All Quiet on the Western Front

I’m taking two weeks out. I’m unwell and not feeling in the least bit sexy.

It’s been a busy, exciting and adrenalin-fuelled few weeks so it’s a good opportunity to rest and recuperate. It gives me a chance to reflect, consolidate what I’ve learned so far, and work out if I want to continue, and what I want to do next.

That’s when I start writing it all down.

My focus on personality and connection means I’ve invested a lot of time and energy into building the right ‘relationships’, fine-tuning the dynamic and working out the practicalities. And then there’s my focus on The Husband too.

So far, the effects on our marriage are even better than either of us could have hoped for. The prospect of me looking outside our relationship has made us face up to our problems, talk through our baggage, and consider how we can look after each other’s needs. Even if we had decided to stay monogamous, it’s forced us to have those conversations, and ultimately helped us to reconnect. And of course, there’s the sex. I’ve been complaining for years about not getting enough, and now we’re fucking twice before breakfast and barely leaving the bedroom on weekends.

It’s also given me a fun new interest, reinvigorated my social life and dragged me out of a rut, providing me with whole new opportunities for discovery.

Identifying and building the friendship with the right people is worth the extra effort. But it’s time-consuming. And it can be frustrating and demoralising, especially considering the fruits of my labour so far: one knockback, a few fumbles, and a grand total of two mildly satisfying episodes of actual penetrative sex.

I’m just relieved that I have a partner and am doing it as a hobby. I can’t begin to imagine how hideous the process would be if I were a 40-something single woman with a ticking body clock, desperate for a baby, and trying to find someone even vaguely suitable as husband and father material.

Although I’m not up for meeting anyone right now, I miss the Tamagotchi effect and realise that I’m addicted to the search, flirting and anticipation. Bored, I add my profile to a different dating site, one known for people explicitly looking for affairs and casual sex. It provides a whole new phase of distraction. Within minutes, I’m bombarded with messages and winks, so many that it takes me a few days to sift through, reply, and manage the new conversations on the message app.

The responses range from people interested in discrete daytime liaisons and specific BDSM scenarios to hooking up there and then for a quick shag, dirty messaging or camera sex. And then there’s my favourites, the single, independent ones who want a sexual relationship without the complications of an actual relationship.

The site is notorious for infidelity and I soon realise the need to clarify and expand on my preferences. I respond to one guy’s message explaining that I’m not interested in cheating husbands. He berates me with a tirade of abuse, accusing me of double standards and of posting a false profile. Clearly, the fact that I am happily married and have the freedom to play honestly and openly is beyond the comprehension of many.

The ones who pique my interest are invited to the message app. There’s also confusion when I ask for face photos. Instead, I’m bombarded with pics of dicks of all shapes, sizes and hues. I think it’s pretty straightforward that you need to get an idea of what someone looks like to know if you might fancy them. But apparently not.

Once I’ve connected with them, I cut to the chase and give them the full lowdown:

“Looking for a regular FWB arrangement with someone I get on with. Someone with their own place because mine is always busy. My turn-offs are sexist, racist, homophobic attitudes. My turn-ons are someone who makes me feel adored, dirty, & can make me laugh. I’m a strong independent woman in my everyday life so I like someone who can take control of me (not in any spanky kind of way, just confident & strong). Basically I want to go out, drink wine, have fun, have filthy pornstar sex, then go home feeling ravaged, tell my husband about it and start all over again”.

If they’ve indicated an interest in couples or kinkiness that’s caught my eye, then I also add The Husband dynamic:

“Involving my husband is also an option. He’s into the whole cuckold fetish, likes to be made to watch, allowed to help & clean up etc. I just like the 2 cocks at once possibilities. We work out a way to compromise”.

I’m developing more of an idea of what I’m looking for and how to express it. Clarifying early on works well – they’re either scared off or utterly into it.


Cock Lock and Two Smoking Barrels

There’s a busy flurry of activity with the specialist site and I’m averaging one prospective date and one sexual encounter a week at this point. I’m in the intense discovery stage and expecting it to calm down to monthly encounters eventually. Right now though, I know there are a couple of weeks where I won’t be able to get up to anything, so I line up a fun-filled Friday night last fling for a while.

