This Sporting Life

So Moby Dick has been the source of a couple of unexpected and pretty mind-blowing adventures. But overall, the past few months have been decidedly lacklustre, filled with disappointment and timewasters. In fact the whole challenge of finding interesting people to have fun and hang out with is becoming more of a chore than an enjoyable pastime and I’m keen to hang up my keyboard and focus on something less emotionally draining.

But it turns out that when stuck in bed recovering from flu, the lure of online chatting is too much to resist and I’m soon back on the horse, surfing yet another wave of interest. I had briefly reactivated an old account on a regular dating site and started talking to a few prospective guys, one of whom was just my type and extremely promising. At 53 years old, he still plays football and has a stocky, muscly, tattooed physique along with a wicked sense of humour and a devious sexual imagination.

He tells me in great detail how he views women’s bodies as playgrounds to be explored and I offer to let him delve into my many hillocks and ravines any time he wants. I am regaining my cheekiness and am determined not to fall into the trap of taking any of the game seriously in any way again after The Heartbreak Kid. This guy wants to use me as a plaything and the whole scenario seems like it could be a lot of fun.

We meet at a pub near me one sunny afternoon on his way back from a footy match. There is immediate chemistry as we hug, laugh, and launch into taking the piss out of each other. I’m a bit put off by his bizarre, patchwork, age-inappropriate jeans, but find that if I focus above the waist, that I quite like him. We have plenty in common and chat comfortably, even sticking around to have something to eat together. When he goes to find a menu, he’s quite taken by the daily special which seems particularly serendipitous: A Trio of Native Sausages.

Proud of his gentlemanly manners, he walks me to my car. It’s getting dark and we’re in a quiet side street as he backs me against the car and starts snogging me and feeling me up. Our online chatting has been based on his dominance and he had instructed me not to wear knickers during our meeting. While I don’t know him, I agree to go along with the suggestion, figuring ‘in for a penny in for a pound’. Or as The Husband says… ‘in for a pounding’.

The footy player has me up against the car and is putting his hand up my dress to check on my underwear status as a couple walks past and car drives slowly up the road looking for a parking space. I’m really not comfortable with exhibitionism and I extricate myself from him to get into my car. He leans in to kiss me and makes one more awkward lunge at my crotch before I drive away.

In my experience, there’s a fine line between being a dom and being a dick. Often, resorting to dom talk is a tactic to disguise a person’s inability to communicate or connect on other levels, and can be a geeky, contrived act. I have a small inkling of doubt as I leave this guy, suspecting that his display of confidence and sexual inventiveness will not stand up to scrutiny. It’s an incredibly difficult balance to achieve a sense of dominance with any authenticity, particularly as the best subs are often the most self-assured and strong characters in the ways that they approach and deal with their everyday life. The key lies in having the confidence to respect and remain unintimidated by such strength, while avoiding the pitfalls of arrogance.

For me, humour is a huge part of it. It might sound bizarre, but the ability not to take it all too seriously adds to the experience, avoiding the contrived clichés of cheesy roleplay. The messaging with this guy has been fun so far, but after our meeting there are a few jokey comments that veer towards mean and I can’t help feeling that he’s a bit intimidated by me. He seems the kind of guy who’s used to having the upper hand with simpering younger women.

One of the many issues of dating single guys in their 40s and 50s is availability. My house is way too busy for me to host, but while my kids still live at home, they’re all grown up and do their own thing. Most of the people I’m meeting at the moment seem to have younger kids and shared parenting responsibilities so it takes a while to match up schedules. There’s a considerable delay with the footy player, complicated by two additional delays – a migraine (his) and a period (mine).

The overall messaging had been incredibly hot, with plenty of talk about him using all of my holes. But the big build up is combined with gaps in communication, and my enthusiasm is waning as I drive the considerable distance to my date. While I had made an effort, wearing my favourite fuck-dress, he greets me at the front door in his vest and shorts looking like he’s just woken up. In the kitchen, he pours me wine into a beer glass and ushers me straight into the bedroom – smooth.

