Sexual Ringfence

Sitting at my laptop, minding my own business, studying three couples in a sex party game, suddenly, the door opens and in strolls my wife.

Playing it cool as best I can, closing the window, typing something into the address bar, trying not to look flustered, meanwhile probably looking furtive and guilty like a schoolboy. My wife however either not noticing or choosing to let it pass.

An awkward moment. One which by temperament I would rather have been quite open about, okay, I’ve been watching a rather good porn movie, would you like to watch it with me. You’re welcome. Otherwise, leave me alone.

Doing such a thing being impossible, however, the response being knowable in advance, namely, she’d be upset at the suggestion, and upset at the invasion of her household by an ugly and unwelcome infestation.

In fact, thinking about it, the snag for her isn’t the pornography, she isn’t a fool, she knows that it exists, probably knows too that most men watch it. The snag is that she doesn’t want to be confronted with it. She’d rather have her life organized in such a way that pornography is ringfenced out. A perfectly understandable preference.

Well, she can run her life her way, I’ll run my life mine. It seems like that’s how it is with things sexual, there’s a clear but unspoken boundary. Do what you like but don’t foist it on me.

Maybe that’s how all marriages turn out. Well, maybe not the ones where husband and wife are always and unwaveringly in tune sexually, for what, thirty, forty, fifty years. How many of those will there be? A small minority if that.

Sounds like a mature and considered conclusion. Let’s be grateful for what we have, let’s coexist happily. Meanwhile, In the awkward, chaotic, crazy part of ourselves that we call sex, you do your thing, I’ll do mine, let’s not rub each other’s noses in it,

Maybe my wife has arrived at the same conclusion, that’s why she didn’t get involved in my online perturbation.

Sex Party Games

Today, a superior porn movie. Three couples having a dinner party, deciding to play a sex game, the video camera passing to whoever isn’t currently involved.

Production quality amateur but satisfactory, an increasingly common occurrence. Plunging technology prices plus rising exhibitionism, a situation of high promise for porn connossieurs.

Common format for sex games, two packs of cards. The first pack, Question Cards. When did you lose your virginity? Tell us about your first taste of sperm. Have you had sex with someone of the same sex? When did you last masturbate? Have you had anal? Tell us your best sexual fantasy. Have you tried bondage?

One woman, a blonde, asked, have you had more than two in a bed? Hesitant smile, hand covering her mouth. The others smiling at her, teasing her to answer. She starting to say something, stopping, laughing. The others counting to ten in a rising chorus. After ten, no answer. Rules of the game, she has to take a card from the other pack.

Penalty Cards, pink for women, blue for men. The blonde taking a pink one, reading it out. Take the hand of the man on your right and guide it to your nipple. After playing for half a minute, the man can kiss and suck the nipple for another half a minute. Laughter all round. The blonde hesitating. The man on her right offering his hand. The blonde flushing but conceding. The others watching, excited.

The game continuing. Slowly accumulating details of sexual pasts. Present sexual personalities shining through. The bashful blonde. The boastful jock. The brassy red-haired. The shy man. All becoming more aroused. As am I.

Gradually, more and more clothes discarded. Sexual penalties becoming stronger. One wife having to choose which man to be entered by. A blindfolded man having his cock sucked, having to identify the woman doing it. A woman choosing which men and which holes to be double-penetrated by.

Throughout, the camera rolling, refusing to edit the transitions. After two hours, feels like I’ve been at the party myself.

Force of Nature

Hormones starting to stew up, ultimately not to be relieved by anything other than a woman’s sexual touch. My body slowly becoming slave to the pull, an irresistible force of nature, responsible for the survival of the species but also half its problems.

The escort website, logging in, checking my hot list. Still no Anna, farewell my lovely, wherever you are I hope the sun is shining. Three or four others also gone, just think, if I’d acted earlier I might have known them too, oh well, life is full of things that could have happened but didn’t.

Okay, so concentrate on the things that can happen and do.

Clicking a search button, saved search, escorts within fifteen miles, latest recruits shown first. New profiles filling the screen.

Blowjob Belinda, special service, fifteen minutes, twenty five pounds. Come to my place darling, relieve your load into my mouth, go on your way. Ten minutes easy walk from Canary Wharf, it’ll be so quick nobody at work will notice you've been gone, but you’ll feel great all day. I await your call darling.