The Husband has invested in a cock cage. We bought the most aesthetically pleasing one we could afford – they can cost a fortune. But it’s still an hilarious and ludicrous looking contraption. It’s a complex piece of engineering involving a clear plastic cover for his cock connected to a ring around his bollocks. There’s just enough room to breathe and pee, but not enough room for him to comfortably get a full erection. And absolutely no chance of masturbation. It takes him a while to adjust and fit it properly but he’s determined and enthusiastic. It has the desired effect of restricting and emasculating him, and he loves the total loss of external sensation. It’s secured with a tiny padlock and I have the keys. I wear one on a necklace which makes a delightful tinkling sound, and I keep it on whenever I’m out with other men.

I’ve become obsessed by the thought of Rocky’s enormous cock and need to find out if it lives up to his promise. I’ve also arranged to meet a girlfriend later on for a few drinks at our favourite pub, and the workmate with the hairy chest has let me know he’ll be out tonight too. All of my real life encounters so far have brought to mind some cheesy 80s film title. The workmate is Australian, determined, and a lone wolf. So in keeping with the theme, we name him Mad Max.

I arrange to meet Rocky in a nondescript pub between my suburb and his. He’s been pretty evasive about me coming over to his and so after the requisite small talk, I ask him who he lives with. Surprise, surprise – he’s married. He tells me how his wife hasn’t been able to have sex for seven long years and is aware that he gets his kicks elsewhere. I really should have spotted it earlier but hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself. I don’t know how to take it and need time to process the information. But the spectre of the ginormous cock is hanging over me.

He gives me a lift into town and we stop off in a quietish spot to make out like teenagers. It’s hilariously awkward as he leans the passenger seat back. And I’m absolutely terrified of anyone walking past – I really would be no good at dogging or outdoor sex! He’s been talking dirty to me the whole time he’s been driving, telling me what he’s been thinking about doing to me and what The Husband is going to see. By the time we park up, I’m already turned on and we snog hungrily. I’m eager to cut to the chase and quickly undo his jeans. It truly is a handful. But it’s slightly soft and not the rock hard mighty sword I’d been imagining. I know the conditions aren’t exactly conducive, but really? Again?!

After a bit of a pash and a fondle, it’s time for me to leave and I’m not convinced that he’s the right bull for the birthday scenario.

The pub is quiet when I arrive and I’ve just ordered my drink when Mad Max walks in. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the party. We’ve texted a couple of times and agreed to pick up where we left off at some point. It’s all pretty laid back and as more of our friends arrive, we play it completely straight and everything is as it usually is.

But when Mad Max offers to drive me home, we both know we’re going to his flat. We’re our usual chatty flirty selves as I investigate his home. Once he’s lit a couple of candles, we kiss and he starts to undress me. It’s confronting for me, I’m not comfortable with being seen naked! I trust him so I go along with it.

Or maybe I’m beginning to give fewer fucks – now that I’m getting more fucks.

We’re both relatively sober this time and he’s nowhere near as assertive and dominant as he was at the party. But it’s not unpleasant at all. And his hairiness is still incredibly sexy. We head naked to the bedroom. He eats my pussy for a while and I suck on his cock. He manages to find a condom and he fucks me slowly on my back before flipping me over and taking me from behind. I even ride his cock and am surprisingly close to orgasm. It’s fucking great. Again, it’s the utter dirtiness of the whole thing that is doing it for me.

Neither of us cum. It’s too late and we’re too tired. But we both enjoy ourselves enormously and we chat comfortably as he drives me home.

Getting home is always my favourite part of the whole episode. The Husband is waiting up, and he kisses my feet while I tell him the story before he licks me to orgasm. It’s only then that I unlock the cock lock, unleash the beast, and let him fuck me.

I have purposely stayed sober because we have special plans for the next day. We’ve put the whole day and night aside to make the most of my adventures, have filthy sex, and focus on each other. In one short evening I have got off with three different men and fucked two of them. The only downside I can see so far relates to perils of spending so much time snogging – the beard rash is outrageous!

