Until Dee whispers, “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

I open my eyes, tilt my head so I can see her face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”

I see her smile. She explains, “Good deeds are easy to talk about. But bad things tell you more.”

I inhale a gulp of steam and do a mental rundown of all my transgressions. Then I confess. “I . . . cheated . . . on every girlfriend I ever had, in high school and college . . . before Rosaline. And the few times I got caught, I made them feel like it was their fault.”

There’s no judgment in Delores’s expression. No horror or revulsion. Just curiosity. “Why did you do that?”

Why do guys cheat? It’s an age-old question with varied answers. The simplest is—because they’re guys. But that doesn’t tell the whole story.

Some guys get bored. Tapping the same ass—even if it looks like Kate Upton’s—can get old. For others, it’s a game. The thrill of getting away with something they shouldn’t, the excitement of possibly getting caught. A final few are just cowards. They don’t have the balls to admit to a girl who loves them that they don’t feel the same way. They think they’re shielding her from hurt by letting her believe their commitment means more than it actually does.

“Because I was young and stupid. Selfish. Because I wanted them enough to bang them, but not enough to stop banging other women. Because I didn’t know how f**king awful and humiliating it felt to be lied to like that.

“Karma’s a righteous bitch, though. After Rosaline . . . then I knew. And I swore I’d never make someone else feel like that again.”

In a messed-up way, Rosaline did me a favor—taught me a much-needed lesson. Made me a better man. For the women who came after her.

For Delores.

I touch my finger to Dee’s chin and bring her eyes to mine. “I would never do that to you. You know that, right?”

Please, God . . . please let her believe.

She searches my eyes, trying to read me—then she gives me a crooked smile. “Yes, I know that.” She lays her head back down against me. “But, I’ll still need a reminder once in awhile.”

“What about you?” I wonder. “What skeletons are in your closet?”

She doesn’t answer right away. When she does speak, her voice is hushed. “I had an abortion when I was sixteen years old. He was my first—good-looking, cocky, came from the better end of town. He said he loved me and . . . I believed him.”

She watches her hand move under the water, creating a ripple effect. “And, I know I’m supposed to have this . . . regret . . . about it. Guilt. But I don’t. It was the right decision at the time.”

“Still,” she continues, “every now and then, I’ll think to myself—I could have a kid right now. He or she would be about nine years old. And I’m not . . . sad . . . exactly, but I wonder what my life would be like, if things had been different.”

She looks up into my eyes. “Do you think I’m awful?”

“Not even a little.” I pull her closer against me and kiss the top of her head.

Her tone is less weighted when she comments a moment later, “I mean, wouldn’t that be crazy? Me—raising a little boy or girl?”

“Do you want kids?” I ask. “Ever?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know—I’m not sure I’d be any good at it. My mom wasn’t exactly the finest example. I don’t think she was ready to be a mother. I was an accident; Billy was a charity case. She loved us and tried really hard, but nothing was ever . . . stable . . . when I was growing up, you know what I mean? She was always changing jobs, trying to reinvent herself, looking for love in all the wrong places. She’s more of a friend than a parent. I’m afraid her inconsistency could be hereditary.”

Even though this conversation has gotten way more serious than I ever would have predicted, I can’t stop myself from picturing Dee as a mom. Cruising the city streets in her heels and halter tops, with an infant strapped to her chest in one of those baby-backpack contraptions.

And in my imaginings, the infant is the perfect blend of us: Dee’s strawberry blond locks, my hazel eyes.

“I think you’d be a great mom.”

Warm appreciation melts in her eyes and radiates from her smile. “Really?”

“Really.”

Delores reminds me a lot of Alexandra, actually. Fierce—fervent in her affection. A giver of tight hugs and plentiful kisses. That’s the makings of the best kind of mom.

There’s no more talk after that. We stay in the tub until the water turns cold, enjoying the comfortable silence—together.

Some women won’t appreciate hearing this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You don’t need love to have great sex. The most fantastic sexual experiences of my life didn’t involve emotions at all. They involved women I was pretty indifferent to, actually. I didn’t know them well enough to like them or dislike them. For some, I didn’t even know their names.

But I knew they were hot—I wanted them, was attracted to them, on a purely physical level.

Lust is easy. Clear. Exhilarating.

Love is messy. Confusing. Sometimes scary.

Lust is powerful. Primal. Driving.

Love is dubious. Transitory. It can f**k with your head.

I realize this opinion isn’t absolutely exclusive to men—but statistically speaking, guys are much more likely to get satisfaction from a random, emotionless sexual experience than women are.