The taxicab is taking me past the Plaza, where Gorgeous Jerk got off, and is heading onto 8^th Avenue. I look at my watch as we approach Times Square.

It’s just barely midnight. I can see Peter’s apartment on 50^th Street.

“Stop the cab!” I yell to the driver who stops with the characteristic lack of surprise based on having seen everything most likely in his tenure as a New York City cabdriver. I pay the fare and get out of the car, heading toward Peter’s building on the corner of 50^th Street and 8^th Avenue.

Peter lives by himself in a 4 story walk-up, and as someone who graduated from college a couple of years ahead of me, the fact that he has a job and an apartment to himself makes him a pretty big catch in the dating pool of New York City.

I reflect on this as I take the keys to his apartment out of my purse and open the front door.

That’s right. He’s given me a set of keys. I think he gave them to me last month – after we’d been dating for two months. I know what he sees in me. He thinks I’m hot, or whatever. I mean, I try to work out and look good. I save up for things like dresses or heels or yoga pants. I don’t spend obsessively going shopping all the time, and I’m not vain, or anything. But I try to look cute. And I guess he appreciates it. I mean, if you ask me, there are a thousand other prettier girls you can find at any given moment—I’m not anything that special, but Peter always likes showing me off for whatever reason.

But then again, aren’t I kind of doing the same thing? I know that's what you were thinking maybe, weren’t you? When I said the fact that Peter has a job and his own apartment makes him a catch, I did my own aspect of superficial judging there I think.

I mean, on paper, that’s great. But he’s not perfect. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a perfect guy. He’s okay to look at—he’s tall enough, and he’s not like super hot, but he’s not ugly. He’s just … average.

We have sex. I mean, it is what it is. It’s not like super-crazy sex or anything. Like I’m not yelling at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I don’t really cum. I mean, everyone knows that to be a girl means sometimes a guy’s cock isn’t going to do it for you, right? And Peter isn't a big fan of going down on me, so sometimes I just fake it to make sure everything is going well. I mean, a part of me is really turned on and gets really wet knowing what I can bring him to. What I can do to him.

That’s what I’m thinking about tonight. I’m thinking I want to have sex. I want to fuck. But is his 5-inch cock going to satisfy me tonight? Some nights I’m lucky. If I’m coming from the club, already kind of horny, then sure, I can get off no problem. But some days, 5 inches, no matter how hard, doesn't really do it for me.

Maybe if Peter worked out a bit more. But every time I ever bring it up, he talks about how busy he is from work and how much he needs to decompress. I guess I can understand that. I mean, the guy who shared the cab with me today—he was hot. Obviously doesn't miss a gym day. Gym day is every day for someone like that.

I wonder what having sex with someone like that would be like as I finish climbing the four sets of stairs and open the door.

Maybe tonight I can close my eyes and pretend that Peter is the Gorgeous Jerk. If I keep my eyes closed and not think about the body I’m feeling—the slight man boobs and bit of a potbelly—I guess I could pass it off.

“Oh fuck, baby, that’s so good. Just like that,” I hear Peter say from his room. He’s got a one-bedroom apartment in Midtwon West and I know he basically pays an arm and a leg for it, with very little left over to afford.

But that’s not what I’m thinking about as I hear him again.

“Oh fuck, fuck baby,” I hear him.

Is he jerking off? Maybe I should have texted him instead of just coming up here like this.

I don't know why I make my footfalls softer.

But then again, I also don't know why my heart is beating so hard.

I’m at the threshold to his bedroom. The door is closed. I hear the bedsprings squeak.

Someone is in there with him.

I give myself a moment to close my eyes and prepare for the worst.

I mean, I thought we were good together. That this was as good as it gets. But maybe I was wrong? Maybe I wasn’t good enough for Peter? I don’t know, okay. Have you ever been in a situation like this? Because I haven’t. I don't know if I’m thinking right.

I open the door. I don’t even both knocking.

The reaction is almost immediate.

Peter is on top of someone and he stops while he's raised up. He twists his head back and sees me. His eyes go wide.

“Ashley!” Peter exclaims.

I just stand there as he looks back down to whoever it is below him and then to me, like a deer caught in headlights.

“Ashley, what are you doing here?” Peter asks again.

I say nothing. No, that’s not true. I think I shake my head.

Yes, I’m shaking my head.

“Ashley,” Peter says again, as if saying my name again is going to mitigate what I’m seeing.

And what I’m seeing is searing into my memory. I see Peter get up off of whomever he's with. His dick is hard and slimy.

He tries to cover himself, but the woman grabs the blanket and raises her head.

She’s blonde like me. She has huge boobs. Not so slender. Kind of a fucked-up face.

Yes, okay, I’m being unfair. Whatever. I have the right to be unfair right now.

“Ashley!” Peter says again.

I wish there was something I could do to make everyone see what an asshole my ex-boyfriend is.

I’m not thinking. That’s why I pull out my phone.

I turn on Facebook. I select the option to go live.

Sure, I’m young. I have thousands of friends on Facebook. So does Peter. We have so many mutual friends in common. People from Peter’s work are my friends.

I push the button and voila. We’re live on Facebook.

“Everyone,” I say pointing my iPhone toward Peter who is standing there frozen, his dick is hard. “Say hello to my ex-boyfriend. He used to be my boyfriend, but I just got home from work a few minutes ago. I’m about four hours early. And I found him in bed with…”

The woman doesn’t seem fazed at all. She gets out of bed and I wince as I see her tits sway. Did he cheat on her because I don't have as big of tits as her? I mean, I have D cups. She’s definitely older.

She looks to me.

“Hey, love bug,” she says with a wave as she picks up a pair of panties. “I’m Laura. You can find me on the corner of 42^nd and 8^th Avenue. I charge $100 for the half hour. $150 for the hour. Do you want my website or something?”

A hooker?

A fucking hooker?

Peter Theller, my boyfriend, was cheating on me with a hooker who stands outside of the Port Authority Bus Terminal?

“Peter Theller,” I say, surprisingly calm. “I just want to make sure all my friends know, so they don't have to ask when they find out why we broke up, that I caught you cheating on me with a hundred dollar whore that you found outside of the bus terminal!”

I zoom into his face. He’s sputtering.

I move the camera down.

Peter’s cock, which was as hard as a 5-inch cock could be, starts to deflate. Despite myself, I can't suppress a smirk. This is insane.

“Ashley, turn that off!” Peter says angrily.

Doesn't matter. He can try to turn my phone off. Hell, he can break it if he wants. It's already gone live. And it’ll play forever. And ever. Till the end of time.

“I have nothing else to say to you, you stupid, selfish, piece of shit,” I say to him. My voice is even calm. Still.

Am I acting crazy? The jury’s gonna be out on that one, babe. But I don't work 8 hours grinding my ass on other guys’ cocks not to be able to roll with the punches. And I’m not gonna put up with this shit.

Not when there are guys who look like the Gorgeous Jerk walking around out there.

I turn off my phone and turn around.

“Nice to meet you!” the hooker calls out. “I’m Laura. In case you didn't get that.”

I don't know how, but I’m out the door.

Peter is calling out to me. But I couldn’t care less at this point.

I run down the stairs. They go by in a flash. All of a sudden I’m outside. I run across the street and down the stairs into the subway.

I catch the downtown C from Port Authority. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m glad that at least I’m headed home.

I sit down on the bench in the train car and I think about crying. But no. No tears for him! Never for him!

I will survive this. I will fucking survive!