It happened, late one afternoon, when David arose from his couch and was walking on the roof of the king’s house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful. And David sent and inquired about the woman.
And one said, “Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?” So David sent messengers and took her, and she came to him, and he lay with her. Then she returned to her house. And the woman conceived, and she sent and told David, “I am pregnant.”
Then David ordered that Uriah, a warrior faithful to him, be sent to the battlefront on a dangerous mission. He was killed and Bathsheba went to live with the king in his palace.
David—the great example, the idol for generations, the fearless warrior—not only committed adultery, he also ordered the murder of his rival, betraying his loyalty and goodwill.
I don’t need biblical justification for adultery or murder. But I remember this story from my school days—the same school where Jacob and I kissed in the spring.
Those kisses had to wait many years to be repeated, and when it finally happened, it was exactly as I hadn’t imagined. It seemed sordid, selfish, sinister. But I loved it anyway and wanted it to happen again, as soon as possible.
Jacob and I meet four times in two weeks. The nervousness gradually disappears. We have both normal and unconventional intercourse. I’m still not able to live out my fantasy of tying him up and making him kiss me down below until I can’t bear the pleasure, but I’ll get there.