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].

Waterworld

It’s the beginning of The Husband’s birthday week. Over six weeks of planning has gone into making this the most wanton, filthy, birthday celebration of our entire relationship. And neither of us can quite believe it’s here.

I have lined up a different and unique date for each day. It begins with my first proper meeting with the Lion King.

I’m not sure how this one will work out. There’s been no real communication, no saucy messaging or big build-up and I don’t even know if we’re sexually compatible. For all my talk of personality and connection, this one is purely physical. It’s all about his size and stature, his height, enormous biceps, and according to him, his giant cock.

He runs a small fitness studio and we meet nearby. The plan is to have coffee and take it from there. No promises, just in case the chemistry is way too off. But when we meet, I immediately suggest going straight there – I’m impatient.

It’s underground, empty, dark and dirty, with the smell of stale sweat lingering in the air. He shows me round, puts on some music, and we make polite chitchat for a while. He tells me about his business and his experiences with scary stalker women who won’t leave him alone. He’s suggesting he has some magical charisma that makes him irresistible to women – little did I know.

He feels my arse and is suitably appreciative. I touch his enormous bicep and my small, white, manicured hand looks delicious against his dark skin. We start to kiss, and he’s restrained and polite, not wanting to assume. I let him know I’d like to carry on and it hots up quickly. He stands over me and I feel his hard cock through his shorts. It is truly as magnificent as he promised, about nine inches long, narrower at the end but an impressive girth most of the length. And it bends to the left.

This is happening. None of the usual foreplay and niceties. There’s a bit of kissing. But basically, we both briefly feel each other’s bits to check if everything’s in order before getting down to it. I’m completely forgoing my usual standards. And it’s all to do with his considerable size. In every single department.

This is full-on and fast, with both of us gagging for him to be inside me. I stand awkwardly as he disappears around a corner to wrestle with a massage table. He calls me into the changing room.

It’s stumbly, awkward and uncomfortable, and so far removed from my usual preferences. I take my knickers off and am sat on a rickety old massage table in the bathroom, next to the decrepit shower and toilet cubicles. And the nasty strip lighting only adds to the seedy, locker-room, porn movie aesthetic.

He grabs my thighs and pulls me towards him on the edge of the table. I’m lying on my back with my legs in the air as he slams his cock into me. I have one foot resting on the glass of the shower cubicle and my hand behind my head pushing against a washbasin.

He’s standing up pulling my arse towards him and thrusting hard into me. I am actually whimpering. It’s fucking great.

He’s still wearing his trainers and Tshirt, and lifts the front up over his head as he gets more into it. It gives me a full view of his impressive pecs. And gives him a good view too, as he repeatedly glances at himself in the mirror.

He pulls out and comes round to the side of the table, lifting my leg up and vigorously moving his fingers inside me. I know he’s trying to make me squirt, but I never have, and I’m not finding it particularly pleasant. I tell him I won’t squirt. And he definitively tells me that he knows what he’s doing. He’s determined. And I’m mildly irritated.

Before I know it, he lifts his wet hand triumphantly in the air. I look down amazed and sure enough, see a spray. I’m fascinated, I never even knew if I was physically capable. He starts fucking me again and proclaims that this time I’m even squirting by myself.

I put my hand down to feel it and taste the ejaculate. It’s salty and not at all like piss. Everything I had read is true. This is completely unexpected, and I’m squirting all over the tiled floor – now I know why we’re in the bathroom.

He asks me if I’ll suck him when he cums. He pulls out, moves round the table and pumps into my mouth. My dress is soaked, there’s a puddle on the floor and I look completely and utterly ravaged. I don’t feel like I’ve orgasmed, but do feel completely drained.

The mood is polite and slightly awkward as we straighten our clothes and leave, trying to make light conversation and commenting on an excellent workout.

I walk through the city like any invisible, middle-aged woman going about her business. Little do people know that I can still taste the spunk from my lunchtime fuck-meeting.

I’m in a daze as I try to focus again on work. I want to tell The Husband in person, but when he calls, I can’t hold in the excitement. He is suitably floored. And insanely jealous. This is a major and completely unexpected turn of events and I’m worried about his reaction. I’m always worried about his reaction. I can’t help thinking that he’ll switch at any time. He’s shaking, but it’s working for him.

For all the slow and nonstarters, this process continues to surprise me at every turn and surpass my expectations.

So I can actually squirt. I never knew! But it’s not something I’m keen to repeat, ever. By the end of the week, I have the worst Urinary Tract Infection of my life. In what feels like some kind of divine retribution, I spend The Husband’s actual birthday sobbing on the toilet. After three days in the bathroom, crying in agony, and drinking gallons of cranberry juice, super-strength antibiotics eventually clear it up.

