The Towering Inferno

What girl doesn’t love a fireman? And this one is funny, gentle, built, and hot too – he really is the stuff of fantasies. And he knows it.

He contacts me first, luring me in with pics of his smiley face, bulging biceps, and powerful thighs. He not only endures my multitude of cheesy unoriginal fireman puns, but completely joins in with it in a cute, flirtatious barrage of spraying hoses, shiny helmets, and greasy poles.

I haven’t been this excited for a date in a long long time. And when he walks into the bar, I’m decidedly dizzy.  He’s tall, muscly and friendly, and when his massive arms reach in for a hug, I weaken immediately. The flirtatious, cheeky, warm tone of the messages continues into real life and I giggle girlishly over our quick drink. While I know we’re getting on well, I’m not at all sure that he’s as into me, so I’m mildly taken aback when he leans in for a snog as we say goodbye outside.

It’s a soft, gentle, romantic kiss, and his huge stature wrapped around me is delightful.

On the way home, I’m immediately thrown into a spin of self-doubt and confusion in what is a typically me response to a very nice date indeed.

Of course it’s too good to be true when it turns out that his teenage daughter lives with him. Clearly I had been so carried away with the prospects of a muscly calendar-model of a fireman that I hadn’t paid as much attention to the details and logistics as I usually would before meeting in person.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way. And within the week, he lets me know that he has the place to himself for a few hours and I drive over to see if the reality lives up to the fantasy. He lives in a brand new development, above some commercial premises, and it takes me a while to find the carpark and doorway. So much so that I begin to think it’s all some kind of practical joke.

But sure enough, he sees my message when he gets out of the shower and greets me with his characteristic warmth. I stand awkwardly making small talk and drinking a glass of wine in the kitchen waiting for him to make the first move. When he does, it’s slow, soft, and romantic again and it makes a nice change from my more vigorous adventures of late.

Standing in the bedroom, he does the whole 80s music video style kissing my shoulders and slowly undressing me thing. I consciously have to stop myself from emitting an audible sigh of disappointment when I finally get my hands on his willy. But while it may be smaller than I had hoped, it is encouragingly hard and enthusiastic. And the fucking is intense, energetic, and much harder than the slow build up would suggest.

Eventually we collapse in a sweaty, panting, ravaged heap and feel surprisingly comfortable and relaxed together as he holds me in his lovely big arms and proclaims that we ‘fit well’.

But ultimately, I’m not convinced. His last minute booty calls and constantly changing plans quickly have me feeling insecure – after all, it doesn’t take much. He’s playing along with the boyfriend role but really just needs a convenient fuck buddy.

And while it’s not a deal-breaker, I’m mildly uncomfortable with his fixation with having his arse rimmed. I understand how hypocritical a position it is from someone who has written so much about loving arse play, but I’m just not the giving kind. If I’m going to shove my tongue into a fella’s poo hole, then it’s going to be The Husband – the man I love and whose butt I have neglected for almost 30 years!

The episode ends with me getting a bit over excited about the prospect of us spending a public holiday in bed together while his daughter is away. I cancel all existing plans, organise transport, get my nails did, and shave my minge, ready for an afternoon of filth and wine. But sure enough, he cancels at the last minute. The first time was disappointing, the second time was rude, and the third time just isn’t going to happen.

In a bizarre turn of events a couple of months later, I learn that the fireman’s flat has burned down. And no, it wasn’t me. Sitting watching the news one night, we recognise his apartment block in some spectacular fire footage. The whole building is destroyed, miraculously with no serious injuries, and 3 teenagers arrested for arson. In a brief message exchange he tells me that they lost everything and I send him well wishes and support, strongly resisting the urge to draw attention to the irony – even I recognise that it’s way too soon.


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!


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.


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.



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.



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.