We sit on the bed chatting and again, I get a faint whiff of arrogance as he boasts about his knowledge and skills. But I’ve made the trip and quickly relax into it as he focuses his attention on my pussy. His dick is reassuringly thick and hard as we fool around and his muscly firm thighs are impressive as he straddles me. But then just as he lifts my legs in the air and starts to enter me, he goes soft…

This is becoming a theme, and I’m developing a complex!

I’m on my back and he’s on his knees, leaning over me. He shouts [yes, shouts] that something’s wrong. He looks so shocked and mortified that I’m anxious for a brief moment, not knowing where his anger is heading. He rolls over onto his side holding his head in his hands and stating the age old ‘this never happens’ [yeah, right]. I’ve been through this scenario a few times now and am far less surprised and put out than he is, knowing that if we chill out a bit together that we could be fucking like crazy in just a short time. But he seems immune to my reassurances and I offer to leave. He asks me to stay and we lie naked, joking, exploring each other’s tattoos, and finishing our drinks. It’s pleasant and comfortable, and by the time I realise that it’s time for me to head home, he’s hard again and I figure I’ll give him a farewell blowey. It’s effective and he cums in my mouth while straddled over my face.

As I get ready to leave, he apologises profusely for his performance issues continuing to be hideously embarrassed. I on the other hand, reassure him that I have had a good time and honestly think that we have pretty promising potential. I get in to my car and we agree to talk again soon. But I never hear from him again. No ‘hope you got home ok’, or ‘thanks for coming all that way’, or ‘I really enjoyed your company’. Of course, I toy with the idea of making the first move, but then again, if his ego is so fragile that he can’t stretch to a polite message then I’m not going play the counsellor yet again.


Easter Parade

We’ve known each other for over a quarter of a century and still love each other madly. But it hasn’t always been plain sailing, and many of our major problems and breakthroughs have been about working through our complex sexual issues, both individually and together. Completely by chance, Easter seems to have played a major role in this over the years. It’s nothing to do with religion, bunnies or chocolate, it’s just that the pressures of balancing parenting, careers and domestic life often came to a head or got resolved over the long weekend. And coincidentally, this year was no exception.

We had delayed our break for a few days while he was working, and booked ourselves a hotel for a dirty weekend. We needed to get away, reconnect and spend some time looking after each other. But was only after we’d booked it that we realised it was yet another Easter milestone.

The sex, drugs and rock and roll are all organised when The Husband drops a comment about a potential bull that I’d been talking to. It hadn’t been in the original plan and the dude in question had gone quiet, but it does bring to mind Moby Dick and his remarkable penis.

I had been back to fuck him once more since our first intense session.  Without the initial adrenalin, the second time was a bit samey, although he still displayed an impressive degree of enthusiasm and energy. And it soon became apparent why… he was only 34 years old and had lied about his age. No wonder he had so much stamina! He had managed to pull it off because of the grey in his hair and by growing his beard out whenever he met me. While I was really put out by the lie, he did challenge my basic assumptions about younger guys. I had thought that dudes under 40 would lack sexual confidence and be judgemental about my ageing wobbly bits. Apparently he had tried to contact me early on in my quest and I had turned him down straight away based on his age. His perseverance showed me how wrong I could be.

I send him a message asking if he would be interested in fucking me in front of The Husband and he responds enthusiastically. He doesn’t fit many of the key bull characteristics in terms of making a show of humiliating The Husband. But from my perspective, he’s still a promising prospect – a nice guy with a fit body, a huge rock hard cock, and plenty of staying power.

When the day arrives, true to form, I am coming down with a terrible cold. I’m achy with a sore throat and not feeling in the least bit sexy. If I hadn’t already paid for the hotel I would definitely be pulling out. And to top it all, I’ve developed a complex about the risk of bleeding during sex. I’ve been for the whole sexual health check-up and started taking the contraceptive pill both as extra protection and to regulate my periods through peri-menopause. Because of my age and hormonal changes, the bleeding isn’t unusual and the doctor reckons it will calm down over the next couple of months. It’s an ongoing process to get to the bottom of it and sort out what works best for me. But the issue is especially problematic with this guy because of his size and vigour, and it’s making me super self-conscious, affecting my enjoyment.