Top Gun

Top Gun is intelligent, independent, and while he’s rebuilding himself after a difficult breakup, is refreshingly self-aware. We enjoy hanging out together and we’re definitely in ‘friends with benefits’ territory more than just ‘fuckbuddies’. The practicalities all stack up too. His house is clean and tidy, he has a nice bed, a housemate who is conveniently out a lot, good music, and plenty of wine. While he doesn’t understand The Husband’s angle on the situation, he’s suitably respectful and appreciative of it. And most importantly, he adores me.

So each time I’ve given up on him, he’s sent me a message that makes me smile and somehow manages to reel me in again. After a reasonable degree of flattery and assurance, I agree to drive over for a couple of hours one afternoon and ‘see what happens’. Besides, I left my favourite purple G-string there.

On the drive over there, I’m anything but enthusiastic. I am really wondering what the fuck I’m doing, heading to a strange guy’s house for an afternoon hook-up. Especially when I don’t even know if I’ll even get laid. He greets me with a hug and immediately picks up on my mood, noticing that I’m more nervous than last time. I highlight the lack of adrenalin and alcohol, and the whole bizarreness of the situation. We snog in the kitchen again and quickly head to the bedroom where he hands me my missing G-string. He ‘heads south’ again eagerly. His dick is really hard and I grip it really tight. I’m waiting enthusiastically as he puts on a condom, leans over me, and pushes inside me.

We have lift off!

He holds my legs back and fucks me fast, deep and hard. The reality of having another cock inside me is as exciting as I had hoped. I’m grinning like mad and getting off on the novelty and dirtiness of it all.

However, he doesn’t have much variation of speed or technique and we eventually take a break from all the frenzied exertion. And he won’t let me get on top because of a previous scary experience where his partner had almost broken his dick off. We discard the condom and suck on each other’s bits again. I’m keen not to waste the money-shot so encourage him to cum in my mouth. I’m sitting up and he’s kneeling over me when he shoots his load. There’s gallons of it, all in my mouth, over my face and tits and in my hair.

The potentially awkward post-coital interaction is reassuringly comfortable. We lie in each other’s arms and talk some more about how this is working out and what we both enjoy about it before I head home.

I smile as I walk in the front door and The Husband looks so excited that I’m worried he’ll have an aneurism – we’re not as young as we once were. He kisses my feet while I tell him all about it. When I get to the part about the money-shot, he kisses me softly all over my spunky mouth, face and tits.

I was never expecting to cum with Top Gun. That happens when I get home, and The Husband licks my cunt clean until I orgasm so hard that I think it’s me who’ll have the aneurism.


I am cultivating a particular scenario for The Husband’s birthday and book an hotel for two nights of sex, drugs and debauchery.

The scenario involves an older, confident and experienced bull who wants to ravage me in front of him. An effective ‘bull’ is the vital piece of the puzzle for a three person cuckold/wife experience. He’s not just there to fuck the wife in front of her husband, he needs to understand, play with, and enhance the psychological elements. Again, it’s an extremely delicate balance to achieve and I’m keen to get the dynamic as right as possible.

I want to find someone who I’m desperate to fuck and is equally desperate to fuck me. At the same time, he has to be into the whole effect on The Husband. He needs be focused on my pleasure while equally playing with making him feel sexually inadequate. Overplaying or underplaying any of the role could ruin the whole vibe in an instant. And then there’s the whole question of potential performance anxiety. It’s a big wishlist.

He is short, stocky, of Italian descent, and not too bright. We name him Rocky.

When we first meet, he’s much more smiley than I had expected. In his photos he’s quite stern looking and dressed in suit. But in reality, he’s a warm, friendly, casually dressed guy with cropped grey hair. We have a beer and chat freely. We talk about his work, Italy, football and baking – I really do have a versatile conversational repertoire.

But I’m getting impatient to get into the real discussion at hand, keen to find out if he has the sexual credentials I’m looking for. Again, the venue is all wrong. Too crowded, too close to both of our workplaces, and tables too close together to talk filth.

We relocate to a quiet corner in a more anonymous pub. We talk through practicalities and expectations. He touches my leg and leans in for a kiss. It feels dangerous and thrilling. I repeat the proposed scenario and he gets it immediately. This fella has definitely got the patter. There’s an effective combination of adoration and affection mixed with sexual dominance as he tells me what he’s going to do to me. I’m wet already.