Admittedly, playing with four cocks in as many days will have been a significant contributory factor, but I’m convinced the vigorous friction around my urethra region was the main culprit. A quick internet search does indeed suggest a link between squirting and cystitis symptoms. But of course the archaic, patriarchal medical establishment still refuses to recognise squirting as an actual thing, and so the multitude of women’s accounts that I read are refuted by ‘experts’, with a complete lack of meaningful research on the subject.

House Party

I have a friend through work who I bump into every few months. He’s absolutely not my type – short and wiry, with long hair thinning on top. But we always get along well, talk music, laugh lots and flirt outrageously. He has fallen into unrequited love with an Amazonian goddess of a woman and is completely smitten, and we’ve been hanging out a bit more lately.

His penchant for the BDSM scene means he is knowledgeable and non-judgemental about unconventional sexual relationships and he’s aware that I’m interested in exploring polyamory. Most importantly, he knows that I am interested in his 40 year old, Brazilian, recently divorced, musician friend who I had briefly met once before.

When the Amazonian goddess throws a house party, it provides an ideal opportunity for exploration. The Husband and I already have another thing to go to that night and where we would usually be drinking, dancing and having fun with our mates, we are completely distracted by the idea of me going off to a party to potentially get off with a guy I’ve had my eye on. I make my excuses to head off earlier than I normally would. The Husband is shaking with the excitement and incredibly affectionate as he puts me in the cab with words of encouragement.

When I arrive at the party, it’s pretty empty and the few people there are already stoned and caning the tequila shots. I’m met with enthusiasm and the Brazilian dude kisses my hand and sings me a song with his guitar. I am way too sober and quickly drink way too much wine. So much wine that I end up scaring the poor guy out of his wits. When he asks if I’m single, I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’m married, have an arrangement with my husband, and am interested in pursuing things with him further. I act like a sex-crazed madwoman and I’m mortified the next morning. My approach is clearly way too forthright for him and he consequently passes out asleep.

I sit on the sofa with my workmate and share my woes. Somehow he ends up giving me a foot massage. Anyone who’s seen Pulp Fiction knows where this is heading. He kneels between my legs, grabs my thighs and pulls me towards him for a kiss. It completely takes me by surprise and I’m blown away by his confidence, moves and technique.

I had honestly never fancied him and there I am, getting off with him. We head off to one of the other rooms for privacy. He takes off his top and I’m stunned. He’s a drummer with an impressive six pack, and he’s covered in a thick layer of hair all over his torso and arms. I feel compelled to run my toes across his stomach as he stands over me. It’s an incredibly erotic sight, an image that has stayed with me.

His cock is rock hard, straining out of the top of his jeans, and I can’t help but take it in my mouth. We kiss roughly and he eagerly eats my pussy. He gropes and sucks on my tits, it makes a delightful change as The Husband hardly notices them at all. My gentle and unassuming friend turns out to be strong, assertive and even bitey. It’s all really hot. But it’s also weird and unexpected. And we’re both really drunk and in someone else’s house. I’m not ready for this to be my first extra-marital fuck of the new era, so we stop.

It’s late when I get home and The Husband looks crestfallen when I tell him that nothing happened with the Brazilian. I get into bed and tell him the rest of the story. The big reveal is incredibly effective and he’s massively turned on. But I’m way too tired from my exertions and quickly fall asleep, prolonging his torment till the morning.

One Flew Over the Cuckold’s Nest

The Husband and I are completely loved up and the endorphins are rushing just like they did when we first met 25 years ago. We’re affectionate and demonstrably appreciative of each other. I feel so lucky that I get the chance to have my cake and eat it too. He feels equally lucky to be able to fulfil such a long term desire, and is suitably in awe of my rediscovered sexual confidence.

Historically, a cuckold is a derogatory term for the husband of an adulterous wife. In a fetish context, it’s often incorporated into a very specific sub/dom scenario. The wife chooses who, how, and when she fucks. The husband has no say in the process, is humiliated and completely sexually subservient.

Of course there are many subtle variations, and meeting the criteria for all parties involved is a delicate process, and an extremely difficult balance to achieve.

One of the many reasons I’ve continued to be so attracted to The Husband through all our trials and tribulations is his natural strength and confidence. We’ve played with the sub/dom dynamic over the years, but weakness does nothing for me. Who and when I fuck is my decision and I enjoy telling him about it. Equally, he needs to retain a degree of sexual assertiveness. As he so eloquently puts it, the balance is dependent on his subservience without being a “pathetic, whimpering lickspittle”.

