The other woman has a bad reputation. She’s the one that sneaks in at night and steals the dedicated, loving boyfriend. That’s what you think, right? Big, fake breasts and dirty, little panties. You find her fake blonde hairs on the collar of his jacket. He smells of her perfume when he walks in late at night.

You may call her a tramp. A whore. A home-wrecker. But you, yes you, could easily be that woman. I was. So sit up and read up.

It started my sophomore year in college. That was the year I studied in the second-floor lounge of my substance-free dorm. Living in that dorm did something to my head. It did something to all of us. We just replaced the normal binge drinking in our rooms with heavy flirting and hardcore lies.

He walked into the study lounge one afternoon with his girlfriend. Though he was just a freshman, they’d been dating for three years – high school sweethearts. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a deep, raspy voice. I was done for.

After that day, I did all of my studying in that room, hoping to see him there. Instead of sweats and T-shirts, I wore jeans and the tops that made my breasts seem legendary. I sat at the corner desk and fantasized about us pushing all the books off the table and getting busy while his girlfriend was down the hall.

Of course, I knew it was wrong. I knew I’d become that girl, the one that sneaks in at night and runs off with another girl’s lover. It wasn’t intentional. I thought it was nothing more than a little harmless flirting.

When she’d come with him, we wouldn’t talk. Instead, as he leaned over to kiss her, he’d open his eyes and give me this look, as if to say, “Just see how I want you. It’s just that she’s here; she’s what I’m stuck with. I’d rather be kissing you right now.”

Eventually, we all started hanging out, grabbing drinks after tear-inducing exams. I started dating one of his friends, and I could see the jealousy welling up in him. I couldn’t stop it, even if I’d tried.

At the end of that year, as we were all packing up and moving out for the summer, I slipped him my phone number.  He called that night. Twenty minutes of recounting our travels turned into night after night of talking into the phone.

It was innocent at first, and then it became much more involved. He’d ask what I liked about him, and then he’d whisper into the phone all the slightly sweet, but very dirty, deeds he wanted to do to me. It was more than appealing: it was addicting.

The summer passed, and we talked every night. We emailed when we couldn’t talk for long and traded sexual desires via instant messages.

When my junior year of college started, I felt, somehow, sexually liberated. He was still dating her, so I knew there was no real way to break the bond. He’d stop by my apartment late into the night to lay next to me and talk about what we could be doing right then. But I’d grown brazen; I told him he couldn’t have anything until he was single and pushed him out the door, leaving him awestruck on the steps.

That was also the year I learned to date…or, rather, I learned to break hearts. I’d start dating someone, it’d last for a few weeks, a few months at most, and then I’d ask him into my room to give him the bad news. “I just don’t feel that way about you anymore. I’d rather be single.”

All the while, we talked. I was parading my conquests in front of him like a sadistic show.

I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but we eventually kissed. He had me over to his amazing little uptown apartment and poured me glasses of wine.

Of course, I knew it was wrong. I was breaking the cardinal rule of women. I was stealing a man from his tried and true lover. But it didn’t follow in storybook style. He stayed with her and I kept dating.

Another year passed, and I found myself answering his phone call one night. We arranged to have dinner, and he finally confessed that he’d left his girlfriend. After we finished off the bottle of wine, we slipped upstairs to consummate the love affair we’d been having for more than two years.

But then the strangest thing happened. I didn’t want him anymore. I got up and walked out the door to my car and never looked back. It was as if a switch went off in my head and I was over it, all of it.

Maybe it was just the conquest. Maybe it was the desire to break him the way he’d broken me over the years. Maybe I’d just had enough. It was probably nothing more than the fact that the sex was incredibly disappointing. For all his talk, he was no better in bed than a self-indulgent teenager: no rhythm, no skill.

Two years later, he still calls me from Texas, begging me to come visit, to start seeing him seriously. I just laugh and tell him, “Not a chance in hell.”

And I’d bet that almost every woman has a similar story, a tawdry little tale about how she dated that oh-so-unavailable man. Maybe it’s the risk, maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline you get when flirting with a taken man, or maybe it’s just a simple matter of attraction that you can’t fight. No matter how it happens, it’s oddly empowering. So think back, maybe way back, and remember (even if just for second) how good it felt when you left him there – the man you weren’t supposed to have.