Dirty Grandpa

I’m getting slightly better at knowing what I want. Or maybe I’m just getting better at projecting my desired qualities onto unknowing and unwitting partners. Whichever way, it doesn’t always work out well and the run of misfits continues.

I’m not sure if I’m physically attracted to him, but his messages are cheeky, charming, and deviant. And he’s older, single, lives alone, and experienced in the swinging scene. An attractive combination, particularly during a current dry spell.

I’ve been sick again and out of action. The bleeding during sex that had been hampering my sexual adventures has been put down to a polyp which has been successfully removed. At the same time, I’ve had a proper clear out and a IUD contraceptive device fitted, both for added protection and to help with my peri-menopausal symptoms. The upside is that my womb is sorted and ready for action. The downside is that I’m feeling exhausted, hormonal, bloated and decidedly unattractive. Perhaps some dating adoration is just what I need to start feeling fabulous again.

He’s the supervisor on a huge building site in the city. I arrange to meet him for a quick drink round the corner from his work on the way to meet a friend. He’s in the whole construction worker gear, complete with flouro vest, big dirty boots, and an impressive shiny helmet. While he’s not traditionally good looking, he’s got the whole rugged thing going on. And he’s cheeky, charming, and confident – I like him. To the extent that I feel an intense tingling when he tells me how much he wants to take me back to his site office and bend me over his desk there and then. In an uncharacteristically sensible move, I politely decline and agree to visit his place the following week.

But when I see him standing by his ute (again!) waiting to pick me up near my house, I wonder what the hell I was thinking and consider running away. He looks completely different in his own nasty jeans and cheap trainers with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Without the fantasy construction worker think happening, he just looks like a shabby, unkempt, dirty old man.

Everything is lined up though, it’s been a while since I had an adventure, and The Husband is excited about picking me up on his way home from work for an evening of our own. I decide to go with it.

His house is reassuringly clean and he has a beautiful if slightly scary dog. Both are factors that help me to relax reasonably quickly, especially combined with the large amount of wine that I quickly knock back for courage. The place is clearly set up for his sexually deviant lifestyle, complete with large recliner sofas and huge television with surround sound. The screen is still showing his last porn category and I point out to him that displaying a preference for teen porn probably isn’t the wisest move when trying to seduce a mature woman. We share a drink, a cigarette, and a laugh, and before long, he has his face buried between my legs.

He knows that I’m way out of his league, which makes him extra enthusiastic and appreciative, and makes me feel like an absolute porn star. It’s extremely hot. Soon we’re energetically fucking on his massive leather sofa – until he gets his leg stuck and we have to take a break.

Honestly, I’m not always as responsible about using condoms as I should be, particularly when I have a good idea about who I’m with and their sexual history. But this time I am extra careful. His sexual deviancy may be attractive on one level, but from what he’s revealed to me tonight concerning his occasional hiring of sex services and meth-fueled orgies with neighbours, his bare cock is definitely not going anywhere near me.

I’m increasingly drunk and end up on his bed with my legs in the air with him shouting ‘yummo’ and proclaiming that all his christmasses had come at once. When The Husband arrives, I head to the car in a slightly wobbly state to regale him with my tales of debauchery and we carry on the fucking into the night. The whole episode has a uniquely dirty quality to it. But it’s not one that I’m keen to repeat again in a hurry. And nor is my liver.

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The Misfits

Of course I end up fucking the strangler dude. It’s been a particularly busy work week and I’m thinking that a few hours of rough sex could be just what I need to relax in time to spend a couple of days off with The Husband.

I’m exhausted, but excited enough to get dressed up in my corset and stockings, black dress and favourite leopard print coat. He picks me up around the corner from my house to take me to where he’s staying – a trailer park. It may be described as a ‘luxury’ holiday village, but it is still a trailer park. It appears to sum up the dirty shabby nature of the whole episode. But not in a totally wrong way.

