Lovely Tinkling Climax

This morning, an email from Jane, the day immediately seeming more sunny. Pouring myself some coffee, sitting back, opening it.

Hi R, wow, your last email, what a lovely thought, lying somewhere naked in the sun, having my needs ministered to. have to confess, played with myself thinking about that, alone in my bed, lovely tinkling climax, wish it had been your fingers doing it though, or even better, tongue. also wish i’d had some of you to hold on to, take you in my body wherever you wanted. oh well, can but dream.

Things here are more or less the same, still sexually dead and unable to find the right man. my son was playing the other afternoon with a friend, then the friend’s older brother came by to take him home, a real hunk, bulging muscles, i was watching him through the window, getting myself all excited, even though muscles aren’t my usual thing. nothing came of it, just, shows how frisky i’m getting, i’m in real need, R.

Besides, jumping into bed with someone in my son’s circle might not be the smartest possible thing. here in sydney, R, the problem is that the place is so damn small, it’s not as bad as other towns in australia, but it doesn’t have that thing that london has, that you can do whatever you want and nobody will ever find out or even be interested.

And also, the things you can do in london are so unlimited, there’ll be a thousand things happening, R, that you won’t even have heard about but which if they happened here you’d get excited. anyway, here, the prospects of finding a lover without the whole of your world knowing about it are pretty low. so i guess i just have to resign myself to a long intimate relationship with my fingers.

Unless you come over, R. i can’t see myself getting to england for the next year or so, but can’t you find some excuse, business or a friend’s wedding or something? i could come over to your hotel, spend the day together, some sex in the morning, some wine at lunch, some more sex in the afternoon. it’d be fantastic to feel you inside me again. Jane xxx.

Entrancement

Still aching for Carol, feeling the wrench of her absence. Lying in bed, thinking, hard to know whether it’s her or my idea of her that’s causing the pain. The thought of having a beautiful woman to make occasional love to, eager for me in her clean waterside apartment, no commitments, no complications. Enough for entrancement of the strongest mind.

Suddenly, pop, gone, the bubble pricked. Leaving a hole and a bruise where before sweet fantasy ruled.

But so what, that’s what sexual love is, one part actuality, three parts dream. Take away the dream, the excitement evaporates. Leaving behind mere mechanics.

And besides, not all a dream. The texture of her hair, the shape of her ear, the urgency of her desires, all physical things, therefore presumably actual. Her presence and the thought of it setting me on fire.

The airless London night quiet outside the windows. Tossing around on the bed, trying to understand. The world out there, an infinity of physical things, some more significant than others, the distinction lying in our minds. Does that make it all a dream? Probably. So, Carol, three parts dream, same as everything else.

So here I am in the heat, restless, my brain feeling like a garden with an uprooted tree, the earth all disturbed and ragged and hurting. Nothing to do but gently rake it over, smooth the surfaces, let it settle, let some plants regrow. Familiar feeling, part of having an active life. But still painful. And still demanding of time for recovery.

Giving up on sleep. Getting up from the bed, going to the kitchen, turning on the kettle, making tea. Thinking, this would have been the next step with Carol, spending the night together, getting up in the morning, making stuff in the kitchen for breakfast. Sleepy bodies hugging, her nipples behind a thin gown against my chest. Oh well, not to be.

Drinking a few sips of tea. Letting it go cold. Getting back to bed. My wife tuning over, sensing my restlessness, stroking my shoulder. Sweet woman, sweet in many important ways.

Finally, sinking into sleep, heavy and full of dreams. Seemingly a few minutes only, suddenly, the sound of curtains being opened and the room filled with sunshine. Another day arrived, time for action.

Like A Child Unwrapping Presents

No response from Carol, understandable enough, no point in saying it’s over and then exchanging endless emails.

My mood listless and disengaged. My body’s hormones continuing their own restless dynamic, pressing for relief. Pornography providing some distraction, but the pressures quickly rebuilding. A familiar pattern, learned of old, only one cure, the touch of a woman’s skin.

Ringing Jenny, no answer, maybe she’s left London, maybe she’s in Budapest to see her children. Maybe she’s with a client, never mind, I know that but prefer not to think too closely about it. Ringing later, still no answer.

Opening up the escort website, logging in, clicking a search already configured for my preferences. Female escort, no bareback, too much risk to her and hence to me, and in addition, unattractively stupid. Likes oral without condom, likes anal play, not necessarily things I actually want to do, just don’t like being too conscious of no-go areas. Maximum distance ten miles.