On a relationship level, the new arrangement involves me being treated like a princess and I’m enjoying it immensely. He is attentive to my every need, does all the housework, and is more present than I have known him for years.

On a pervy level, my orgasm is his mission. If that means him persevering for hours, then so be it. Talking about what I’m going to do does it for both of us too. There are two distinct elements that coincide. For me, it’s the idea of having multiple cocks at once. I’m loving the idea of being the centre of attention and object of desire and being showered with cum. Him looking after me, cleaning me up, and ensuring I get what I need works for both of us.

The exploration and build-up has been effective and mutually enjoyable so far. But I’ve exhausted the potential of the generic dating site and The Husband posts on a specialist cuckold forum in search of some more experienced options. It’s a rich vein of new opportunity. We filter the contacts together, and he invites anyone with the right looking photo or patter to contact me through the message app.

We are having dirty fabulous sex with each other and the constant messaging, planning, dating and anticipation means we’re both continually buzzing on adrenalin. And all while we try to maintain some kind of semblance of normality in our work and home lives. It’s exhausting.

Little Shop of Horrors

I may have fallen at the first hurdle, but I’m too far down the rabbit hole to give up now.

The world of internet dating awaits and I commit myself to my research.

I start to learn a whole new language, etiquette and way of communicating. As a professional communicator this is both novel and exciting.

I learn more about polyamory and find myself identifying with the principles of openness, honesty and mutually beneficial respectful relationships. I am equally enthusiastic about adventures with women as well as men. But for now at least, male responses far outweigh the female ones.

One night stands can be hot. But from my past experience, they’re far more likely to be messy, awkward, unsatisfying and leave you feeling shit about yourself. More than anything, I want to avoid feeling shit about myself.

Instead I begin to develop a wishlist that involves a semi-regular, ‘friends with benefits’ type of arrangement with someone I get on with, who makes me laugh, and is comfortable with themselves: DTE, GSOH, NSA, FWB.

Even when you’re fucking someone, you need to be able to talk about something at some point in the process. Being a convenient hole for a convenient cock is just not going to work for me.

I start with a generic, free, online dating site and The Husband and I write the profile together. I refine the profile as I pick up more tips along the way and learn how much difficulty people have in understanding what I think is a very straightforward offer:

“Happily married, bisexual, alternative, tattoos, curvy, 47 year old, looking for fun, regular liaisons with interesting people”.

Who knew it would be so complicated!?!

Older women looking for sex on these sites appear to be relatively rare, and the offers roll in thick and fast. Men seem to be divided into two groups – those looking for a quick, sleazy shag, and those wanting to fall in love. But very little in between.

I love clothes shopping. I can browse happily for hours and have developed quite the system for working out the best way to identify what I need when I need it. This is just the same, and just as compelling. I adore discovering what attracts me, and browsing all the looks, variations, personalities. I soon develop systems for weeding out the non-starters, only bothering with single or openly polyamorous people with photos. The ones who grab my attention reveal some personality or humour through their profile, and show some effort, originality and a basic level of literacy when they contact me.

I change my age preferences, realising that anyone under 40 tends to make me feel old and haggard. Similarly, I avoid the buff, muscly, sporty types because they’re likely to make me feel self-conscious and fat. I’m looking for people in roughly the same fanciable league as me.

In my preferences section, I highlight my interest in single people more as it seems to be causing some confusion. I’m uneasy about betraying the sisterhood code, the last thing I need is some irate partner hunting me down for vengeance, and the logistics of where to have sexual liaisons are way too complicated.

Composing and editing the responses to suit the person and my enthusiasm for them is tedious but I eventually work out the shortcuts and direct the shortlist to a separate message app that allows me to cut and paste and share photos easily.

I am saddened but unsurprised by the degree of cheating married men who lie about their status on their profiles. I am amazed by the lack of effort and ability to string a sentence together when people contact me.

And most of all, I am utterly baffled by the quality and aesthetic of the profile photos used by many – it appears that the mulletted, singlet-wearing, serial killer, mug-shot look is very en vogue this season.

Indecent Proposal

I’m really daunted and self-conscious about the practicalities of putting myself out there. Rejection is a huge issue for me. But that discussion can wait.

I had been thinking about the possibilities of fucking the mutual friend for a while now. He’s single, independent, a few years older than me, a die-hard leftie and makes me laugh. All qualities that I have since come to learn are absolute pre-requisites for me. I’m also aware of his baggage, including functional alcoholism and complete unreliability, which makes him extremely unlikely to pose any risk to my marriage. Also, he’d had a few sexual encounters with a friend of mine a couple of years ago, so I knew he wasn’t a dud root. And he has strong, hairy arms. I love strong, hairy arms.