But being the champ I am, I load up on codeine cold medication, buy a bottle of whiskey, and invest in a luscious black plush blanket to disguise any potential mess. The Husband helps me prepare with an anal douche and get into my favourite pinup lingerie, and soon enough I start to feel a bit sexier, if a little blurry around the edges.

I thought he was going to message when he arrives, so the knock on the door startles me. He takes off his jacket and I get him to sit on the side of the bed next to me while The Husband sees to the drinks. I sense that he’s a little nervous and reassure him as he tells me it’s his first time. I completely take control and start to snog and feel him up. He’s soon settled and back to his horny self, telling me how sexy I look. I help him undress and as he lies back on the bed, I sense The Husband walk round to the other side of the bed to get a good look at me with a magnificent cock in my mouth.

He starts fucking me on my back and I can tell that he’s trying to ignore the audience. He rolls me over so I’m directly facing The Husband who is sitting on a sofa across the room. We make eye contact as I am being fucked hard from behind by a younger man, and it’s extremely hot. He looks at me with a blissed out, happy expression full of admiration. And as Moby Dick unexpectedly slams his cock into my arse, my expression is pretty shocked and pleasurable too.

We’re going at it impressively for ages before he cums for the first time and we collapse in a sweaty heap. Clearly he’s starting to feel a little more comfortable with the situation as we both fall asleep for a short time spooning. The Husband describes it as ‘very sweet’. After a reviving power nap, he starts to get frisky again, still avoiding eye contact with the audience but ravaging me as enthusiastically as ever. The whole event is slightly blurry for me due to the heady mix of my impending flu, adrenalin, alcohol and cold medication, but it was thoroughly enjoyable, with him taking control and doing all the work throughout. By the time he cums a second time, I am tired, quite relieved, and desperate to take a piss. I quickly get up, indicating to The Husband to follow me into the bathroom where he licks my pussy clean.

Our guest is suitably appreciative and heads off into the night after a shower and a reasonable degree of not-too-awkward small-talk. The remainder of the weekend is then spent in a blissed-out blur of love and affection until I finally succumb to the worst flu I’ve had in years.

That Awkward Moment

We live in a city. But it’s a relatively small city. And we know a lot of people.

With the amount of new friends I’m making, awkward encounters are becoming a reasonably regular occurrence. It’s a situation that’s further complicated by the fact that my early explorations into all this involved me making some impetuous and ill-considered moves on mutual acquaintances.

My early dalliance with a work colleague is a perfect example. While my work, family and social lives are reasonably compartmentalised, all clashed together on one potentially awkward evening. A mutual friend had invited Mad Max out to an event which The Husband and our kids were also attending! While I was uncomfortable, I was utterly amazed by how cool, calm and collected the men were. The Husband was charming and Mad Max equally un-phased. It was a triumph that could in some part be attributed to the fact that no-one in our circle of family and friends would have guessed in a million years that I would ever have had any kind of carnal dealings with the man in question.

Probably one of the most awkward encounters of my life happened on the train. I was with a friend who was visiting from overseas, and we were heading into the city for a day of sightseeing. Before I knew it, Rocky was sitting next to me.

Rocky had never been my type. He was an older guy who I had recruited as a bull for The Husband’s birthday celebrations. We’d had a pleasant enough time but he couldn’t get it up for more than a quick blow job.

And here he was, making polite conversation with me and my unknowing friend on the train. I managed to steer the conversation into safe, work-related territory. But as we neared the station, he mentioned getting together again, claiming that he’d been seeing a physiotherapist and nodding towards his crotch. It was excruciating. I put on my best poker face, said how nice that would be, and ushered my friend quickly through the station without any reference to the conversation at all.

