We express our love in such a different way.
Until fairly recently I'd never really been involved in contrived or non-spontaneous sex. Whilst I was married, Mike and I had messed around with me dressing up, both of us tying the other up and some other stuff like that, but most of what we did was spur of the moment. We didn't usually think up new things, plan them and act them out in a cold-blooded manner. That just wasn't us. When we wanted to fuck we did and to hell with plans and procedures.
True, when he'd persuaded me to do glamour poses for him to photograph they had to be arranged and occasionally I would dress up for him and surprise him when he came home from work. Sometimes I became a little aroused during the day and would greet Mike dressed in sexy undies. I had a special set for this. Black bra, panties, a waspie with suspenders and long, seamed stockings. The classic erotic lingerie. What was special about it was the sizes of the bra and waspie. The former was a whole cup size smaller than my 33C and the waspie was a tight 23 waist and 34 inch hips. My body really requires 25 or 26 inches for my waist and 36 for my somewhat hips. Thus, the gear made me, as Mike described it, 'deliciously overflow from my underwear.' It also made him want me and usually he'd have me there and then, before dinner, often in the hallway against a wall or on all fours. A bit like an aperitif really.
The idea, however, of hoods, leather, rubber or latex gear, acting out dominatrix and sub scenes and the various other acts associated with slightly deviant practices never really appealed. Not that either of us had anything against mild BDSM. No, we were both quite adventurous and in the right circumstances we probably could have been persuaded to indulge. However, the circumstances never came about and doing such things by ourselves struck us as faintly ridiculous. I'm sure we'd have gained more fun and laughter from him in a latex thong or me brandishing a cat o' nine tails than we would have found sexual stimulation.
But after the divorce, when I was a near forty-year-old on the loose, my eyes were opened, a lot. Sex of all types seemed to be everywhere and appeared to be the topic that took precedence over nearly everything else. There was, even among my age group but particularly among the young, an incredibly, to me at least, open attitude towards it. And the more I heard and read about peoples sexual inclinations the more they seemed to be slightly deviant and the more couples there were that did indulge in contrived sex. I heard of swingers' parties, role-plays, orgies, couples fantasy clubs, boudoir photography, visiting massage, S & M and all manner of activities that were thought-out and planned prior to execution.
During most of my marriage I was very happy and content. Well we loved each other and this was forever, wasn't it? I always thought. So I'd hardly strayed let alone thought that much about other men or what was going on around me amongst, especially the single fraternity. I wasn't single and wasn't likely to be, so why think about them was my attitude? If they wanted to sleep around, have a variety of partners, get up to all sorts of antics and fuck one another almost as easily as giving someone a peck on the cheek, well that was up to them. Was I bit of a prude? Well yes I suppose I was. But then I could afford to be. I was married, had a husband that loved me and, unlike many of my friends, we had a very active and energetic sex-life. The need to experiment, choose men to go to bed with or know the ways of the modern woman with regard to relationships in general and sexual ones in particular just didn't cross my mind.
So a year or so after the divorce came through, I had no idea how to start my new single life. I was out of practice with talking to men who wanted to date me. I had forgotten how to relate to potential bed partners. After all, since I'd taken up with Mike when I was twenty, I'd only slept with him and one other man, both of whom at the time I thought I loved.
I was determined to learn though and to learn fast. I didn't want to be alone and I certainly didn't want to sit in night after night watching TV or pretending that reading books or doing crosswords made for enjoyable and fulfilling evenings. No, I wanted the taste of youth that I'd lost by going with a man ten years my senior when I was nineteen. I wanted to be out and about. I wanted to go clubbing, as they called it, for I'd never been, well not as a single girl on the pull I hadn't. I wanted to go to pubs and bars. I wanted to be chatted up, I wanted men to come after me and yes I wanted to get laid. I wanted sex. I needed it, after all there had probably not been week gone by for fifteen years or so when I hadn't had it. The idea of going weeks or even longer without it horrified me.
So I went on a strict diet getting my weight down to around 135 pounds which was about right for my build. I tried various new hair dos and colour, and went blonde for a while; after all they're supposed to have more fun aren't they? I put myself about a bit. I accepted invitations to parties and functions. I rejoined my tennis club and took up golf again. I went back to work. I found the Internet and chat rooms. I had fun on there and that, probably more than anything else opened my eyes to the sexual revolution that had passed me by. I know there's total anonymity on there but to have total strangers type to me. "What colour panties you wearing?" or ask, "wanna see my cock on cam?" was certainly educational.
