I know, never, ever, ever date a friend’s ex-boyfriend. Especially, “the one.” The one who she was supposed to marry, live happily ever after and have babies with. But I’ll be honest, Rachel and I aren’t that good of friends. I’ve always got along better with John, her ex, had fun hanging out with him, and thought he was totally hot. Recognizing that most women reading this want to kill me, I’m still going to continue to write honestly about what’s happening.

After John and I kissed a few weeks ago, we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Rachel still has stalker-ex syndrome, so we’ve been keeping it on the down-low. (Obviously the names have been changed to protect the guilty). And by down-low, I mean down-and-dirty-down-low.

I drove over to John’s new apartment around 9 p.m. about two weeks ago, but was slightly paranoid about leaving my car in the driveway while we hung out at his place, since Rachel was still doing nightly drive-by’s at his house. We decided to hop in my car and just drive around town. We drove around talking until about 1 a.m. Of course, it was a weeknight, but I didn’t care that it was late. I really was falling for this guy.

We both ended relationships with people we loved, but weren’t in love with, we both wanted to wring life dry, and we both were extremely attracted to each other. Dark hair, blue eyes, what more can I say? I was tired of driving and decided to park on a side street so we could keep chatting … who am I kidding? I wanted a serious make-out session.

We were kissing in my front seat, hands moving to all the right places, when to my surprise I uttered the phrase, “Do you want to keep doing this in the back seat?” The middle console was really cramping our style. I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, we had sex in my backseat. It wasn’t rough like it was with no. 13, but it was passionate. We were in a total frenzy of pent-up sexual attraction that was unleashed while the moon shined in my car on a dark side-street. Cliche? Perhaps, but it was hot. Steamed up windows, ducking down and staying quiet the two times a car passed, and holding our bodies together like it was the first time either of us had ever had sex.

Even writing about it makes me want to pick up the phone and see what he’s up to. The problem is, I hate keeping this whole thing a secret. In reality, neither of us are doing anything wrong, right? He’s coming over tonight to watch a movie, and he’s bringing dinner. I’m so excited to see him, but he’ll be parking in the garage, which leads me to think that maybe I should call this whole thing off. But I know I’m not going to–the pleasure of now far outweighs the consequences I’ll pay later.