The most personally confronting for me was the night that I came face to face with not one but two of the first fellas to knock back my advances. It had all started 6 months previously in my favourite pub, when I realised I wanted to snog the face off a mutual friend. It’s a pub that I usually go to with one or two friends, but this time we were all there, including The Husband. The mutual friend being there was no surprise, but I was still blown away by the fact that he, The Husband, and I were all stood at the bar having a completely regular conversation. The Husband even bought him a pint. And before long, everything was back to normal.

That is until Mad Max’s Brazilian bandmate walked in and started talking to me like we were long lost friends. A few months earlier, I had drunkenly flung myself at him at a party, proclaiming my newfound polyamorous status, and frightening the poor guy out of his wits.

While it started awkwardly, the night at the pub ended up being a positive and affirming experience. Being knocked back early on had been a massive blow to my fragile ego. But by that night, my confidence in myself and what I was doing had grown immeasurably. And I was looking particularly smoking hot. Where I had taken it as rejection, it was more apparent that they were scared and intimidated by such openness. Even though I was no longer interested in either of them, they were clearly interested in me. And it felt good.

The Heartbreak Kid

Well that took me by surprise… Instead of being a cold calculating cynic, I got my hopes up and got carried away with the excitement and romance of it all.

He was an artist with piercing blue eyes, a laid back attitude and strong hands. We had heaps in common, a similarly silly sense of humour and everything was lining up really well. He lived alone, not too far away, but not too close either. He thought I was gorgeous and I thought he was too.

The first time I met up with him, I was ridiculously nervous. It was different from the start, he was someone I actually would have gone out with in real life. While I had already told him that I wouldn’t be indulging in public displays of affection, we managed a sneaky snog in a dark corner of the beer garden. It took my breath away, and I was reeling with the possibilities. This could actually be the point at which I had met my regular ‘boyfriend’.

The Husband describes me as smitten. It’s a first for us and we talk it through on numerous walks with the dog, trying to process what was happening and being open about how we were going to deal with it.

He reminded me of a slightly younger and stupider version of The Husband. And I got caught up in romantic notions of days of decadence spent rolling around his bedroom.

But with hindsight, I really should have listened to my instinct rather than my loins… For the first half hour of our date, he didn’t ask anything about me. Instead, he poured his heart out about how his life had fallen apart after a recent family death and his marriage break up. For some bizarre hormonal reason, I took this as openness and honesty rather than the self-centred vulnerability that it really was.

His lack of confidence and conviction became apparent when he didn’t try and shag me on the first or second date. Despite the incredibly hot snogging, he claimed he wanted to take it slow. It wasn’t a position that matched up with the online sex dating profile of his bulging underwear, or the impressive dick pics he sent through with increasing regularity.

And most significantly, he hadn’t played the field in the 9 months since the breakup of his marraige. By his own admission he was an emotional wreck, but what can I say, I fancied him.

I even suggested he go away, get loads of shagging out of his system and come back to me once he’d realised what a good match I was.

I even put the rest of my online friends on hold, letting them know that I was out of action. And all before we’d even touched each other’s bits.

Everything was leading up to a public holiday, where all of our respective responsibilities were cleared for a whole day of decadence when we planned to hang out, drink, smoke, and fuck each other’s brains out. I was super-excited, and he appeared to be too.

It all started looking a bit shaky when he cancelled a drink date a few days earlier. He was looking after a friend who was having a crisis. Obviously, I was understanding and supportive, and everything was all still on for the public holiday.

But his messaging diminished dramatically and he started to sound more depressed and chaotic, and by the day before, I had a feeling he was having second thoughts. Sure enough, he messaged me on the morning to say he needed to speak to me. Instead, we communicated by text, and he told me he had to ‘bail on us completely’, ‘it just wasn’t sitting right’, and he was ‘going through some shit’.

Basically, he had chickened out. It’s a real risk when dealing with the complicated world of people’s complex issues, baggage and emotions. But what got to me was how I let this one get to me. I was absolutely gutted. And absolutely floored by how gutted I felt.

