If Men Need Sex and Women Don’t

Rain drizzling down and my cycle kit still damp from yesterday’s drenching, not in the mood for more riding unless the sun comes out. Hours going by. Feeling fidgety, sign of need for sex or other physical exertion. Finally, heading off to the gym.

Passing the place where I first saw Carol, feeling a pang. Trouble is, the pang’s for what might have been, not for her, the more I think about it, the more she feels flakey, not sure I’d trust her even if I had the chance to get together again.

Settling into a gym routine, quick warm-up on the stairmill, then some weights. Pondering some magazine article, a commentator’s incidental remark that women after thirty tend to lose their libido, men tend not to.

No research cited, but the remark made as if an acknowledged truth. Certainly, one that squares with my own experience. My ex-wife, my current wife, a couple of lovers, after a while my sexual interest was a burden. Maybe even with Carol, she needed to catch up on a big backlog, we had sex a couple of times, that was enough for her for the next few years.

Lying back on a bench, doing some chest presses, struggling after a few reps. The bar in my hand starting to tremble. Ceding defeat, stopping, removing some weight, restarting.

Thinking, well, if men need sex and women don’t, on average, what happens then? How does that square with the theory of long and faithful marriage? Answer, it doesn’t. So what happens next? Marital unhappiness. Plenty of that around. Or, only other solution, extramarital adventure.

The weight now feeling too light, but never mind, keep going. Extramarital adventure with whom? Not married women, they’re presumably low on libido. Maybe there are a few that aren’t. Like Jane perhaps. Maybe those ones service a lot of men. But how do you organize it? Endless hassle and time to find that one woman, then when you do, she’s off again. Maybe that’s what happened with Carol.

Moving to bicep curls, fiddling around with the weights, starting light this time. Answer, seems obvious, find an escort, have sex with her. Exciting, adventurous, no wives feeling put-upon. Like with Jenny. The thought of her and her skills, enough to make even a drizzly day feel sunny.

Special Jane Blowjob

Standing in the supermarket line, getting impatient. Looking up at the adjacent till, catching sight of my special checkout girl, not seen for months. Somehow so evocative of Jane in student days.

Her customer paying, her eyes lifted to him, smiling, dimples in her cheeks, her eyes somehow containing the same hint of complicity as Jane’s. The man smiling back at her. Jealousy stabbing through my heart, why isn’t she doing that with me?

All those years ago, Jane selecting me ahead of others, for some reason. Standing now in a supermarket, memories and images carouseling through my mind. Making my way through the checkout, sneaking quick peeks at the special girl, heart panging with each glimpse of her eyes.

Getting home, emailing Jane. Hey baby, your email, fate, date, mate, sate, grate, whew, well here I am replying, late. I was standing today in a supermarket line, there’s a checkout girl there, makes me think of you every time I see her, something to do with her complicit smile, innocence and knowledge intertwined, just like you.

You said you were feeling bitter, but here’s another thought. Fate, it isn’t all bad. In the supermarket I was thinking how with you fate dealt me a wonderful hand. One that gave so much pleasure at the time, and that continues to give, every time I think of you it gives me buoyancy, if we hadn’t shared those times my whole life would have been different and impoverished.

The thing with sex, it’s so much more than just nakedness or entry or even touch, it’s play. And I guess you taught me how to play, darling Jane. Somehow it was you that brought it out in me. And here I was thinking I was doing the teaching.

Hey baby, someday soon we’ll meet up again, and we can find somewhere alone and play together. Not sure what form the play will take, that’s the thing about play, you can’t know how it’ll go, or it isn’t play. But hopefully it will involve taking clothes off. And if I’m lucky it’ll involve a special Jane blowjob, the thought makes me tingle, getting one of those again.

So let’s do it soon, baby Jane, we don’t want too much longer to go by without. love R xxx.

You Can Have Her For An Hour

Four of us sitting around a kitchen table beneath a low central light. A gin bottle and glasses. The cards dealt by the host. His pretty wife bringing fresh ice.

Everyone winning except for the host. Picking up his cards, looking at them, weighing them up, laying a big bet. The game proceeding. All folding, save the host and one other. The cards laid down. The host losing. No more money, time to stop, let’s go home.

