I Chose To Marry A Good Girl Over My Sassy Girlfriend And I Regret It

I met Fendi at my office, she had been employed as a data entry temp. She was on break from school, working that job to fulfill a credit requirement for her degree program. The data she was entering had a lot to do with my data analysis duties, so I was assigned to supervise her.

The first time we were introduced, she kept a tight grip on my hand, looked directly into my eyes and smiled the most mischievous smile. After the HR personnel left us, she refused to discuss her duties. All she was interested in was whether I was married or not.

“You’re very handsome. Are you married?” She said, inspecting my ring finger.

“No I am not married but I have a girlfriend,” I said.

It was true I was unmarried but it wasn’t true I had a girlfriend. The woman I was with had migrated to Canada, and we had mutually agreed to end things when she traveled.

“Tell your girl she has fierce competition now,” Fendi said.

“You’re just a little girl. A little college girl,” I said.

“How old are you Frank?” She asked, calling me by my first name with little regard for the fact that everyone in our organization called me by my last name and added Mister to it.

“Don’t call me by my first name, little girl,” I tried subduing her to no avail.

“Would you rather I call you Daddy? That sounds sexy too,” she said laughing at me.

I shook my head, and gave up trying to get her to follow formalities. She lived in a world of her own and I was excited by her. She was twenty-one years old, and I was thirty-six. 

Her forwardness unnerved and excited me at the same time. I had never had any woman come on to me like that. And Fendi is a classic beauty. She took my breath away, I was flattered and uncomfortable at the same time. My insecurity told me she was toying with me for the fun of it.

By the third week of her internship, I had taken her on multiple dates. Each venue of those dates were chosen by Fendi and they all had two things in common; upscale and expensive. I remember pointing out the price tag to her, and her response was, “You can afford it. I am allergic to broke guys, they give me hives.”

I did my best to be a gentleman and to respect her on our dates. I made no moves, after all she was my subordinate and dating her was ‘illegal’ according to our company’s code of ethics. On one such date we sat listening to jazz music in the corner of a dimly lit hotel parlor, when she whispered in my ear, “I am not wearing any panties, do you want to confirm?”

Then she put my hand in her trousers to reveal she really, truly was not wearing panties.

I remember just looking at her in awe, and she met my gaze with the sweetest smile and not a care in the world about what I thought of the stunt she had just pulled. Fendi was a bad girl, she knew it, liked it that way, and gave no thoughts to anybody’s opinion of her. But society had taught me to marry a good girl, the laid back, cowered, wife material. And so Fendi, with her beauty and braze, unnerved me.

That evening, I took her to my apartement and had the best sex of my entire life. She was willing, playful, fit and adventurous. And she was not a one hit wonder, every time I was with Fendi it was memorable, it was fireworks. We were compatible, we made great friends, I loved being with her, I loved her. When she told me she wasn’t seeing any other men, I did not believe her.

She was my sexual napalm. I couldn’t get enough, I was hooked and addicted. And she supplied.

She pulled me in all directions. She teased me and kept me on my toes. I joined a fitness group to keep up with her. But make no mistake, she was sensible and intelligent. For all the three months she interned with me, no one in our office was any wiser to what we had going on. She was professional and did her job with all seriousness.

At the end of her internship, when she left for school, I was dejected. But she assured me she wanted to keep seeing me. So we continued our relationship. I visited her in school multiple times, and she returned the favor by coming to visit me some weekends.

It was on her visits to me that what I term ‘cracks’ began to show. She wasn’t one for household chores. She flatly refused to wash my clothes or clean my house. 

“Hire somebody to clean your house. And buy a washing machine, I am too cute to let detergent wrinkle my hands,” Were her words anytime I brought house cleaning and laundry up. It got to a time, she would call to make sure my apartment was cleaned and my laundry was done before she would pay me a visit. But Fendi could cook up a storm and I loved eating her meals.

About a year and half into our relationship, my older sister visited me oneday and met Fendi. My sister observed Fendi’s well manicured nails and asked, “With these nails, can you make fufuo and palm nut soup for my brother?”

As soon as that question left my sister’s lips, I knew trouble was about to follow.

Fendi said, “If your expectation of wifely duties is to cook, then your brother need not marry. Tell him to hire a chef. I will be too busy being cute.”

My sister told my mother, and the two of them went on a crusade to make me leave my “sassy little bitch.”

I met Gene at my aunt’s funeral. She was the daughter of one of my mother’s friends. Well educated and modest, she caught my eye. She was shy and soft spoken, she had none of Fendi’s fire. Gene is the Ghanain description of wife material, the kind of good girl fit to be married. I began seeing her behind Fendi’s back. I justified my actions by telling myself Fendi was most likely cheating anyway.

In no time I was actively comparing the two women. Fendi came from school with expectations and demands. Gene gave and gave. Gene cooked, cleaned and waited on me. She hardly ever complained, even when I spent the night away from home, she didn’t ask any questions.

Fendi took me dancing, sampling new restaurants and would top it off with the most explosive under-cover- thunder of my life.

In the end, I married Gene. She was a safe choice. When I sat Fendi down to tell her my decision, she said, with tears streaming down her face, “You are making the worst mistake of your life.”

She was right. I did marry a good girl. But that good girl wasn’t mine to marry.  A year into the marriage, she bores me. Gene is a good woman, but not the one for me. Fendi is, or should I say Fendi was?

I reached out to Fendi via text, and told her she was right. I made a mistake, and I wanted to retrace my steps. Her text back to me said, “I like to be kissed before I get fucked!”

And she blocked me, on her phone and on social media.

They say time will make me forget her. But for now I am tormented! I did marry a good girl, and I regret it! I want my bad girl back!

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