He’s attentive, funny and flirtatious on the way there, and acts the gentlemen opening the door for me to climb out of the ute. But that’s where it ends. I’m used to a glass of wine and some gentle foreplay to ease me into a submissive state, but straight away he has me bent over the table spanking my arse – really hard. No niceties, just straight into the brutal play as he shoves me to my knees and tries to ram his pathetic cock into my mouth. I’m a bit stunned to be honest. We’ve chatted about different scenarios for a few weeks, but now I’m thinking that I really should have been more proactive in establishing boundaries and expectations for the visit.

I know I can stop at any time and that The Husband will be waiting outside shortly, so I go with it. His under-performing penis is clearly something he works with on a regular basis as he arrogantly mansplains female sexual pleasure to me while vigorously using his fingers to make me squirt all over the bed. He jumps up with a triumphant smile on his face, heading to the kitchenette in just his socks to fetch a can of rancid beer to thrust into my hand.

The mood becomes far more affectionate and chilled as we relax over our beers. And I’m sure that the squirting has given him a much needed boost to his sexual confidence. The afternoon culminates in him cumming over my face. I walk to the car park past the holiday makers looking like a hooker from a 1960s British film, complete with my leopard print coat, disheveled hair, and a dirty grin on my face.

He was enthusiastic about seeing me again but there was something missing for me. And it wasn’t just the lack of a big hard cock. Maybe if he’d have lived nearby I would have invested more time into exploring the potential. But then again, maybe I wouldn’t have. It was just a little cold and flat.

The continual chatting with prospective guys and juggling coffee dates is pretty intense. It’s often hard to work out what does and doesn’t do it for me. And as with anything, it comes in waves of nothing or all at once.

During a particularly lean time and a rare day off to myself, I spontaneously agree to meet a local man for coffee. The alarm bells should have rung when he sent me an unsolicited video of him fucking a fleshlight attached to his kitchen counter. While I’ve seen worse, it did seem an odd thing to send straight away, and I reminded myself that whatever came of it I should never let him cook for me.

The coffee shop was really busy and he’d already ordered his to take away before I arrived. He didn’t offer to buy mine or even wait with me, instead telling me he was heading outside. While he was reasonably good looking, he had a distinct lack of charm or even personality. As we walked along the seafront with our coffee, I felt like I was an unwilling participant in a job interview as he listed off his CV of sexual conquests. He appeared completely disinterested in me, not asking a single question, and at one point even interrupting me to hold a full-on conversation with the volunteers who were out cleaning the beach. I have never felt a more striking example of mutual incompatibility. And yet he was seemingly totally unaware, bizarrely pestering me to come to his flat for days after until he finally took on board my definitive ‘no’.

The Strangler

This quest is an emotional rollercoaster, and right now I’m struggling. Not only am I disillusioned but The Husband isn’t getting the most out of it either. He’s having a tough time at work and his head isn’t really in the right place. Before each date I annoyingly nag him incessantly to make sure he’s happy for me to go, adamant that I will stop the moment he becomes uncomfortable. But while he enthusiastically reassures me that my adventures are still making his dick hard, I’m not convinced that he has the emotional energy to process it fully.

And me and The Mechanic have finally run our course. After the initial excitement, he’d started to get complacent, expecting me to drive over whenever he had a night off, and not even bothering to feed me. On my last visit, ‘forgetting’ to order pizza when we’d already organised to have dinner was the final straw.  There were other complicated reasons that led to a mutual agreement to stop seeing each other. But essentially, the magic gradually dissolved. The quietness that I’d initially interpreted as dark, brooding and mysterious ultimately revealed itself as moody, petulant and selfish.

He was my first real boyfriend experience and I really really enjoyed the whole hanging out, chatting and cuddling on the sofa part of it. And of course the sex. The size and angle of his cock seemed to have some kind of magical powers that made me squirt every time, becoming such an issue that I wouldn’t get on the bed without putting a towel down first.

I know it’s time to move on, I want to feel comfortable not continually second guessing and taken for granted. But I’m also pretty down and disillusioned about it all.

