I spent six years entwined in a sweaty love affair with Mr. B.
B was challenging; he was athletic; he was intense and confident, a wildly charismatic jackass, and he cracked me open. He was addictive the way the most toxic affairs are: I’d drag myself out of bed at 5 a.m. just to be with him; I’d save my nights for us, rushing out early from happy hour, tequila-buzzed and ready for action. B was a drug, a fix. He stretched me and shot me down, and yet every day, I came crawling back to him for more, because the high was so good, the rush so great, the shattering so profound.