Bored Housewife, fifty pounds for thirty minutes. Husband at work, I stay at home and am panting for sex with you, baby. Lots of uniforms, schoolgirl, nurse, stripper, PVC, let me know which you like and I’ll be ready. Call me now baby.

Eurotrash Slut, waiting for you…

These and others providing mild entertainment, but missing something somehow. Maybe it’s my mood. Whatever, what I’m looking for is that sudden clutching grip on my attention that some profiles give.

Back to my hot list, scanning through them. One standing out. Sexy Brunette Bruna, Czech girl in Paddington. Loves all things in sex but especially sixty-nine. Lick my holes while I suck your cock. You can cum in my mouth or we can try other positions. At the side, a picture of her lying face down on a black leather sofa.

Mmmm, Bruna, I could so easily be tempted.

Hetero

Pushing up some weights at the gym, a necessary chore. To relieve the boredom, watching other weightpushers, all of them men. Sweat gleaming, muscles bulging. For every minute of weightpushing, five minutes of lolling around looking in mirrors.

The company of semi-naked men, cue for imputation of homoerotic frisson, hence homosexual tendency. You can see the point but it’s nothing I can ever personally find resonance with. My focus of interest, I wonder whether women would find those muscles attractive. Mostly women proclaim otherwise, but you never can tell.

Thoughts turning to Christelle, my French student lover. She saying, homosexuality is fine but it’s obvious you don’t have a homosexual particle in your body. Well then, she and I think the same. Not a matter of any importance, just, can’t quite square it with the consensus that everyone has some homosexuality.

Christelle going on, that’s good because it’s also obvious you don’t do drugs either. Which means that those little diseases that travel with the fluids, I don’t have to worry, if no nasty fluids enter you then none will enter me.

Looking at me across a white pillow. Continuing. But I don’t want to get pregnant, so if you want to cum in my pussy, put a condom on. Utterly matter-of-fact in her tone and words. Otherwise, you can cum in my bum or cum in my mouth.

A practical arrangement of some significance, we had a lot of sex during the year or so I was with her, only used about five condoms.

Moving to the bench press, loading on some iron. Settling back, feeling my pectorals tighten. Wonder if any of the other weightpushers are homoerotically looking at me. If so, forget it boys, I’m just now immersed in my own little heteroerotic daydream about Christelle.

Secret Chamber

Near a week gone and feeling sharp pangs of need for Anna, her physical charisma still weaving its powerful magic.

In fact, half in love with her. A ridiculous situation, she being barely in her twenties, too young for me. And in the interim having seen, what, thirty, forty, fifty other men. I can’t imagine that she’s given me a second thought. Spelling out these truths however failing to dispel the spell. True infatuation.

Yesterday, last resolve collapsing, opening up the escort website, logging in. My hot list, click. Quickly scanning for the picture of Anna. Not there. Scanning more slowly. Still not there. Maybe some error, or maybe she took a day’s break. This morning, same again, nothing.

Oh well, she seemed to come from Eastern Europe, maybe Poland, it felt like a transient arrangement, she could easily have gone home or moved elsewhere, London is like that, it’s part of its charm. So, probably, Anna out of my life forever. Probably just as well.

Thinking about her through the morning. Anna darling I wish you well. You may not remember me but I remember you. In my mind there’s a secret chamber, a small one, not nearly as big as others, but still a special one, and on its door is the name Anna.

Turn the handle, push open the door to this chamber and inside the curtains are open, the sun is shining through the windows, a soft breeze blows and birdsong fills the air. Go inside and lie there on the double bed in peace. Anna walking in, naked, smiling. Bodies snuggling close, kissing. She moving down with her mouth to my cock, opening her legs, letting me stroke between them, her juices glistening.

A chamber outside the reach of earthly dirt to spoil. To be held in my mind for as long as I want it, probably for ever. A life enhancing gift from a lovely woman.

Jane Again

Waking up this morning, thinking of Jane. My darling schoolfriend lover. Making love with her, a blurring of identities and fusion of flesh, after a week together we needed a month apart just to rediscover the individual inside.

She in due time marrying an Australian and moving there. Out of my life for years and years, the memory of her receding but her sexual imprint ineradicable. Then, in Australia on business, an opportunity to meet up at a dinner party.

The day approaching. Thinking, she’ll probably look different, don’t be disappointed that she isn’t still nineteen. Behave with decency, don’t make sly reference to our former love. She’s got a child, so have I, things have moved on, she doesn’t need interference and complication and neither do I.