I shared what had happened with a couple of more experienced online friends, who both pointed out the futility of getting carried away with romanticism – it was a rooky mistake which I was all too aware of.

The Husband was wonderful. He had been understandably jealous over this one. But he understood how much the dumping burned me and was particularly kind and patient, completely managing to supress any smugness and relief he may have been feeling!

In fact, he pointed out the dude’s twattishness, and predicted his return. And sure enough, I received a message within two weeks. I learned my lesson and ignored him.

Wednesday Night Fever

His profile name is Tony, he speaks Italian, is a pizza chef and has the whole swarthy, chest hair and gold jewellery look going on – all very Tony Manero from Saturday Night Fever.

Despite the awkward ending to our first meeting, we arrange for me to visit his flat the following week for pizza, wine, and rampant sex. The contact isn’t very regular in the intermediate time, but he’s particularly enthusiastic with protestations about how gorgeous I am, how he can’t wait to kiss my body all over, and how I am his perfect woman. It’s all a bit overboard and I honestly can’t work out if he’s spinning me all these lines for my benefit or for his.

By the time that our date comes around, the degree of cheesiness and soppiness is starting to make me doubt my decision. While he is talking about kissing ‘his gorgeous lady’, I’m checking up on practicalities, asking him to get condoms and telling him where to meet me. Sharing the doubts with The Husband, we’re both agreed that the whole affectionate scenario is worth a try, especially with a man with such a spectacular looking penis.

I message him when I reach his apartment block and he comes down to meet me. It’s in a pretty skanky but convenient part of town. But his flat is clean and tidy and even though it’s still daylight outside, he’s put candles everywhere in a cute romantic gesture. I put my bag down and he hands me a drink. We’re still both holding our glasses as we kiss, passionately and hungrily. I come up for air and suggest that we sit down, but it doesn’t take long before we’re at it again. Overall, we probably manage a total of 5 minutes polite conversation in between snogging each other’s faces off.

He deftly removes my knickers while we’re sitting on the sofa, and he quickly buries his face between my legs. I’m not even sure that anyone has eaten my pussy more ravenously ever. And his raw enthusiasm is proving quite effective. It’s more confident, skilled and eager than the desperate soft cock I was worried about. In fact, I’m enjoying myself so much that I haven’t even got my hands on it yet.

We head to the bedroom pulling our clothes off. I sit on the side of the bed while he stands over me and I help him out of his trousers and take his cock in my mouth.  He lies down and tries to push my head down to take it deeper down my throat, but it’s not even possible. My eyes are watering.

We snog and roll about some more, grabbing each other’s bits with increasing urgency. I ask him to get a condom, and sit impatiently while he completes the tricky task of fitting it on. I’m on my back when he enters me the first time. We start softly but it doesn’t take long until we’re thrashing around, my arms behind my head pushing back against the headboard, his hands grabbing at my hair. He is incredibly energetic, kneeling up to get a better angle and fucking me hard and deep. It’s breathtaking.

Before I know it, I’m on my hands and knees at the end of the bed and he’s standing up fucking me from behind with his fingers in my arse. Without notice, he grabs a vibrator from nowhere and starts fucking both my holes – I’m not complaining.

It’s rough and intense and I soon need a break, getting up to go to the bathroom. And probably less surprising this time around, there’s bleeding again. I’m a mess of blood and sweat and need a minute to sort myself out. But he’s right there at the doorway, undeterred and keen to keep going. He bends me over the washbasin to fuck me from behind. I can see my face in the mirror, smeared with mascara, framed with sweaty, ravaged hair. We’re watching each other’s faces in the mirror and it’s spectacularly hot. I’m pretty much howling by this time and he’s about to cum: “have you had enough yet? I can tell you haven’t… I can see it in your face”.