It’s forced me to reflect on what it is that I’m really looking for and what works in our relationship. The Husband is way ahead of the game than me on the research and I catch up listening to podcasts and reading my new self-help bible, The Ethical Slut. Both are showing me a vast range of positive and non-conventional options and variations for experiencing sexual relationships. Most importantly, it’s giving me a new language to process and understand the feelings, experiences and preferences I already had.

While The Husband is a monogamous fetishist, I definitely lean more towards the polyamorous end of the spectrum. I really enjoy getting to know someone, developing a relationship, and falling for them just a little bit. I’m officially addicted to the excitement of ‘new relationship energy’ and absolutely adore the romantic feels of a ‘limerence’ rush. But it is equally the biggest downside – I’m opening myself up to new people and making myself emotionally vulnerable in the process.  It’s exhausting.

I’ve continued chatting to people online even if I haven’t been actively looking. But the amount of fugly, illiterate, dull, morons is so disheartening. Who knew it was so difficult to find an open, honest, clean, sexually confident, politically enlightened, mildly attractive, interesting person to hang out with was so fucking difficult?! I don’t think I’m particularly high maintenance, I just want someone to make me laugh, order the pizza, pour the wine, and fuck me into next week before sending me home to The Husband.

I think it’s a pretty straightforward offer, but right now it appears to be the holy grail.

I throw myself back into the online dating game with a slightly jaded degree of gusto. When in doubt, follow the wise words of the goddess Peaches, and ‘fuck the pain away’.

While I still know what works for me and how I want to feel with someone, I’m learning that I need to be a bit more flexible in my expectations. After all, I didn’t have butterflies when I met The Mechanic – that came after he snogged me and threw me onto his bed. Nevertheless, there needs to be an initial hook that gets me interested, whether it’s a cheeky glint in their eye, a saucy comment, their enthusiastic appreciation of my ample assets, or just an impressive dick pic. Ideally, all of the above!

So I have tried being a little less rigid and going with the flow more. My new approach has led to a couple of interesting encounters and I’m clearly developing a preference for rough and ready tradie types. Right now I’m surprised if a date doesn’t turn up in a ute.

I’m keen to get back on the horse but end up making a few impetuous decisions that lead to a couple of mildly unsatisfactory encounters. The first comes after an unsolicited late night message from a dude looking for a hookup while he’s in town overnight for work. I explain that it’s not my style and wish him well with his search. But he hooks me in with some cheeky banter and I’m home alone and bored, so we chat late into the night. He’s going to be in town regularly over the next couple of months and our sexual interests are definitely aligning as he tells me all the things he wants to do to me.

He’s a tall, bald, bearded bear of a man, with an impressive line in dominant sex talk. The enthusiastic messaging continues the next morning and I agree to meet him for coffee before he heads back home. It’s the quickest meet yet.

Physically he’s definitely my type and there’s a really attractive mix of humour, flirtation and sexual intensity as we drink our coffee. I’m so into him that I make the uncharacteristically risky decision to accept his offer of a lift home just so I can snog his face off. I get into his impressively big shiny ute and we drive to a popular picnic spot where we get down to kissing each other. He does all the things that make me weak – kissing my neck, whispering filth in my ear, and gently putting his hand around my throat. But he is a big and powerful physical presence and as his grip tightens, I have the briefest intense wave of panic, shocked by my own vulnerability and wondering what the fuck I was thinking.

It’s still incredibly hot, but reality rears its head again when he unleashes his disappointingly small penis in a state of flaccidness which in no way reflects his otherwise enthusiastic demeanour. I repeatedly refuse his requests for me to wank him off until he reluctantly agrees to drive me home. He gives me one last aggressive kiss and neck squeeze before I jump out of the car slightly stunned and with promises to get it on next time he’s in town.

Diamonds are Forever

So the exploratory date with Easy Rider was quite the success.

The shtick with him is a far cry from my usual search for emotional connection and affection, but it was definitely fun. I’m left feeling a bit shell shocked and confused at first, trying to work out how to process a totally new kind of ‘relationship’ that basically involves me heading to his house for a quick glass of wine, an exchange of pleasantries, and straight down to hot play and brutal sex before heading home an hour later.