These intentions disintegrating in the first instant of seeing her. Immediately, like an electric current, the connection reconnecting. Her complicitous eyes the same as ever. The simple unaffected pleasure at being together. Every sentence about anything freighted with sexual vibrancy, the mere act of communication heavy with desire.

Meeting her husband, trying hard not to recoil. An obvious mismatch for Jane. A clear narcissist, coiffed hair, over-strong handshake, ponderous utterances produced in sonorous voice for a grateful world, smile manufactured. Also, thick.

Thinking, oh Jane, as beautiful a sexual person as you, wasted on this prig. Bet you, when you make love, the main focus is him, you play a bit part and he thinks you’re lucky to have that.

Later, chatting with Jane, having to avoid too much meeting of eyes, both of us on the edge of tears. She knowing that I know. Her inner sexual life withered, far worse than mine. Both knowing that an hour together alone and naked, and we’d both be healed. But also knowing, to do so would be too unraveling, we have to live in this practical world.

A scene recollected many times, like this morning. Still don’t know whether we shouldn’t have just gone ahead.

Sexual Boundaries

My wife running late today, she's started therapy sessions. A regular hour with a therapist being necessary, apparently. Fifty pounds a week to untangle her mind.

For supper when she gets home, a small joint of lamb, she likes that. Crisp and dark with herbs on the outside, pink and juicy within. To be served with baby potatoes, beans, a glass of Barolo. The meal coming along nicely.

Therapy, the point about it, you can explore things which you can’t share with people close to you, to do so would be unsettling to all. Tell things to a therapist and it stays there. The same as would once have applied with a priest. Confessions contained in clear boundaries, these boundaries being essential to the therapeutic process.

Noises of the door opening, my wife dumping her bags, hanging up her coat. Coming through to the kitchen, a smile and squeezed hand for me, oohhh, smells good. Plop of cork being pulled, gurgle of wine being poured, clinking of glasses. A desultory discussion of the day’s happenings.

The other point about therapy, there are some things which after a point you can’t deal with by yourself, you need to share them with a detached outsider.

Later, in bed, she beside me, asleep, two bodies warm together. Gentle domestic rhythms, anchors for sanity.

Thinking about Anna, our time together. The thrill and implications far beyond my wife’s interest or capability of comprehension. No point in sharing that particular truth with her, it would only cause pain.

Well let her have her therapist and her boundaries and confidences and detached outsider, and I’ll have mine.

Diseased Core Dissolving

Bethune Road as directed, two minutes to twelve. Anna’s number in my phone, dial. Answering on the third ring, giving me final directions. A blue wooden door opening. There before me Anna, exactly the person of the photo, in bulky sweatshirt and training pants.

Smiling, stepping aside to let me in, taking me to a smallish room, curtains drawn, dominated by a double bed.

A silence, Anna appraising me. A rookie. Smiling, putting out her hand, you need to pay me first. Giving her three twenties. Just wait a minute darling. Walking out, closing the door, taking the money elsewhere.

The door reopening. Anna returning, coming straight to me, hand round the back of my head, soft lips on mine. Pulling gently at my shirt to get it off.

Shedding our clothes. Anna’s kisses moving to my neck and chest, stomach. She sitting on the bed, me standing, holding my penis, taking it into her mouth, working it gently with her hand. Taking it out. Patting the bed, showing me where to lie. Both getting comfortable, me on my back, she lying across me, cock in her mouth.

Relaxation spreading over my body in a soft quivering wave. A hard inner diseased core dissolving. My hand stroking the skin of her arm and shoulder and back, learning her curves and bones and musculature and texture. Her hand sliding rhythmically round my cock, tongue flicking my glans.

After a while, rearranging ourselves. Anna on her back, me with my head between her legs, licking her. She lifting her knees high, opening herself. A shared enjoyment, no reluctant sighs of resignation, no oh-well-if-you-have-to’s, no grimaces. The strong clean bittersweet smell of her juices. Her clitoris small and tight under my tongue.

Unhurried minutes tasting her. Moving again. Anna reaching for a condom, putting it on expertly. She kneeling on all fours, me entering her from behind. Her shoulders lowering to the mattress, her back curving inwards, her buttocks high and separated. Me inside her, looking down at her strong back and beautiful open ass and entered pussy.