By the time he explodes and pulls out of me, I’m a weakened mess and collapse onto the toilet to catch my breath. I’m dizzy with the intensity and physicality of it all. And next thing I know, I wake up on the floor of a virtual stranger’s flat, naked, covered in blood and spunk. While this has been up there with the most exciting sexual experiences of my life, this is definitely not my proudest moment. I’m embarrassed and scared in equal measures, ashamed for putting myself in such a ridiculously unsafe position.

He however, is lovely. I’ve passed out for a couple of minutes, and he’s gently waking me, asking me if I’m alright. He’s calm in a reassuring way, not a creepy, ‘this was his plan all along’ way. And he takes me into the air-conditioned room, gets me a drink of water, checks if I’ve eaten. I’m shaken, disorientated and feeling vulnerable, quickly grabbing my clothes. I’ve never passed out sober before and just want my husband and my home.

We still had a couple of hours to go until The Husband was going to pick me up on his way home from work, but I just want to order a cab and head home to my own bath and bed. The guy tries to persuade me to stay so he can make sure I’m ok, but walks me to the cab with instructions to let him know how I am later on.

I still feel dizzy and weak by the time I get home, but think that’s the shock rather than the sudden drop in blood pressure that caused me to pass out in the first place. The Husband is suitably concerned and attentive but can’t contain his enormous excitement, spending an inordinate amount of time kissing my battered arse and cunt better as I relax with a gin and tonic. It was definitely yet another surprising episode in a series of unique adventures.

Moby Dick

Well that was quite probably one of the most carnal, primal, and intense sexual experiences I have ever had. And it came as quite a surprise.

It all started with an unsolicited dick pic to the message app. No initial contact through the dating site, no flirty preamble, just a very impressive dick pic. As ever, timing is everything, and he stands out during a particularly dull phase of contacts from married men.

The fact that he’s single and lives alone is a big winner. I’m sick of all the messing around lately and am pretty keen to get down to it again. From Egypt and Italy, he’s got an exotic look and a friendly smile. And even though his written English isn’t all that great, there’s a cute mix of cheekiness, politeness and adoration that comes through in his messages. And to top it all, he loves chubby birds and cooks pizza for a living.

I’ve worked out that I prefer my adventures midweek and in the afternoon and early evening, so that I can get home with enough energy to enjoy some time with The Husband. And it just so happens that it’s exactly the type of arrangement that suits the needs of a highly sexed pizza chef, working long and unsociable hours.

We’ve only been talking for a few days when I agree to meet him for a quick drink. I’m not madly excited at the prospect, but keen to get back in the game after a month off. There’s an annoying bit of delayed miscommunication over the time and venue for our first meeting and I’m waiting for him wine in hand at a quiet bar when he walks in and spots me immediately. I feel a distinct moment of disappointment when he turns out to be shorter and slighter than I’d expected. But he’s does have a nice smile, seems sweet, and showers me with compliments.

Cheesy lines about my beautiful eyes don’t usually do it for me. The cynic in me immediately puts up barriers. But then again, maybe a bit of adoration might be quite enjoyable, even if it’s superficial game playing. And to be honest, it really is his amazing cock that’s holding my attention. So no matter how ludicrous dick pics are, his one has clearly had an effect on me.

We’re both a bit nervous and uncomfortable, but have a couple of drinks talking about travel, work and eventually, boundaries and expectations. Where he seems to want the whole affectionate ‘girlfriend experience’, I explain the need to be discrete in public. He’s sitting close to me and touching my hand, and despite what I’ve said, I impulsively lean in to kiss him, figuring that it would make my mind up on whether to see him again.

It’s good. But honestly, when will I learn?! While I’ve already checked out that there’s no-one I know in the bar, we bump into my next door neighbour on the way out of the door. He discretely walks around the corner to wait for me, as the woman sat across from us when we kissed greets my neighbour too. I really do have to get a grip and stop snogging randoms in public.


We are not alone. There are a multitude of horny couples out there, all with their own unique arrangements and subtle variations of perversity.