It’s the equivalent of a mid-week therapy session – in fact, half an hour spent bending over in stocks feels just like I’ve completed a particularly tough yoga class. And the timing works well for The Husband too. I’m home in plenty of time to carry on the fun with him, and we even get to have dinner together.

I enjoy his creativity and enthusiasm, and the prospects for exploration are very promising indeed. Now that we know we’re sexually compatible, we exchange increasingly detailed messages on ideas and preferences. This involves my love of cum, and his enthusiasm extends to him heading straight out for a blood test and the all-clear.

On the second visit, my nervousness is dramatically reduced but the excitement isn’t. After the perfunctory glass of wine and a quick snog, I’m chained to the cross and grinning with anticipation as he lurks next to his table of implements deciding what to do first. My grin soon shifts when he starts to test my reactions to the flogger, paddle and crop.

It’s all going swimmingly as he releases my wrists and shoves me on my knees, fucking my mouth and turning me into an gagging, eye-watering, drooling mess. I am continually surprised how much I enjoy it.

Eventually bending over the horse, he introduces me to his vibrating butt plug. It’s ingenious and absolutely delightful. So much so that while he fucks me hard and increases it’s intensity in my bumhole, I very nearly cum standing up – no mean feat. The session ends with me on my knees and him cumming all over my face before taking a photo for The Husband.

It’s a unique set up that lasts way longer than any of my other friendships. Primarily because it’s only an occasional thing. But also because it’s a very straightforward arrangement. The boundaries needed to be worked out initially, especially while I reconcile the fact that this one is not going to involve date nights with pizza and cuddling – just two people who like each other indulging in brutal, depraved sex.

My boundaries are further tested on one particular session which puts me off returning to his playroom for a while. And it’s not even his sadistic creativity which pushes me to my limits. It’s my own aging, broken body! I’m bent over with my legs spread and neck and wrists locked into the handmade stocks. Apart from the impressive array of anal toys, the enduring memory is of the toil it took on my aging knees and hips to stay in that position for a prolonged period of time. My reward is being sent home to The Husband with a bum full of cum contained by a very pretty diamante butt plug.

Whiplash

The first time I drive over to his place I am more nervous than I have been on any other date so far. And understandably too – while we’ve agreed that I’m making an exploratory visit, I’m going to a total stranger’s house to potentially get restrained, flogged and fucked. But as The Husband points out while he excitedly helps me get ready, what’s the worst that can happen? As usual, I give him the address and for the first time, agree a code text message and time limit in case of any problems.

Bizarrely, Easy Rider lives 2 streets away from The Mechanic who I’m in the throes of a complete ‘boyfriend experience’ affair with. Although we’ve never really talked about exclusivity, I still feel kind of shifty as I pull up to Easy Rider’s place. I’ve even asked for him not to leave any marks this time as I have a Mechanic date the following night and haven’t quite worked out how to broach the subject with him yet.

I’m nervous and flustered as I ring the doorbell, with very little idea of what to expect. The run up has been unusually swift and the ground rules have been basic. He’s way more confident and a reassuring presence on his own turf. The house is cosily warm with music playing and incense burning. He leads me to the kitchen counter (again!) and pours me a glass of wine, stroking my hair, wrapping his arms around me and telling me to relax. He’s remarkably soothing.

I’m wearing a long wrap-over dress over a corset, stockings and no knickers, perched on the kitchen stool with a glass of wine in my hand. We make comfortable small talk as I start to compose myself. He kisses me confidently and I start to feel wobbly with anticipation as he caresses my tits and squeezes my nipples hard. But my nervousness increases my silly jokes and smartarse comments until he shoots me a stern look that literally makes my ovaries twitch. After kissing me hard, he disappears briefly returning with some adjustable nipple clamps which he slowly and deliberately attaches as I stay perched with my tits exposed, increasingly turned on.