An otherworldly silence enveloping the universe, things becoming still. Just the motion of thrusting and the sense of shallow breathing. The silence slowly deepening. Then a crack of lightning and my whole body caught in an arching spasm. A whimpering groan coming from somewhere inside. Two seconds, nothing but me and Anna and an empty world.

Legs buckling, body collapsing, falling onto the bed. Next moment of awareness, lying on my back, Anna beside me, head on my shoulder. Looking at me. Smiling. Speaking softly. You needed that, baby.

Taking the Plunge

This is getting desperate, I can’t make it much longer without the sexual touch of a woman’s skin.

Tetchy the whole weekend. Trying to work it off with a five mile run. Brushing shoulders accidentally with someone. The incident escalating quickly into a shouting match, me being the last to back off. Vulgar and unpleasant. Do that again and who knows, it might be me on page seventeen of some newspaper, man stabbed in streetfight.

Trying my best not to let it affect things at home. But feeling as if I’m acting a part, not really engaging. My temper occasionally fraying, forcing myself to rein back, saying to myself don’t wreck everything.

Meanwhile, a constant low-grade itch just beneath the skin. Masturbation unsatisfactory, a sour surface climax and the spring fully rewound fifteen minutes later.

This morning, the same unrelenting scratchiness. To hell with it, if I don’t do something about it I’ll land up making big mistakes, losing my family, getting fired.

Loading up the escort website, scanning my hot list. For some reason, knowing exactly who I want. Straight to Anna. All services, no extras, no bareback, sixty pounds for half an hour. A photo of a slim girl in black panties, one hand on hip.

Dialing her number. Answer in a low voice, hi. Hi, is that Anna? Yes it is. I was wondering, are you free today? What time darling? Say twelve o’clock? Twelve o’clock is good darling, do you want thirty minutes or an hour? Thirty minutes. Okay darling, I’ll text you my address. Okay, see you twelve o’ clock. Okay darling, bye.

Ten seconds later, beep-beep-beep. A message, bethune road n16, corner of sandf ct, ring me when you get here, i’ll give you apartment number.

Texting back, see you twelve o’clock.

Okay, Anna, that gives me two hours, at the end of which either I’ve changed my mind or you’ll have changed my life.

Bunch of Roses

Yesterday, an idea. Logging into the marital dating website under my female alias. Six emails from would-be suitors. This despite my profile having absolutely no information beyond being female and forty three.

So, padding out the profile. Husband away on business, looking for occasional company to while away long afternoons or evenings. Highly sexed for the right person. More along that vein. A photo snipped from the internet of a mediumly attractive woman, face blurred with an oval smudge.

That was yesterday. Logging in today. Phew. One hundred and nineteen emails seeking my hand in illicit affairdom.

Let me think, as a male, pay a hundred pounds a month, construct a careful profile, check every day for three weeks, garner one unsolicited response. Send out about twenty emails, make some modest progress with about five before petering out.

As a female, pay nothing, slap together some junk, don’t bother to email anyone, wait a day, get more than a hundred earnest solicitations.

So much for equality of sexes, female emancipation, so on. I guess the drives and drivers are the same as they always must have been.

Scanning through the responses, mentally categorizing them. About half, trivial or fatuous, online winks and the like. Speaking as a newly created female, not very impressive, why would I bother with those.

The other half, more detailed. Protestations of romantic passion. Claims of sincerity, these from men whose stated purpose in being there is to cheat. The tone, testosterone laden narcissism proffering a token bunch of roses. A clear impression of having been copied and pasted into romantic emails many times.

Only a couple, thoughtful, saying, your profile doesn’t set out any interests, would you like to share more, things like that.

Well, interesting being a female for a day. Must be terrible, show the slightest glimpse of sexual availability, feel like you’ve just thrown bleeding entrails into shark-infested seas, watch the thrashing waters in trepidation.

Closing down my female membership. Don’t think I can stand the glutinous attention of males any further.

Father and Daughter

This weekend, my turn to look after my daughter. Watching her from the school gates, discussing something earnestly with her friends. Just eleven, and already a budding sexual awareness. Or at least, an awareness of sexual awareness amongst her friends.

My job, to be her father, the thing no other person on this planet can be. Maybe her mother’s new husband could be too, but one difference, for him it’s optional and renounceable, for me, for incontrovertible reasons of biology, it’s not.