He’s already told me about his formidable baking skills and shown me pictures of his creations. But the icing on the cake for me that day is the big reveal about the size of his penis. Picking up his beer glass he indicates that his cock would have difficulty fitting into its circumference.

I head home with plans to meet again, a big grin on my face, and a spring in my step.

Once Were Warriors

The straight-up sex sites are by far the most fruitful. There’s still room for misunderstanding and misinterpretation but on the whole, everyone is clear about what they’re after. In the first flurry of activity, the hottest episode involves a Kiwi guy living on the other side of the country.

I’m amazed by the amount of people who are turned on by endless sexting, picture swapping and online shenanegins. It doesn’t interest me – I want actual, hot, sweaty, sticky, real life, physical sex.

But who am I to judge what gets people off?!?

Seeing his picture marks my first online ‘phwoar’ moment. He looks in his early 50s, buff in a fit-looking rather than a body-conscious muscle way, and has traditional Maori tattoos across his chest and arms. Ink features heavily in my wishlist of physical attributes.

He says he travels to my city to work every few months and we start messaging. Our correspondence gets increasingly saucy and I’m looking forward to the next one. I love this part – the excitement, build-up and discovery. It becomes addictive.

I’m in the supermarket when I receive my first ever dick pic. The picture is impressive; the experience is hilarious. Penises are inherently funny looking things. He sends a series of himself in various stages of undress and erection, and I’m quite surprised at how turned on I am by them.

I reciprocate with some pictures taken by The Husband. The photo session is fun but also a little a little confronting. I’m feeling sexy, dressed in my basque, stockings, and heels – the whole Betty Page pinup look. There are some smoking hot pictures, but many many more that don’t make the cut. I’m horrified by the ways my arse sags in ways that I was completely unaware of, but quickly get to grips with the angles that suit me most.

The Husband takes me away for the weekend and the ongoing messaging accompanies us. He is invigorated by the fact that I’m wet for another man, and spends most of the time obsessed with my cunt. I have the most intense orgasms I’ve had in years. It’s working for both of us, physically and mentally.

I let the guy know how much I’ve cum thinking about him fucking me. This is working for him too. But obsessed by thinking of possible scenarios, I’m frustrated and impatient about meeting up in real life. And he is evasive.

After a week of frenzied, erotic messaging, he sends me a short video of him wanking and ejaculating. As soon as it’s over, he abruptly disappears.

Following a brief online exchange and no real-life contact, he’s gone as quickly as if he’d just shot his load on a sordid one night stand. It’s bizarre. I’m left feeling used, confused and disappointed.

This is a whole new adventure for me, and few weeks later I can’t help messaging him to get the lowdown. Unsurprisingly, he’s married.

Vowing not to launch into picture-swapping so quickly in the future, I’m learning more about my boundaries every day.

To Have and Have Not

This time, I arrange to meet Top Gun on my side of town, and I pick the venue carefully. It needs to be close and convenient as I have busy day. But also, I don’t want to risk bumping into anyone I know while I’m on a date.

We’re both heading towards the door of the pub from opposite directions when we spot each other, recognise each other immediately, and smile. We hug and it’s comfortable. He’s taller than me, not by much, but taller. He smells nice, clean and with a subtle hint of aftershave. He’s dressed casually in black and grey, and we look like regular mates who are meeting for a drink. All good signs.

It’s not the most ordinary of situations but the conversation flows as steadily as can be expected. I pick up on his nervousness and make a conscious effort to make him feel at ease. I’m a good listener and make people feel comfortable. I’m beginning to realise that the skills I use every day in my professional life are both transferrable and extremely helpful in the world of dating and casual sex.

I’ve only scheduled an hour and a half and the time goes quickly. We talk about hilariously unsuccessful dating stories, music and travel, and bond over our 90s raving experiences. He tells me again how gorgeous I am. And most importantly, he makes me laugh.

He has already printed out a copy of his work shifts for me to let me know when he’s available – obviously keen and with good organisational skills. As he walks me to my car, we make plans to have a drink over his side of town and ‘see what happens’. He seems nervous so I’m the one who suggests a kiss. It is tentative but promising.

