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!