Laughter breaking out amongst the eleven-year-olds. Me watching them. Thinking, what does this father thing involve? I think, try to preserve her innocence, let her sexual maturation be as natural and unhurried as possible.

Trouble is, that’s a near impossibility, listen to the knowingness of that laughter, the quickness with which my daughter will be laughed at or excluded if she isn’t knowing herself. Look at the shops we’ll pass on the way home, bras, sex toys, lipstick, teenage magazines with advice on blowjobs.

This however magnifying the father role, what I can be is the one person who doesn’t get involved in all that. Resolutely asexual in fact. A bit staid. Someone who she’ll shrug her shoulders about, say, he doesn’t get it, it’s a generation thing, things have changed so much since he was young.

My job, to be the one male that she can be absolutely certain loves her without reference to sex, loves her just because she is who she is.

Wonder if one day she’ll become like one of those girls I see online, escorts, pornstars, so on, Or do other stuff I’m not really interested in, bondage, lesbianism, suchlike. Well, her free choice, who am I to pass judgment? I’d rather not know. If I ever did, so what, she’s still my daughter, I’d still love her, the two of us in our own unique world, that other stuff belongs in another, and I’d act in such a way to make sure she knows that.

Dragging herself away from her friends, giving me a hug and a kiss. Holding my hand, walking away. Me thinking, well there’s a lot of time before all that becomes an issue, meanwhile I’ll just try to be a reference point of love and dependability as best I can.

Sex Parties

And now for my erotic delectation a new option to mull, sex parties. Doing an unrelated internet search, espying a suggestive link, clicking it, and now here we are.

Five days of scheduled parties coming up this week, two each day. Various themes, nurses, stockings, bunny girls, nudie, thong, suchlike. Three hours for some, four hours for others.

Come visit our newly refurbished apartment in Stratford, just near the Olympic village. Contribution required for drinks and snacks. Activities taking place in bedrooms, strictly between consenting adults, as could happen at any party, no charge. Girls not allowed to accept gratuities. Pay once at the door and get everything thereafter for free. Pamela our party coordinator is waiting for your booking, ring her now on her cellphone, see number below.

Clicking randomly on the party scheduled for next Tuesday. On the screen, photos of Sylvia, Naomi and Svetlana. Beneath, brief profiles. Nymphomania, deep throat, multiple penetration, bisexuality, exhibitionism.

By chance, hovering the arrow over Sylvia and discovering a link. Clicking. Further photos. A pretty blond, rounded but toned. One photo of her in a short black dress looking backwards over her shoulder to the camera, an upside down photo of her on a couch in a thong and bra, another of her dancing naked around a pole. At the side, links to her porno videos, click these to download.

A quick glance at Naomi’s photos. Leggy, blonde. Svetlana, short black hair, thin, false breasts.

Clicking the Frequently Asked Questions. No drugs. Condoms compulsory. Any violence and you’ll be asked to leave. Number of males at each party, average six, not more than eight, half of them will be resting from their exertions at any one time, so you’ll always be able to have one of our girls to yourself, sometimes two. Regular and oral at all parties, anal only at anal parties.

Looking at the list of parties, the contribution for drinks and snacks set out against each one. A hundred and thirty pounds usually, sometimes less for the three hour parties.

Tempting, my friend, very tempting. I might just do that.

Role Reversal

Pumping some iron in the gym today, staying in shape. Pondering. That marital dating website, they claim that the cost of membership varies between males and females, to make sure the numbers of each sex stay balanced.

So, men pay a hundred pounds a month. But what do women pay? Looking through the site last night, no indication. A strange thing not to disclose. Maybe I should email them to ask.

Returning from the gym, thinking, there’s a better way. Entering the site. Signing up as a new member, free. Stating my sex as female. A quick search for male members, picking one at random. So far, no demands for money.

Now this is the moment of truth, it’s when you try to send a message that you’re told that you need to be a premium member, cost such-and-such a month, a hundred pounds if you’re male.

Pausing, thinking, let’s make a guess. I reckon, men will be more attracted than women to the promise of no-strings dating, the idea that you can have fun but without commitment. But I also reckon that there are an awful lot of women stuck in tired marriages, who need some excitement.