I sent him a text message to ask if he wanted to meet for a beer after work. I’m confident that he’s attracted to me but don’t know how he’ll take the proposal.

When we had hung out the week before, we were standing closely together, and the sexual energy was so apparent that his friend had made a comment about it, suggesting he should leave us alone together. He replied that I was married and my husband and I are an amazing couple. From the outside, we do look strong. Maybe we are, but it certainly doesn’t feel that way right now. I was drunk and angry, and when we were alone again, I told him that everything wasn’t as it seemed and The Husband refused to have sex with me. So the groundwork was set, but the execution wasn’t particularly well thought out.

After a pint and a bit of awkward small talk about the weather, public transport and other equally unsexy topics, I finally cut to the chase. I tell him I’m no good at lying and that The Husband had agreed to me having a sexual relationship with him. In my head, I had gone through every possible reason why he would be the ideal candidate, what the potential pitfalls could be, and how the practical scenarios would play out – all extremely hot of course. But I hadn’t quite considered what his response would be.

He wasn’t unenthusiastic, but looking back, I see the hesitation. From the resulting conversation, we agreed that neither of us was comfortable fucking someone we didn’t like and get on with, and we agreed that the mutual attraction and practicalities all lined up.

We left the pub after a few pints and walked hurriedly to the train station. We managed a couple of very promising fumbling snogs along the way. Kissing another man was as exciting and as hot as I had hoped. And my fears about him having a disappointingly sized cock were put to rest as I felt his hard-on against me.

It was all a bit rushed and a bit awkward. And when I texted him a few days later to ask if he’d considered my proposal, he politely suggested that “we shouldn’t rush into anything”. His response burned. It festered. And it damaged my resolve.

I wasn’t quite ready to discuss practical details with The Husband, and ruminated on it alone. As I did, I realised I had made assumptions about the guy, that he was a lothario, that he was unconventional, and would be free and easy about fucking his friend’s wife. I had made assumptions about men in general too, thinking that offering ‘no strings’ sex would be met with unbridled joy.

When I look back at the conversation, his main hesitation appeared to be around the fact that he actually wanted an emotional relationship and to fall in love with the person he was having sex with, something that I hadn’t even considered.

I didn’t think through how the idea would sound to him, or clarify expectations and boundaries. This included not explaining the context properly, that my husband was actively enjoying the possibilities, not just putting up with it and likely to punch him in the face next time he saw him.

In those terms, it’s not unsurprising that he’d thought about it for a few days, considered all the potential hassles and bottled out.

No reader, I did not fuck him.…..Yet.

Awakenings

It all started because I was developing a sexual crush on a mutual acquaintance.

We were experiencing a severe and difficult sex-drought. He just wasn’t interested. And I was becoming increasingly angry, resentful and frustrated. We went away on what I had hoped would be a romantic trip where we would rebuild our intimacy. Instead we had a series of hideous arguments. We ended up working through a lot of shit, but still no shagging.

I have always socialised more than him, and bumped into the guy in question while out the following week. There was lots of beer involved, lots of catching up and talking, and definitely a sexual energy. He’s knows, respects, and is most likely intimidated by The Husband, so wouldn’t have made a move. But I was determined I would have him.

It took me days to think through how I would broach the subject. How to tell your sexually estranged partner that you want to have sex with someone else?

This wasn’t an entirely new concept, it had been one of his particular kinks for years. We had tried before but it had never really worked for me, I just felt I was going through the motions to fulfill his fantasy, not mine.

This was different, I had more of an idea what I wanted to get out of it, and it would be completely on my terms.

Our relationship had reached yet another difficult impasse and I felt the response could go either way. I am an incorrigible worrier and extremely analytical. It involved me meticulously thinking through every word, inflection and possible reaction. And of course none of it came out the way I thought it would.

We were sat with our weekend morning cup of coffee in bed, and it went something along the lines of: “So given our current situation, do you think me sleeping with someone else would be a good idea or a bad one?”

It was met with a mixture of shock and awe. He asked me where this had come from and if I had someone in mind. He had no idea at all who I’d had my eye on.

I thought he was angry, but instead, he was turned on. He had the biggest hard-on he’d had in months.

Over a few intense days, we fucked, and we talked.

We discussed boundaries, possibilities, practicalities, preferences. Most importantly, we talked about how we would nurture our relationship and avoid the mistakes we had made together in our younger years. My previous reluctance was connected to his past forays into bisexuality – I was convinced that he was more interested in the other cock rather than me, or us. But finally, we’d started to make some headway with resolving the breakup baggage.