The host begging, one more hand. The others inquiring, where’s your money? Don’t have any. Then don’t waste our time. The host raising his hand, hold on a moment. Taking his wife aside, whispering. Returning to the table. Lend me a hundred, if I lose it my wife says you can have her for an hour.

The players looking at the wife. You okay with that? The wife nodding. Each of us throwing in our share. The host picking up the money, dealing the cards, taking a slug of gin, getting on with play.

First hand, a win for the host. His face lifting, I told you my luck would change. Thereafter, steady losses, steady slugs of gin. After a while, the money finished. The host rising, hardly able to stand, moving to an armchair, collapsing on to it, muttering.

The wife looking at us. Well, I guess I’ll be having some sex tonight, it’s about time. Coming toward us, stroking the cheek of one, feeling the crotch of another. Men’s hands feeling her body, pulling her blouse over her head, unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them down.

The man in the armchair twitching, half-awake, still lost in cardplay, his wife’s activities a mere distraction. She naked on her back widthways on the now empty table, naked men standing round her. Her head backwards over the table’s edge, mouth upside down round a player’s cock. Across the table, her legs spread, a man’s face between them, licking.

After a while, the men changing places, the wife repositioning. Different cocks in different holes, a crazy rotation. The man on the armchair stirring, rising up, lurching to the table, trying to find the gin bottle, muttering, returning to the armchair. His wife’s face and breasts and hips now glazed with sperm, her fingers tracing patterns in it.

A police siren on the road outside. Waking up with a start. A minute passing. The night now quiet. The wife and the kitchen and the dream, gone.

Five Rhyming Words

Waking this morning thinking of Jane, a refreshing change, for the past month it’s been Carol filling my mind. Sweet baby Jane.

Resolving to email her, it’s my turn. Firing up the secret email address, oh look, she’s broken the taking of turns, she’s emailed me, what a pleasant start to the day.

Hi R, here i am in a cold australian winter sipping whiskey, reading a magazine, came across an idea, thought i’d share it with you. fate, date, mate, sate, grate. never before such truth spoken about relationships, five simple rhyming words, they pin me, R, like arrows.

Think about it, me meeting T, the accident of it, just happened that a schoolfriend knew him, invited him to a party, i was there. fate. it could so easily have happened differently, imagine how different my life would have been.

Then from there, our first date. to the movies, in the queue for tickets he held my hand, it was so exciting. sitting in the back row, a big carton of popcorn between us, playing games with our elbows on the armrest, pushing each other’s off. sliding down the seats, kissing, his breath smelling of a shot of vodka, spearmint gum to hide it, the popcorn, and his aftershave, all intoxicating to me.

Next, we mate. a party together, drinking too much, finding a spare room, doing it. can’t remember anything about it, too much to drink, now i know him i can’t believe it was anything special, still, it was enough to get me in a groove, one my life has never got out of.

Quickly sated. strange how it works, you have such need, you find someone, the need subsides, the someone doesn’t. life’s mean trick. now you’re stuck with him. it’s so difficult to pull away, say no, at any given moment there’s always a reason not to leave, only trouble is, it’s not what you really want.

Then, children. now you are welded together. and it grates. now a movie date or sneaking away from a party to a spare bedroom for a quick screw, the thought of it shreds me, i’d rather he did it with someone else, he probably does. i expect he feels the same way.

So there we have it R, a whiskey-laden thought. fate, date, mate, sate, grate, story of a marriage. email soon R, give me something less bitter to have fantasies about. Jxxx.

Without Complications

Back from Jenny’s, feeling terrific. Brewing coffee, taking in its smell, pouring a mug. Standing at the window sipping it, checking out the scene outside. London still in confusion after days of riots, but boarded up windows somehow looking ridiculous.

Jenny’s sexual touch continuing to work its magic. All problems now somehow soluble. My wife, happy in her sexless way, incomprehensible to me, but still a good person to share a life with, maybe it’s best thing for me, having an arms-length connection, it gives me freedom to seek adventure elsewhere.