So, to balance the numbers, my bet is that it’s twice, maybe three times, as expensive for men. So when I click this button here to send a message, I as the new female member will be asked for what? I reckon, forty pounds. No, make it thirty. Maybe twenty-five, no, that’s too low, undervalues the product. Okay, my bet, thirty.

Clicking the button. What’s this? Apparently, I can just go ahead. What’s that mean, my subscription isn’t a hundred pounds as for men, nor fifty, nor thirty, nor even twenty-five, it’s zero.

Well, explains a lot. The women on the site, for them it must be quite fun, logging in occasionally to hold court before a squadron of eager and affluent gentlemen.

I feel like a turkey, falling for a line like that.

Aching Loins

The man passive and obedient, but willing. The woman in control, issuing instructions, but not dominant, more in the way of someone familiar with territory unbeknown to the less experienced partner. Jointly doing something agreed in advance.

At her prompting, he lying on his back, erection settling against his stomach. His feet pointing at the camera. She mounting atop him. Taking his penis in her hand, guiding it inside her. A gentle grinding of her hips. Leaning forward to kiss his face, filling the screen with spread cheeks, crinkly skin of brown sphincter, pussy lips clinging to his penis.

Then a change of rhythm. Looking back, at the camera or a mirror. Her hand reaching behind her, her hips lifting, her hand pulling out his penis. Repositioning her hips, holding the penis to point at her sphincter. Lowering softly. Moving around, searching for the sweet spot.

After a second, giving up, lifting her hips, repositioning, trying again. Holding his penis firm in position with her hand. Lowering again. This time, apparent success. The penis tip just in. A brief pause whilst her body adjusts. Pulling her cheeks apart with both hands to reduce resistance.

A little lurch, and the penis more firmly lodged. Her body rocking gently, her hole getting used to the intruder. A fragile and intimate moment. Holding it for a second. All apparently okay. Another lurch, an inch deeper. Then lowering completely, the penis fully entered. Another pause, this time of satisfaction, she feeling the flesh deep inside. Then back to the rhythm of lovemaking.

This little scene, thrilling in itself but even more so for me, being so accurate a replication of my own first time doing that. Christelle, my French student lover, showing me how, I can still feel that beautiful lurch as her sphincter suddenly surrendered its squidgy grip, let me inside a further inch.

A heavenly memory, reenacted before me on the screen. My loins aching to do it again.

Blushing Smiles

At work, a colleague who never quite fitted, bleached hair, short skirt, tattoo on her ankle, steel ring through her nostril. On secondment from Germany for a year, returning there every second weekend to be with her husband. For some reason, carrying the sense of a mysterious hinterland, as if there was plenty in her life that we couldn’t see.

Encountering her only about once a week, but always noticing her and feeling noticed by her. Friendly chat. A common interest emerging, she also being a cycling enthusiast. Soon, something else, a sexual connection, that magic unexplained thing. Her smiles changing, becoming more private, almost blushing. The gravitational pull more powerful for remaining unspoken.

Then one day, six months ago, time to go back to Germany. At her farewell party, regretful smiles on both our faces. Half-formed plans to develop things, disappearing over the horizon.

Life going on. Until last night, an email, hi, I’m in a new job now and need to be in London quite regularly, would you like to meet up. Usually I’m there Monday and Tuesday, overnighting at a company flat near the Tate Modern, perhaps we can get together some time that’s convenient for you. (That’s if you want to.) How’s the cycling going? x Giselle.

This charge of electricity, enough to make the soul dance. Tossing and turning through the night, working out how to play it. Cool or ardent? Touch her or wait for her to touch me. See if I can make her laugh, generally the best policy unless you look as though you’re trying too hard. Through the night, a thousand tactics decided on, decisions made and then reversed.

Sunlight through the curtains this morning and instantly awake, ready for action, email reply drafted in my head. Sinking back into the pillow, oh dammit, that email from Giselle, all the hectic plans, they were a dream.

Oh well. Maybe this supposed sexual connection between us is a dream too, there’s no actual evidence.

Wonderful dreams, though, both.

Natural-Born Nympho

Part-time escort back from holiday today. I’m a natural born nympho, even when I was young I would get caught playing with my secret spot. It never went away and it has got worse. I love it when I suck the cock of a guy I only met half an hour before.

When my friend told me I could earn money for doing what I enjoy, I thought I would try it, and now I’m on this site. I like earning a little pocket money, but that’s not the real reason I’m doing it, I just love the sex.