I’m grinning stupidly as he leads me to the playroom and stands me against the St. Andrew’s Cross facing the wall and attaching a collar and leather cuffs to my wrists.  My sniggers soon subside as he tries out a number of light flogging implements and eventually inserts the anal hook which he attaches with rope to the collar and gradually tightens. When he unties and turns me around, he’s naked with a huge hard on and a cheeky determined look on his face. He pushes me to my knees, grabbing my hair to shove his cock hard down my throat, making me gag and my eyes water. And just as I think he’s about to cum, he bends me over a horse structure and fucks me hard, telling me what a good slut I am. It’s so much fun.

But where I would usually collapse in a heap on a comfy bed at the end of a vigorous session, I’m left standing in the middle of the room, wobbly, vulnerable, and decidedly unsure what to do. I quickly return to the kitchen to retrieve my dress, cover up and finish my wine. He’s pleasant, but affectionate after-care doesn’t really seem to be in his skillset and I actually have to ask him to come over to my side of the counter to hug me.

He has taken some extremely hot creative photos of the proceedings to show The Husband.  And before I go, he asks if I want a leaving present and fetches his favourite crop. I obediently lift my dress and bare my arse, bracing myself nervously. When it happens, I jump 3 feet in the air, yelling even more expletives than usual, and for a prolonged period of time until the initial shock starts to subside. He takes a glorious picture of my arse with a glowing red line all the way across before sending me on my merry way home looking completely wrecked and ravaged.

Easy Rider

Years ago, when The Husband and I were on our painful break, I had a brief dalliance with the kink scene. A chick from work was being paid on the side for running a BBW chatroom. Chatrooms and message boards were all completely new to me, computers were the size of giant pumpkins, and I could have vacuumed the entire house in the time the dial up internet took to load a single page. But the possibilities for a 30-something working single mother to meet people without going out on the piss every night off were appealing. The work chick set up my computer, explained the basics, and sent me on my way. And before long, I had migrated to the BDSM arena, utterly fascinated and completely immersed in the chat about pain, restraint, humiliation and punishment.

Clearly, The Husband is extremely sexually submissive. And up to that point, I had taken on the role of Domme with style and enthusiasm. But I was equally drawn to his rough, assertive dominance and now I was keen to explore just how submissive I could be.

It was almost 20 years ago and he was my first internet date and my first proper Dom. He was a short, stout, rich, older arrogant bloke – all features which fit the profile. But he lacked the kindness, sensitivity and intelligence that I now understand are central to the whole thing working effectively. While I was fascinated by the lifestyle, I was ridiculously naive, heartbroken and damaged, and the whole episode makes me uncomfortable to think about even now. Basically, it was doomed for failure because neither of us actually liked each other, let alone ourselves.

On the other hand, I was able to explore some of my biggest fantasies and had some of my hottest adventures when he escorted me to some incredible parties, ones I would have been unlikely to find on my own and even less likely to ever been brave enough to go alone. The parties were pretty vanilla group sex affairs, and I adored them. The BDSM exploration was far more psychological and at first, I enjoyed the novelty of doing whatever I was told. I also enjoyed lightly exploring my pain threshold with nipple clamps, spanking, hot wax, and restraint. Obedience and pain were so deliciously different to my usual preferences.

While my exploration over 2 decades ago was merely toe dipping, the visible BDSM scene is now way more complex, and divided into an increasingly accessible and titillating array of specialist, nuanced sub scenes. I’ve said it before, the contrived amateur dramatics of the mainstream fetish scene does very little for me. I have no interest in drinking cheap wine and eating cocktail sausages with people dressed in ill-fitting latex and dog collars talking about the comparative size of their butt plugs. And while I’m aware that the club scene is more sophisticated nowadays, I’m feeling too old for clubbing right now and may well need to build up to that once I’ve met a suitable mentor.

But I still adore being sexually submissive. Being dominant at home, and a strong feisty woman in my everyday life, it is a delicious and welcome relief. The right combination of words, eye contact and sexual confidence turn me into a quivering wobbly mess. So it’s no surprise that I’ve been starting to explore this a bit more in my online discussions and in real life.

He is single, early 50s, reasonably fit looking, has a cheeky glint in his eye, and is a biker – we name him Easy Rider.

