Play

But one finds the bliss of watching what is new in the eye. What isn't usually seen. Or what's been existing but hasn't been noticed. Or has been noticed but never been mentioned. The play. The polygamy. The thrill of going out of the personal space you both enforced in your relationship and hook up with some lost or troublesome drunk or drugged up fish located far away from the usual school you were once been introduced with.

Until things get complicated once the spectator becomes involved. With his views shifting, and his principles rattled, his lips quiver as he plants his kiss on the other's back. While his pointing finger who despises such, nibbles into the other's sexy nipples.

It was dirty. It was sickening. It was so bad but was so good.

Until he finds his release; of his superior idealism of love and lust, of his beloved principles, of his strong beliefs. That the love he believed must be shared by two sometimes cannot pass through the white sheets they share. And the lust, most of the time, cannot be resolved solely by love. And thus results to the dilemma that the spectator has been dying to avoid.

Yes. It's the lust that must be blamed and not love. The one responsible for the cheating. The one responsible for the play.