I work with other girls in a lovely apartment in Camden, where you can have a drink, shower, change, or we can get on with sex straight away. Use any of my holes, condom required except for my mouth. Sixty pounds for thirty minutes, a hundred for an hour, no extras. Phone me now on the number below.

This profile on the escort website, seen yesterday, authenticity shining through, echoing in my mind through the night.

At the side, a picture of a normal, attractive girl, a perfect match for the profile.

At the foot, some housekeeping. Don’t withhold your number, or I won’t answer. Having your number means that I know you won’t try anything funny. I won’t ring you on it, but I’ll hold it for a week, then delete it. I only take cash, you need to give it to me when you arrive, I don’t want to finish the fun and then you discover you’ve lost your wallet. Please don’t phone to offer services, I’m independent and do not need a photographer, chauffeur, partner or protector. Bring flowers if you want.

A slow metamorphosis creeping over me, instead of online titillation, there’s a need for touching real flesh, smelling intimate smells. And sixty pounds, about the cost of a bottle of champagne at a restaurant. What’s stopping me?

Rabbit

An interesting anthropological snippet in the newspaper this week, full of significance for man’s relationship with woman.

Received wisdom, our early ancestors, running around on all fours, discovered that if they stood up on their hind legs then their arms were free to throw stones, hit with sticks, use tools, so on. All true, but not the most important thing, according to a new theory.

More important, the thinking goes, having use of your arms gave you a crucial advantage in winning a female. It meant that you could bring back food. Catching a rabbit four miles away, difficult to carry it home if you’re on all fours.

You can just hear it, the chatter amongst the females, that old courtship routine with all the muscular display and cavorting about and shouting, that’s just so last year, what turns me on is a man who can bring home a rabbit. To keep me full and warm, also my children, who I now feel more confident about having with him as a mate.

This ancient female insight being so profound and true as to wire itself into the workings of the mind. The consequence ever since, short version, no sex without paying. One way or another.

The question in a woman’s mind, so the theory goes, why should I have sex with you if you don’t give me things, there are plenty of others that will, you’re not so intrinsically attractive that it’s you that I want, though as a stratagem I might pretend so. What I’m drawn to, the thing about you that I find attractive, is your ability to give me things.

This womanly calculus being sometimes deliberate and conscious, in which case, easily detected and repellent. More often, just a deep ineluctable bias.

One inference for the modern man, however you choose to take your sex, you land up paying for it ultimately.

Affair Practicalities

A couple more responses on the marital dating website, both unsatisfactory. One from someone who in two short sentences managed to convey fencepost stupidness.

Another from a woman who seemed in shock at her husband’s infidelity, using the website as a means of revenge, hey lady, direct your anger at him not me. If I do have an affair it needs to be centered on the two of us, not overshadowed by the ghostly presence of a spouse.

But a deeper disillusionment setting in. The women on the website seem to be playing at it, passing an idle hour bending the ear of some supplicant, like a free therapy session. Can’t imagine it would be much fun actually to meet up.

Besides, if you did, and by some miracle it turned out there was the requisite spark, what then? Agree further dates? Go to a movie? Go to Paris for the day? The weekend? But then what?

Jump into bed? But where? Her place? Dodging her husband, leaving my imprint all over her space and his? Feels tawdry to me. My place? Were my wife to discover that, it would traverse a boundary more profound somehow than that crossed by the mere mingling of flesh. Her sanctum violated. From there, no return. Not just me, but also her world, contaminated. A transgression in some distant place, more easily fended off or excused, more open to healing.

So where? A hotel? It would have to be a good one, not budget accommodation for traveling businessmen, a cheap tiny box, polyester sheets, traffic roaring outside.

So, dinner, champagne, hotel room. Cost, about three or four hundred pounds. Then the next time, same again.

And if it really works between you, how does that play out? Nine o’clock at night, sudden text messages, finding explanations to my wife for going outside so I can make phonecalls. Too furtive and too arousing of suspicion.

I need to think this out again.

Nocturnal Erection

Waking up last night with the stiffest of stiff erections, a weekly or two-weekly occurrence springing from mental or biological causes unknown. My wife next to me, pyjama clad, inert. No point in any contact there, she’d find the intrusion unwelcome.

An opportunity thus foregone of extreme bonding, dreamy nocturnal sex being a thing of deep intimacy and trust, unencumbered with the conversations and complications of everyday life. A sleepy and defenseless union of body and souls. A secret sharing.