We faced a whole army of demons head-on to refine the best ways for this to work. The main rule is that for me, there are no rules. I need to have absolute freedom to explore my sexuality in whatever way I choose.

His monogamy is a deal-breaker for me. Call me hypocritical, but I can’t cope with him doing anything with anyone else. The pain is still too real for me. And luckily for me, he doesn’t want to.

For him, the cuckold fetish – of knowing about, hearing about, and watching his wife fuck other people is enough.

For me, the possibilities for a new journey of sexual discovery with multiple people is exciting, liberating, and completely nerve-wracking.

Who do I want to fuck? How will I meet them? What do I want to do with them? Where will we do it? What will they expect of me?….Will they scream in horror when they see me naked?

The Odd Couple

But what about this soulmate? He knows, is encouraging me, and is getting his own unique kicks out of it.

As with plenty of other couples, the responsibilities of work, family and the trials of everyday life had drained the energy out of us to the extent that our sex life was virtually non-existent, and not always enjoyable for me on the rare occasions it did happen. When getting dressed in the morning feels like enough physical exertion for one day; when finding a quiet half hour where either of you isn’t flaked out after a tough day at work; and when getting enough privacy in a busy house full of people is a major challenge, sex stops being a priority.

Our sexual relationship has never been what could be considered an ordinary one. He has always been a kinky bugger. I’m not here to tell his story, but his complex sexuality is an incredibly important feature of this whole arrangement. Understanding and navigating his fetishes has been a problematic process for us both. But for once, and for now at least, we have identified a rare and precious moment where our peculiar interests coincide.

There was an extremely painful break in our relationship for a while. It was complicated, destructive and hard to recover from. We both had multiple and varied sexual adventures with other people during this time, but still kept coming back to each other regularly, and eventually for good. One of the many complex reasons behind him leaving involved exploring his bisexuality. Even after ten years of committed and successful monogamy, the inevitable insecurities and doubts remained a major problem for me. Coupled with massive fluctuations in his libido and physical interest in me, I had gradually disconnected myself from him sexually.

This changed from the moment we started to talk about me having sex with other people. The idea fulfilled a long-held cuckold fetish for him, and a sense of sexual reawakening for me. For the first time in years, I became less concerned with what was getting him off, and more focused on my own enjoyment and excitement about the possibilities. There’s nothing more erotic than a woman lost in her own sexual enjoyment. Mentally and physically, we reconnected our sexual selves.

Jezebel

I am a short, slightly overweight, middle-aged woman. And I am embarking on a sexual adventure.

I have a grown-up family who still live with me, a comfortable home, an accomplished career, and a soulmate who has been in my life for 25 years. Everything I had set out to achieve in my twenties is complete. But something remains unfulfilled.

At 47, my body is beginning to show signs of deterioration. I have always been self-conscious about my big belly, but now it has gained the texture of an abandoned, deflated, week-old balloon. My once fabulous firm arse is beginning to sag. And the wrinkly slackness of my upper arms and thighs are a constant source of shock to me.

Despite this, and because of this, I feel the need to experience, understand and enjoy my body while I still can, while I am still at my sexual peak.

I want to have sex with other people. And I want to maintain my relationship. I am a rubbish liar, and our lives are so busy and intertwined that there just wouldn’t be the space for a clandestine second life.

So I tell him. He not only agrees, but loves the idea. He’s always loved the idea

After over a decade of monogamy, the possibilities and opportunities for me to meet people have changed dramatically. The internet has provided more ways to explore, discover and connect. Sexuality and gender fluidity are more recognised than ever before and definitions have become more varied and nuanced. But we still live in a patriarchal, heteronormative society rife with slut-shaming, body-shaming and ageism. People might be furiously masturbating over Bi, MILFs, GILFs and BBWs all over the internet, but since when has pornography had anything to do with realism?

In just the few weeks so far, I have learned so much about personalities, relationships, aging, sexuality, preferences, new technologies, languages and communication practices. There is so much that I want to process and think needs to be talked about. And that’s even before we get to the juicy, sweaty, physical stuff. There will be titillating tales, but as well as the hot encounters, there are the inevitable lukewarm experiences, and most likely even the downright unpleasant ones too. All of this is true.

Each post is written as an individual piece, but it’s best to read in sequence from the beginning for the full picture. The references to film titles started when the characteristics of the first few people I met all seemed to relate to cheesy 80s movies. I love films as much as I love fucking, so I continued with the theme.

So it’s not written as a wank-piece, these are my observations about how an independent middle-aged married woman goes about finding people she likes enough to want to rub genitals with. And what happens when she does.