructors, or mamas on break from soccer practice. We spend half our time comparing bread recipes and beach selfies. But every once in a while, the spicy memes and confession threads come out.

I love these moments.

They prove I’m not the only flawed person on this donut-shaped Earth.

They make me think maybe the things I’ve done lately—however illicit—aren’t grotesque but natural. Hell, they might even make me heroic. That’s why I’m uploading a selfie from my backyard pool right now. To share with my internet sisters. To prove new housewives can live their best lives, right alongside doing crazy stuff. #HotHousewifeChallenge. Take that, bishes!

Hot damn, girl, you make double motherhood seem impossible. Are those rolls on your firstborn? I didn’t know baby rolls could look so delectable. I would throw my stretch marks on display, but my hair is on day two and I haven’t bathed in a week.

I love my girls. It’s true, I’m only newly married, but in one respect I’m like most SoCal women my age. I run the “hot wife gauntlet.”

Step one, secure a marriage to a good man in a cool location (hello, Torrance, right on the cusp of Hermosa Beach, and the prettiest address I’ve ever had).

Step two, meet the girls for champagne poolside when I should be working.

Step three, flirt with your sexy hubby as often as possible. It keeps his Google search history clean.

I’ve won the hot wife lottery. Two years into my marriage, and I’m still the “OMG, cool beans, I can’t believe I snagged Grant Warren” girl.

My husband is hot. I mean, his stomach is vaguely reminiscent of a six-pack. He’s got soulful brown eyes, and he’s humble enough to manage our finances and investments despite being the lesser earner. He worships my B-cup boobs, works overtime to please me in bed, and ordersexecution reminds me of why I checked off “beta” in the ménage/nonmonogamy fantasy preferences.

So, why have I strayed? Oh boy. Trick question, hot wives.

I’m not a cheater.

Grant and I share every meal, split the bill at In-N-Out, and brush our teeth side by side before bed. We also share a Netflix password and butt plug. I don’t do anything without Grant’s consent, sometimes egging and fueling those impulses.

Palm trees sway in the salty Pacific air while I sprawl on a pineapple beach towel, watching the neighbors. If they knew what I did to hump Grant’s positive reinforcement, they would be horrified.

This is Lila, the happy yoga housewife, going nowhere and doing everything. This is Lila, the mentally unhinged hot wife, flaunting her plumage before the neighbroody bull next door, on social media and out by the pool.

Fuck it.

The bull has been unleashed, and it lies deep inside me, baring its pearl-encrusted crown—and it laughs.

I thought I was a nice girl. I thought I had it all, achieved my dreams. But hell no, ladies, I am the anti-fucking paragon of married women. Inhibitions have been shed, standards fucked, and self-respect is sleeping in on the weekends.

I am, in fact, a cock-starved slut for the bull next door. And I could deny it all day long, but haters, haters … recognize.

Here’s to you, as well as a mouthful of sangria. I toast, washing down the truth before explaining how it all went to hell in my own staircase to Valhalla.

If there’s a man out t