Lying in bed, feeling very alone. Thinking about lovers past, the times of routine mutual pleasure from such events. My Italian ex, the yoga teacher, being the most forthright, making me promise not to waste any midnight erection without waking her up. To enjoy, her words. Or at least have first refusal. Often leading to sex. For some reason, this being the only time she liked the missionary position, probably so she could stay half asleep, now I think about it.

An arrangement with reciprocal obligations, her words. She sometimes waking up horny too, or anxious about something and in need of relaxation. The result being an occasional awakening with her face on my stomach and her mouth round my cock, the transition from unconsciousness to dawning realisation being as close a thing to heaven as is vouchsafed to man.

My wife lying beside me moving in sleep. A different person entire. Long experience teaching, you can’t make someone into something they’re not, don’t waste everybody’s time trying.

Yet her distaste for my cock having a corollary. I’ll respect her preferences, and not impose it on her. But she thereby renounces ownership of it, leaving it free to find its comforts elsewhere. Use it or lose it.

But for now, no consolation. Like a wolf howling at the moon.

Glory Hole

On the screen before me, another free video, selected to jibe with today’s mood, a woman at a glory hole.

The form as set as a sonnet or haiku, therein lying its attraction. The camera in fixed position at the narrow end of a small cubicle containing a stool or lavatory. Sitting on the stool, a woman with a black eyemask. In the side wall at face height, a hole the size of a saucer. Protruding through the hole, an erect penis. The woman’s job, to play and suck until ejaculation.

As in all the best glory hole videos, at least to my taste, the production giving the effect of recording something that would be taking place anyway, without the camera. A secret spy on a sex party perhaps.

The woman removing the penis from her mouth, giving it a final working with her hand, tilting her face backward, receiving a pulsing spray of white liquid. A post-climax pause. The penis withdrawing back through the hole. The woman wiping her face and chest with a tissue. Waiting. A new penis appearing through the hole. Her fingers reaching up for it, stroking it into hardness, licking its tip, taking it into her mouth.

At the side, a door opening and a second woman entering, tapping the first on the shoulder. The first stopping, removing the eyemask, smiling at the second in recognition, swapping places. The first one leaving. The second one sitting, putting on an eyemask, taking the penis in her hand, getting comfortable, taking it into her mouth.

This playing itself out to me, and in the previous three months to one point two million other online viewers, over seventeen minutes. A highly specialized eroticism, he having no idea who she is, nor she him. Stranger or acquaintance or spouse, no way of knowing.

The second penis reaching its climax, revealed by a telltale freeze in the woman’s body as she takes it deep in her mouth. A pause, the penis withdrawing, she gulping, swallowing, smiling. A wait, perhaps ten seconds, a third penis arriving, and the masque repeating.

Jane

At the supermarket, trolley full, waiting in a line, checking out the checkout girl. My favourite. Short, a bit pudgy, perfect skin, a complicit smile. Impossible to see her without also seeing my girlfriend of years ago, and impossible not to slip into golden memory.

Jane was her name, the younger sister of a schoolfriend, at first hardly noticed. Over the years, taking more notice, noticing her noticing me. She becoming prettier, though lacking in confidence because of her weight. Whip smart and mischievous, and ever ready to laugh at my jokes.

One year, university over for me, she between school and university, taking a car trip together, stopping off for the night. A shared glance and the deal settled, we’ll share the bed. Lying down. She nestling into me. Kissing. Clothes gradually discarded.

Entering her, like a coalescence of flesh. Her juices streaming, me hard inside, our eyes locked together in love. Rolling over, she now on top, big breasts on my chest, my hands stroking her hair. Both of us registering the vast previously unconscious longing. Both amazed at the uncluttered naturalness of what we were doing.

A sexual bond forming, unlike others before or since. Companions, but with a shared bed and a taste for using it. Often, curled up sideways like spoons, me inside her from behind, falling asleep, me gradually flopping out, turning over, wiping ourselves clean, hugging, going back to sleep.

Before long, she off to university and new adventures, and I on my way too. Occasionally, without planning it, meeting up again, resuming, both knowing that nobody else would come close to what we had. Also knowing that we both needed more, elsewhere.

My turn at the supermarket, and quiet banter with the checkout girl. That complicit smile, making my heart clutch. Jane, Jane, let’s meet up again.