At this stage in my adventures though, the idea of engaging with a couple seems daunting and unnecessarily complicated. I love to be the centre of attention and want someone else to add an extra element to my relationship. The thought of playing a supporting role in someone else’s scenario just doesn’t appeal. And besides, the logistics are tricky. My house is way too busy to host guests. Equally, I wouldn’t be particularly comfortable going into someone else’s family home for a quick root in the marital bed.

But my interest is piqued when I connect with my first married man in an open relationship. I’m on a voyage of discovery and fascinated by how these arrangements work for other people in all their forms. He’s one of the 2 guys I chat with intermittently while I’m overseas. After an uncharacteristically long build-up, I feel that I should at least meet him for a drink even though I don’t find him particularly attractive or scintillating.

He’s bearded and bald-headed, tall and well turned out, with a cheeky hint of hairy chest popping out of the top of his shirt. He’s polite and pleasant enough but I really am struggling to detect much of a personality or sense of humour. I’m not even inspired enough to give him a name.

If I’m honest, the main reason I’m there is curiosity. That and the wine. And it’s a fascinating tale indeed. His wife has a couple of regular playmates who she calls upon to roger her hard for hours at a time. Meanwhile, he spends the time tinkering around with his caravan waiting for the all-clear to return to the house and pound her some more. I always suspected the seedy underbelly of filth of the grey nomad brigade.

While it sounds like a fun arrangement, he was keen to get some action himself. And I expect that she was encouraging him to do so too. But while it’s relatively easy for a middle-aged woman to find a string of NSA fuckbuddies, it’s far more tricky for ageing blokes.  Apparently, women of a certain age tend to be more interested in actual relationships and he’s also inundated with contacts from younger women looking for a sugar-daddy. He’s nice enough, but I can’t help thinking that his lack of luck with online hook-ups isn’t entirely unconnected to his apparent lack of personality.

We’d already invested quite a bit of time into developing some kind of rapport and by the time we’d met, I didn’t have the heart to dump him. I think I felt sorry for him and went along with it as a pity shag. It was a lesson that I have now well and truly learned.

He booked a hotel room for a pre-arranged night and suggested a bar to meet and have a few drinks first. I really wasn’t sure, and with hindsight, I really should have cancelled. I even tentatively suggested it, explaining that the lack of excitement, build-up and expressed enthusiasm on his part was proving to be a buzzkill for me.

Having a drink was easy enough, but he seemed nervous, and keen to drink as much as possible to build up his dutch courage – not the most attractive behaviour when you’re hoping to be swept off your feet for a night of hot passion. Back at the hotel, he’d thought ahead and brought along plenty of gin and tonic to keep me well oiled. When I quizzed him about his wife, he explained that they’d got a deal on the hotel for 2 nights and she was swapping with her fella for the night after. A very civilised arrangement, if you ask me.

As we started snogging and groping on the bed, he actually got up to turn the light off, get undressed and fold his clothes. This was not passionate at all. The foreplay was pretty lacking too, just straight down do it in good old missionary position. I couldn’t even make eye contact and was purely thinking of the aftermath when The Husband picked me up, enjoying being pounded hard for the sake of it.

The awkwardness continued when he took a break and I headed to the bathroom to find out that I was bleeding, all over the clean white hotel room sheets. I know that a bit of blood is only to be expected when you’re swapping bodily fluids, but I can’t help but be mortified and self-conscious when it happens.  Luckily, it doesn’t seem to phaze him and we carry on. He finishes with a sweaty, grunty, energetic flourish.

The Husband is outside waiting for me with a big, excitable grin. I don’t think I’ve ever been so pleased to see him, and our night far outweighs any of the awkwardness of the preceding encounter.

Convinced that neither of us would be madly keen on hooking up again, I put the episode behind me and don’t expect to hear from him again. That is until he messages me to inform me that he is dumping me….“I’ve been thinking about our encounter last week and as much as I enjoy your company the intimacy didn’t really work for me and therefore I don’t think we will catch up again”.

No shit, Sherlock!