I’m not actively looking for a new friend when his message pops into my inbox. But he’s interesting, flirtatious, kinky, and can string a sentence together. And he has very particular tastes which he gets down to it pretty quickly, sending me pictures of his playroom. The décor is more 1980s suburban blokeyness than the classy chrome glamour of the movies. But the homemade St Andrew’s Cross, stocks, and horse, as well as the table laid out with an array of toys, butt plugs, whips and crops, shows an impressive degree of skill and imagination.

And he has a really great looking cock. I know it’s not supposed to matter, but it does – a fact that I am increasingly coming to realise on my current quest.

I’m heading out to see my friend’s band play and arrange to meet him beforehand. I would know too many people in the first pub he suggests, and there is an unusual amount of activity in the city that night, so by the time I manage to park up and meet him outside the third meeting place we agree on, we’re both a bit over it. But we eventually get a table in a notoriously shitty pub and get down to talking details. He’s a bit shorter than I had imagined but I like the cut of his jib and he’s wearing a lovely pair of cherry red Doc Marten boots.

We share a lot of the same music tastes and a disdain of the mainstream BDSM scene. It’s all going so well that I ask him outright about his politics. This is becoming a thing for me now – I’m sick of emotionally investing in a scenario only to find out that he’s a racist, homophobic, misogynistic prick. He deals extremely well with my interrogation, but as we walk towards his car I’m still unsure if there’s much sexual chemistry between us and detect a slight whiff of chippy defensiveness that is decidedly unattractive, especially when I’m looking for a sexually confident and dominant partner. My main reservation is whether I’m too feisty for him and whether his squeaky voice has the gravitas needed to pull off the patter effectively.

But the kiss goodbye is encouraging and the messaging over the next few days is increasingly hot. He regales me with tales of his ‘pussy pump’ and ‘anal hook’, toys that even a supposedly enlightened chick like me has never even heard of. And when he encourages me with the words ‘good girl’ he definitely has my attention.

The thought of him torturing and using me has also piqued the interest of The Husband, who is completely getting off on the prospect of being made to watch. I put the proposal to Easy Rider and he’s equally excited by the idea… all 3 of us are keen to explore the possibilities.

Hotel

For the first time ever, I’m starting to relate to the frustrations that fellas are always going on about when dealing with us chicks. If The Girlfriend is anything to go by, then there may well be some truth in what they say – women talk a lot, can be unpredictable, and are extremely difficult to read.

We’ve stayed in touch since the awkward ending to our first proper encounter. And the messaging and photos have continued to be extremely hot. Aligning our availability and a venue for us to be able hook up again is proving to be frustratingly tricky. But when an evening becomes free, I enthusiastically get stuck into my other favourite online past time – searching for cheap hotel deals. Two nights before and there’s a flurry of excited messaging to organise the practicalities and The Husband sits patiently on the sofa while I’m glued to my laptop planning my first girly sleepover.

The plan is to meet at the hotel, have a few drinks, then head out to town for fun and frolics before heading back for a night of debauchery. All day, I’m feeling more like vomiting from nerves than getting down and dirty. But where I have The Husband to drive me to the hotel with excited words of encouragement and arrive early to pop the prosecco cork, she arrives flustered, rushing straight from work and sorting her kids. I give her a hug, handing her a glass and waiting patiently for her to relax.

A royal wedding is on the television. I hate the parasitical royal family with a passion. And the wedding is a vile, pompous spectacle of expense to cynically bolster their public appeal while regular families are losing their homes and resorting to foodbanks to feed their children. But then again the frocks are quite nice.

It’s inescapable, my politics play a major role in my sexual adventures – if someone is a right wing dickhead, I just don’t want them anywhere near my genitals. Part of The Girlfriend’s appeal is her open minded independent thinking and I’ve already established that she’s neither racist nor homophobic. But when she expresses her love of the queen and reveals how excited she’s been all day for the royal wedding, I nearly grab my bag and walk out of the room. I have serious doubts that I’m in the right place here, getting steadily drunker with a stressed out jabbering monarchist rather than a saucy, sassy, sex kitten.