And overall it worked. I quickly made myself a new circle of friends, well acquaintances I suppose, both in the cyberland of chat rooms and in the harsher one of reality. I developed an active social life and started dating. In fact it all probably worked too well as, for a year or so I was rushed off my feet with my social whirl. That wasn't a good thing as far as my relationship with Emilyh my daughter was concerned, so once I'd got myself established I vowed to change.
Also it wasn't really a very good idea for my self-esteem. Sure having men after me did give me confidence. Having them chat me up and ask me out reassured me that Mike's philandering wasn't totally down to me. Going on dates showed me that I could relate to, and get on well with, almost, strangers, something that had worried me for I'd never been much good at that. And of course going to bed with them and having sex with a number of men demonstrated to me that probably I wasn't that bad in bed and that most men enjoyed my body.
It also fed the appetite I had for sexual satisfaction, probably too much. In fact to the extent that my self-esteem did suffer. After all it's not that easy to provide moral judgements to a teenage daughter when just the night before that girl's mum was being fucked in a car in a darkened car park. It's hard to give advice on the birds and bees when there's just been too many men birds in the mummy bee's bed. Feeling good about oneself and life in general doesn't easily follow having three men on the go at one time and in one crazy week going to bed with each of them on consecutive nights.
I called this 'my raining men' period and it did blow the cobwebs away. It did loosen me up and it did bring me into the 21st century of womanhood. Sure I went too far. I was, for a while, too easy. I did during that year sleep around a bit. But maybe it was necessary. Possibly I needed the excess to find and appreciate the norm. Chatting to men, and women come to that, on the net widened my sexual outlook considerably. I exchanged views on aspects of sex that I knew little about and certainly had never experienced. It made me more broad minded and acceptable of sexual practices that I had no desire to exper'ience, well not sure about no, let's say little shall we? The exposure to such things really did enable me to accept the maxim different strokes for different folks' and that made me far less judgemental.
After that first mad year I did settle down. I found the equilibrium, the balance between leading a fun life, where I caught up on what I'd missed out and being a mum. Between getting the sex I needed and being overly promiscuous.
It was during that year that I met and started going out with Adrian. A widowed advertising executive he had two children, both boys, who were away at boarding school. He lived in a rambling town house just off Hoxton Square in Shoreditch, East London. The area, which had been depressed for years, was making a strong comeback with everywhere being gentrified and at that time was rapidly becoming the trendiest area in all of London.
We met at an ad industry conference. We dined together afterwards, got on well, went on two dates then slept together. He was good, well more OK really, in bed. The first few time we had sex there was something just a little wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on what. There was a sort of edginess on his part. Sure, he took his time and made sure that I was suitably aroused by fairly lengthy foreplay. But that was mechanistic and almost as if he was making love to me by following instructions from a manual. Despite that he produced the appropriate reactions from me, multiple and satisfying orgasms.
He was a well-built guy in his late-forties but, slightly embarrassingly, he was a couple of inches shorter than me. Good looking with a full head of hair Ade, as I usually called him, had very bad eyesight and had to wear thick spectacles, as his particular stigmatism prevented him wearing contacts.
A few weeks later Emily was away for a weekend, so I arranged to spend it with him at his house which was just six or seven miles from my Essex flat. We had dinner on the Friday night at a Vietnamese restaurant in Kingsland Road, walked to his house, slightly tipsy holding hands and stopping to kiss every few yards in doorways and dark places. In one he slid his hand in my blouse and then in another he scooped my breasts from my bra. On the remainder of the short walk through the crowded streets of Hoxton we were heavily aroused, very excited and totally tuned into sex, especially as both of my breasts were out of my bra and the extended nipples were making large outlines in the thin top.
He fucked me in the hallway of his house. He fucked me just like they had it in The Thomas Crown Affair, the second one I mean with Piers Brosnan, half way up a staircase. He didn't undress me but merely pushed my leather skirt up, tugged my panties down round my thighs and fucked me like that. And it was great. It was exactly what the circumstances and our mood demanded. A hard, fast, raw and dirty fuck with no edginess. Perhaps it was more satisfying because his instruction manual didn't cover how to fuck half way up a staircase!
We drank more and then went to bed and there he didn't fuck me. No there, in his very masculine bedroom we made love. We made long, lingering, tender and pretty satisfying love. We'd taken the bottle of wine to bed with us and after we'd both climaxed, well with me it was after several climaxes, I was leaning back against his outstretched legs sipping my wine totally satisfied and fully at peace with life.