It’s exciting, I can finally see this happening. The Husband describes me as purring when I get home and tell him all about it. For some reason, I feel more comfortable arranging a meeting for when The Husband is otherwise occupied. I just don’t like the idea of him anxiously waiting at home while I get off with some random guy from the internet.

The timing all lines up for the following Sunday when The Husband is at a football match. He is suitably excited and so is Top Gun. I want to be able to drink, and the arrangement involves some complex logistics, public transport and my trusty taxi app for the way home.

He meets me at the agreed bus stop, we hug, and I get into his car. Let’s just take a moment to digest that…. I get into his car. A stranger I know through a sex website, who I’ve only briefly met once before, we’re on the other side of town, I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t even know his real name. I’ve just spent two hours planning and negotiating public transport because drinking and driving is dangerous. And yet I get into a stranger’s car without thinking twice. Who am I?

We drop the car at his house, I text the address to The Husband, and we head to the pub. It’s a cute pub and it feels like a regular date. We talk freely and by the second beer I veer into political territory. It’s what I do, I can’t help myself. I try to avoid it, aware that nothing will turn me off more quickly and severely than a reactionary, racist, sexist, homophobic wanker. It’s such a big deal for me that I’ve since incorporated it into my early contacts with people to avoid any awkward passion-killing arguments.

My instincts were right, he still seems to be a decent human being and we head back to his house. We’re hitting it off as friends and we’ve been touching hands so far, but not much indication of sexual energy. He shows me his house, pours the wine, and we snog in the kitchen. It’s lush, I love snogging, and he’s a good kisser.

We drink more wine, fondle on the sofa, talk, and drink more wine. Too much wine. By the time we get to the bedroom it’s all a bit of a blur. He gets naked and I’m wearing my favourite new purple slip and matching G-string. It’s not my usual underwear of choice, preferring big comfortable knickers to buttcrack chafing, but I recognise the appeal in this situation. We snog lots and feel each other’s bits. It’s slightly awkward and I distinctly remember shuddering at the cheeziness when he exclaimed that he was ‘heading south’ as he went down on me. It was good though. I was completely getting off on the newness and naughtiness of it all. But penises are unpredictable and contrary things, especially when mixed with wine, middle age, and first night performance anxiety. He couldn’t stay hard and he couldn’t cum.

After a break and a final fling of fellatio, we called it a day and I dashed out to my cab. After a great start, it all ended awkwardly and I went home disappointed, grumpy and determined not to bother again.

Sliding Doors

My first new friend used to be a pilot. He’s also short and charming. We name him Top Gun.

Chatting to multiple people online is time consuming and becomes a fabulously effective form of procrastination to avoid the other things I should really be doing. Each conversation has its own nuances and I have let it become too complex. I feel like I have a set of those Tamagotchi digital pet toys that I have to remember to feed and respond to.

His contact came when I was particularly busy with life and my patience was waning. It was a combination of convenient timing, his straightforwardness, and easy communication that led me to meet him quickly.

There is no fannying around with him. He sent me a naked body shot straight away, and there was nothing scary or irregular. His face pic is friendly, smiley and outdoorsy. He is also suitably enthusiastic about my photos and tells me I’m gorgeous. Being made to feel adored is a must. But it’s a difficult balance to achieve, being able to flatter sincerely without sounding creepy and stalky. He seemed pleasant enough, was going to be around when I finished work the next day. Job done.

It’s been a long day, it’s raining, and I’m grumpy and tired. I’ve also agreed to meet in a business district wine bar for some reason, not my usual habitat at all. I like to arrive early and pick my vantage spot myself, so that I’m not looking aimlessly around the room trying to recognise my date. I order a glass of wine, choose my seat and immerse myself in my phone. The place is relatively empty as it reaches our meeting time, there’s only one single guy there. It doesn’t look like him but I send a message just in case. There’s no response and no guy. I wait for exactly ten minutes, then walk out and head home.

Being dicked about comes with this territory. It’s no surprise to me. But I’m still cross, disappointed and deflated. The Husband comes to pick me up and all is right with the world once more.

I ignore the first two apologies. Apparently he was stuck in traffic and had left his phone at home. He’d missed me by five minutes. He made the point that there was still wine in my glass that backed up his story. Against my best judgement, and amidst plenty of jokes about route planning and map co-ordinates, I agreed to meet him the following week.