But I’ve paid for the hotel room now and continue drowning my sorrows as we check out the frocks. Eventually, the lure of pizza gets us out but it’s already too late and too cold to bother going to the cocktail bar we’d planned on, and we head to the nearest pub. It’s not the most sensible move as it’s where we’re both most likely to bump into people we know – but that’s what’s so good about going on a girly date, just two mates going out for a drink.

After a couple more drinks and more listening to her work woes, I’m getting more impatient by her lack of two way conversational abilities and apparent lack of interest in anything about me. Combined with the wine and lack of food, I’m feeling increasingly cranky.

We move on to the next pub and head to the toilets together where I pee first, lurking awkwardly as I wait for her to finish. I’m standing against the cubicle wall as she kisses me for the first time that night. It’s fumbly and exciting but not altogether enjoyable as she finger-bangs me in the most notoriously skankiest pub toilet in town.

With red lipstick smudged all over my face, and looking decidedly disheveled, I leave the cubicle first. And sure enough, I bump smack bang into someone I know – my neighbour’s daughter who I used to share a yoga class with. I’m awkward with small talk at the best of the times, let alone when I’ve been caught out snogging a chick in the pub toilets, but I brazen it out as best I can until we manage to hurriedly escape, stifling our giggles.

She has definitely warmed up, but I can’t say that I’m entirely comfortable with it, particularly when she grabs my leg and tries to snog me in plain sight in the middle of the pub. It’s definitely time to get that pizza and get straight back to the hotel room.

We kiss passionately in the lift up to the room. We’re getting hotter, and while we’re increasingly wobbly, manage to deftly balance the pizza, jumping when the doors open at our floor. Lying in bed, cracking open more wine, and shoving pizza into our ravenous gobs, she still keeps on talking, this time delving into the darkest depths of her traumatic, abusive,drug fuelled youth. It’s really not sexy and I’m starting to fall asleep.

Finally, she gets the message and shuts up long enough for me to lunge at her. This time it’s much more equal, straightforward, erotic and sensual sex without the sub/dom overtones. We’re both drunk, tired and just enjoying indulging in each other.

For the first time, I’m appreciating women’s bodies from a male perspective, and it’s having a major impact on my own self-consciousness. My belly is my most constant and enduring source of body insecurity but I’m finally starting to see how sexy it can be. I absolutely get it now – she is so deliciously soft and squiggly that I can’t keep my hands and mouth off her, like a fluffy marshmallow. And the two us writhing around together is totally delectable.

We take turns eating each other and she eventually falls asleep. It’s been a very long time since I slept in bed with anyone other than The Husband and I’m not particularly comfortable with it. I’m not the best sleeper and have no idea what to do in this situation, so choose to roll over and spend a fitful night on the opposite edge of the bed.

In the morning, she goes down on me while I slowly wake up. And after another romp, I purposely choose not to shower so that I smell of pussy when The Husband picks me up. As we leave the hotel, he’s standing next to the van, unknowingly parked right next to her car.  There’s an awkward moment when I introduce the two of them – “Girlfriend, meet The Husband… Husband meet The Girlfriend”. They shake hands and he takes my bag while I hug her goodbye before getting into the van. On the drive home, I make him smell the sex on my fingers, telling him all about my night before spending the day hungover and fucking in my own comfy bed.

The horniness effect on The Husband is as intense as ever. But there are some new elements involved that need some different navigation. The first is the sleepover – I have never before spent an entire night away for explicitly debaucherous reasons. But he can sleep through absolutely anything, so it was me that bore the brunt of it more than him. More importantly and quite surprisingly, is the same-sex issue. When we split years before, he explored his bisexual desires with gusto. As I tried to process the impact it had on me, he just couldn’t understand why it was any different to him fucking other women. But in the aftermath of The Girlfriend Experience, he begins to understand. The variations to the jealousy impact are subtle but significant. If I fuck another dude, the rush involves a psychological competition and humiliation. But there’s no competing with another chick, it’s a whole different kettle of fish [pun intended].