The search results filling the screen. One hundred and twenty four escorts, each with a photograph, click it and the profile loads up. Sitting at my desk, surveying the choices, enjoying the moment. So many new women since I was last on the site, I suddenly feel like a child unwrapping presents.

LouLou24, pretty, curvy, English. I came down from Birmingham to stay with a friend and she was earning money as an escort so I thought I’d try it, discovered I like it, especially if you’re a clean and gentle man. Specialist in blowjobs. Play with my body, then give me your load in my mouth, I love the taste. This week, only fifty pounds for half an hour. Ring my number below, do it now darling.

SexyGirlNZ, 30, staying in London for a year, left my boyfriend back home in New Zealand, looking for men to look after my needs. Love sex in all three holes, anal an extra thirty pounds, only if you’re not too big. We can try it and if I decide it’s too tight you can have your money back. Like doggy but also happy with any other position. Sixty pounds for thirty minutes.

Whiling away a happy hour with these and other profiles, half-tempted to arrange a visit, but not yet feeling quite ready for that, maybe I’ll let the sense of Carol subside a bit more first.

The Eternal Struggle

A dull rainy day to suit my mood. Carol’s email, two days ago now, and still squeezing my heart. Stark and final, bulldozing its way through my fond plans, long sunny afternoons with a beautiful naked woman in a sunny riverside apartment. The secret chamber in my mind casually ransacked.

How to respond to her? Rather, whether to respond? She wants it final and forever, how does a response fit into that?

Besides, pointless to share my actual thoughts. Sacrificing herself to some religious conviction, what is she, some medieval martyr? Which religion I wonder? Could be Catholic, but maybe I think that just because she’s come back from Ireland. Maybe she’s Protestant. Maybe. Could be Jewish or Islamic for all I know or care.

One way or another, trapped by rustic, patriarchal, misogynistic, authoritarian, primogeniture-protecting, enslaving claptrap. Pre-industrial, pre-emancipation, pre-internet, pre-smartphone, pre-contraception and pre-affluence. How can such prescriptions still be valid?

Still, no point telling her this, she can probably guess it’s what I’d think, and she could trump any ace with the remark, you live your life by your lights, I’ll do same.

The unsummery English weather dripping outside the window. Maybe I should go out for a long bicycle ride, get wet and cold, compound the misery. No, maybe not. Can’t bear being stuck indoors, though. Maybe go to the gym, push some weights.

Pounding the rowing machine, overdoing it, slowing down. Thinking about Carol. Her reaching toward freedom, held back by tradition. Excitement versus security, the eternal struggle.

But thinking, however it works out, I’m the lucky one, shared the moments of blossoming as she let go. Just a shame it didn’t last.

The rowing machine now going too slow, never mind, a new thought occurring. That eternal struggle, it doesn’t just disappear, she doesn’t actually have the power just to decide it away. She’ll have her midnight terrors, wake up, think, here I am in this airless cage, what have I done?, help, let me out.

Finishing the rowing, quickly working through my weights routine. Thinking, besides, my job as her lover, it’s not just to be pleasant when things are pleasant, I have to be on her side now too. And that’s just how I feel. If this is what she wants to do, I’m not getting in her way.

Getting home, emailing her. Sure Honey, I understand. I’ll miss you, sweetheart. Not just the sex either, sensational though that was. I think it’s when your face looks puzzled, like a schoolgirl, then breaks out into a smile, that’s what I’ll miss most. If you ever want to meet up again, just for a coffee’s fine, email me. All the best, sweetheart. Rxxx

Tightlaced Religious Upbringing

An email from Carol, hi, R, it’s late and I can’t sleep and I’m a bit tearful and the thing is, I can’t carry on like this.

It’s me, R, I just find it too difficult, splitting my life up, living a normal life, husband and children and responsibilities, then a second one, an affair with you.

Oh R, you seem to find it so easy, keeping things separate, maintaining boundaries, making things uncomplicated. And when I’m with you I feel different and new and fresh, almost reborn, a youngster on the cusp of adventure. Leaving all the baggage behind, it’s like a great unburdening. But it makes me disoriented, I don’t know who I am any more.

So I’ve decided I need to stop. Not just temporarily, that would just be avoiding the issue. I mean forever, R. I have to do it this way. If I said to you, let’s put it on hold for six weeks or something, I’d just be waiting for the time to pass. So R, I need to withdraw completely.

R, I know I’m being selfish here, There’s not just me to think about, there’s you too. I don’t know if I’ve had as much impact on you as you’ve had on me, but even if it’s only half, you’ll be hurting from my decision too. God, when I think of the sweet naked times we spent together, long heavenly afternoons, I don’t know how life will be without them. But trust me R, we have to.

Well, here I am faced with the long lonely prospect of a loveless marriage, the only consolation such as it is being the thought that this is the right thing. More to the point, this is what my tightlaced religious upbringing prescribes as the right thing. I know what you’d say, doesn’t sound much like a celebration of the beauty of being alive, and my heart agrees with you, R, but I’m being torn apart, I don’t know what else to do.

So anyway R, I must stop writing, and stop this habit of pouring my heart out to you, even though you’re the only one that listens. You always listen, R, even in imaginary conversations, it’s one of the reasons I find it so difficult to maintain the boundaries. But enough, no more, I just want to thank you for such sweet treasured memories, R, and say goodbye.

Stroking And Massaging

Lying awake last night, thinking about Carol, thinking about Jane, thinking about Jenny, thinking how lucky I am, knowing them all. Knowing, present tense, the knowledge of them embedded in me, they’re part of my life, touching their skin may be momentary but the aftermath is permanent.

Remembering, I haven’t emailed Jane for quite a while, I should do so. Thinking, she seems happy to tell me about her affairs, or quest for them, maybe I should mention Carol, it’s quite a big thing in my life, perhaps I should share. But quickly resolving not to do so. Jenny can tell me about other lovers if she wants to, but for me, no, it’s important, keep lovers in their own separate chambers in my mind.

This morning, emailing. Hi baby Jane, thought about you last night, felt warm at the thought of having you in my life. Got to fantasizing, something I always wanted to do with you, but we never did. Hire a cottage in France or Greece or somewhere Mediterranean. Stock up on bread and cheese and wine and anything else we fancy at the village stores.

Spend the day on a private sundeck, with books. You could read or sleep, anything. I’d read you poetry, serve you snacks, pour you wine. Also apply sun lotion, making sure to get beneath the straps of your swimsuit, quickly arriving at mutual agreement, these things are in the way, best just take them off. Massaging your body through the day, stroking your legs, your arms, your nipples, your stomach, your pussy. Turning you round, massaging your back, spreading your cheeks, letting the sun shine there, playing with your little hole.

Stroking and massaging, relaxing you into sleep, arousing you towards orgasm. Separating your lips, teasing your clitoris. The orgasm breaking through some time in the afternoon. Then for my reward a long slow Jane blowjob, doing that thing you always did, still gives me an erection thinking about it, somehow sensing the moment, taking me deeper, feeling my cock’s convulsions.

Anyway, baby Jane, I didn’t know when I started this email that that’s what was on my mind, but it obviously was, and now it’s in the open it’s a delicious thought. Email soon, darling Jane. Rxxx.

The Balance, Everything

Early morning on my bicycle, skies clear but rain promised by forecasters. The newly lubricated gears spinning nicely. Good speed around Regents Park, ninety minutes down, feeling good. Then remembering the Tour de France on the television, the cyclists in that, and feeling humble.

An email from Carol last night, Hi R, still glowing, Cxxx. Replying, Same here honey, Rxxx. Nothing further. The exchange made sweeter by the brevity.

Strange how it works. Our brazen lovetalk at the restaurant, like adolescents. Now, the stopping short of incontinence, like adults. The balance, everything. Like on the bicycle.

The wheels beneath me still spinning, a little slower for the last quarter hour. A first spit of rain, so fine as to wonder if it was real or imagined, then another.

Pondering the nature of love affairs. Times gone by, I would have been too intense, two or three women, if I’d just eased up a bit things would have lasted longer. But my need was too great, they filled too deep a hole, half an hour without contact and I’d become desperate. The intensity, too much for them, too much for me, quickly burning everything out.

Now it’s different. With Carol, it’s like going to a secret corner in a garden, where the world is new and the cacophony is muted and the fragrance is sweet. But you don’t always have to go to it, this secret garden corner, it’s mostly enough just to know it’s there.

This difference in me, maybe it’s because of Jenny, my body now no longer in sexual starvation. Emerging from emaciation, receiving nutrition, building strength. Robust and healthy in the knowledge that it doesn’t need to worry about sex. Now, if hormones nag, I can always see Jenny, don’t have to pester Carol.

Strange how that works too. Here I am, looking after my own needs in my own way, result, everyone around me happier. My wife, Carol, probably work colleagues too. And my daughter. All free of that irritant, a frustrated man taking it out on everyone else. Yet if I told them how I did it, oh, sure, I’ve been much more at peace since visiting escorts, they’d be shocked and I’d be ostracized.

The rain starting in earnest now. Life’s rich mosaic. Best be heading in.

She Zings My Mind

Arriving at home, head still full of Carol. My wife in the kitchen, early from work for once. A quick peck on the cheek, hi R, thought it might be nice to give you a break from the cooking, why don’t you sit down, put your feet up.

Doing as suggested. Pondering, that’s the thing with marriage, its intensity fades, a necessary dynamic, being together for so many years has that slow effect, another day can’t have the excitement as when you’re more often apart. Today, the one day my wife comes home early, you’d have thought that she’d want to be intimate, refresh our sexual relations, absent now for months, or is that years? But no, just the steady domestic routine.

Moving into the spare room, home to occasional guests and my sports kit. Picking out a bicycle, flipping it upside down, checking the gears. Getting on with cleaning and adjustments and lubrication.

Working on the bicycle, still pondering. Marriage’s intensity fading, it’s inevitable, but it’s also just as well. Say my wife was like Carol, desperate for sex. That would be fun for a bit. But then what? Surely the fire would burn out. Or if not, it would start to hurt, to burn. Only so much heat a human can take.

So it fades. Leaving the humdrum workings of everyday life. Steady, health-giving, untraumatic. Suitable platform for other enterprise, such as work or bringing up children. My daughter, coming to stay with us this weekend, she’ll feel relaxed and secure, she’ll have the requisite mental space, unsullied by parental tension.

Spinning the bicycle wheel, hearing machinery’s satisfying song. Still pondering. Always gets back to the same thing. The steady domestic routine, necessary, sure, but also containing a crucial lack. No excitement. To be steady, domestic and routine, it can’t be sexual. And life without sexual excitement, is that really life?

Ask twenty people, you’d get twenty different answers. Some just prefer the unsexual. Well, good luck to them. Me, I need extra. And now with Carol I seem to have it.

Dammit, the thought of her, she zings my mind. Wonder when I’ll see her again.

Lovers’ Talk

A waiter taking her plate away. Carol reaching out across the table, taking my hand. Well, okay, R, here’s how I see this, I spend years as the neglected wife, then one day my car has a puncture, this man changes the wheel for me, next thing we’re having coffee, next thing we’re in bed and he’s licking and touching me in unfamiliar and wonderful places. Quite an exciting development for a middle-aged woman.

Well, C, listening to the story, I’d say that the man, the one doing the licking and touching, is one lucky guy. And to hell with the middle-aged, the lucky guy didn’t even think about that.

Carol leaning forward, whispering. One lucky woman too, R, deprived for so long, and now she’s got this man with his hard shapely tasty cock. My toy, for me to play with.

Both of us smiling. The usual conversational prohibitions brazenly ignored. The pleasure of lovers’ secret naughty talk.

Carol becoming more serious. One thing that makes me think, R, that time we first met, you changing my wheel, flexing your biceps, making my hormones go all zingy, well, it was just a few months after my father died, I think since that time I’ve been a different person, less uptight, maybe if the same circumstances had happened a year earlier I’d never have made the leap, agreed to coffee, nothing would have happened.

Carol looking into my eyes, searching for meaning. Me thinking, lots I could say here, seen it in other women, liberated by their fathers’ deaths, repressions suddenly lifted. But staying silent, letting her talk.

So R, what I now think, the man I married was someone my father approved of. In fact, when I look at my husband now, what I see is just another version of my father. A good person, I suppose, just not someone I’m in love with. And not someone to have sex with, it would feel incestuous.

My hand on the bottle of water, filling her glass, then my own. Hey C, that’s quite big stuff there, breaking out of a father’s sclerotic grip, maybe you should chat it through with a therapist, there’s a lot there you probably wouldn’t want a lover to know.

Sipping the water. A difficult moment. Not wanting to push her away, not wanting to get sucked into the badlands. Stroking her cheek, leaning forward, kissing her. Hey honey, your past’s what made you, what I want to share is what’s yet to come.