Carol, maybe I was asking the impossible with her. A relationship without complications, maybe no such thing exists. Well, sipping coffee, thinking, it does actually, but there’s only one way. You visit an escort, you pay your money, you have your time, everyone knows where the boundaries are. An excellent way to strip out the complications.

Another sip of coffee. Thinking more about Jenny, her offer of a free blowjob, how sweet she is to suggest such a thing. But not in fact taken up by me, I insisted on paying, she didn’t demur. A smile from her, mutual recognition of meanings, the offer made to signify warmth, payment made to signify boundaries.

A warm glow sweeping over me, just thinking of her. Any time I want to see her, I can, more or less. And if I don’t want to see her for a while, no problem.

The phone ringing. My daughter. Please daddy, I’m supposed to be home by four, do you mind if we make it a bit later? How much later, sweetheart? Don’t know. Well, ring me back when you know, sweetheart, until then it stays at four. Okay, eight o’clock, is that okay daddy? No, sweetheart, especially not with all these riots. Ah please, daddy. No sweetheart, actually my max is five o’clock, either agree with that or stick with four. Oh, okay, bye.

Raising the coffee mug to Jenny, thinking, you see, immediate payoff, managed to handle that situation with my daughter without acrimony, would have been impossible if you hadn’t settled my body down. Smiling, reaching for the coffee jug, refilling.

She Is Who She Is

Lazy London summer sounds filtering through Jenny’s window, distant police sirens and rumble of traffic and children playing. Her naked body sliding close to mine, snuggling. The air still cool enough for us both to be free of sweat. Hey baby, what do you want, do you want to get inside me or should I suck you some more? You choose honey.

Jenny reaching over for a condom, tearing open the packet, putting it on me. Me on by back feeling as if in heaven. Jenny’s expert hands making light of the condom hassle, procedure transmuted into erotic embellishment.

Moving a leg over my body, sitting astride, leaning forward, her nipples in my face, her hand guiding my cock along her pussy’s length, parting the lips, finding the point of surrender. Pressing down, realigning slightly, pressing down again, her eyes closing, her body adjusting. Grinding her hips, getting me fully inside, moaning softly.

Opening her eyes, looking down at me, seeing me smiling, smiling back. Hey honey, your pussy feels wonderful, lovely and clinging, strong, not too tight. A pause, her new English registering, then smiling. A kiss on my forehead, acknowledgment of gentlemanly compliment.

Rolling her over on her back, still inside her. Kissing her neck. Her knees rising high, taking me deeper. My hips and cock thrusting slow and long into her. Smiling at one another again. Your pussy honey, it’s so beautiful, and it stays so fresh, amazing for such a hard-working little thing. Another pause, Jenny’s English checking again.

Registering, looking at me for any note of sourness, finding only fondness, smiling. Another kiss on my forehead. Her arms around me hugging tighter. First time ever, acknowledgement from me of her time with other men. The implication that it matters not, who cares? The further implication, I’m not signed up to the general hypocrisy about escorts somehow being inferior. She is who she is, my darling Jenny.

Immersed in the moment so deeply, and so at peace, as to make climax unlikely. Increasingly recognizing climax as being unfundamental, it’s the sexual sharing and sensual touch that matters. Yet suddenly a sudden tightening of some tiny spring, and pressure building. Jenny lying still under me, receptive. Physical sensations becoming guided, like a wave. The wave becoming bigger, my body clenching. Then the crest and the break and the roar.

Jenny beneath me, holding my face. Hey baby, that was lovely, hey baby, you needed that.

Free Blowjob

Waking up jittery and irritable, sure signs of sexual need. Better do something, won’t be long otherwise before I start picking petty fights, making enemies, making mistakes.

Checking the escort website, but feeling no interest in any but Jenny. Don’t want to mess around, just need a woman who understands my body and who finds it a pleasure not a chore.

Trouble is, with Carol still in my blood, if I see Jenny maybe somehow Jenny becomes second best, a substitute. She’s too wonderful for that.

To hell with it, let’s try her number, hope she’s back from Budapest or wherever she’s been. Ringing it. On the fourth ring, her voice answering. Yes of course I’m free for you darling, any time, come round quickly, I still owe you a free blowjob.

Eleven thirty the appointed hour. Arriving early, strolling around Finsbury Park, trees in full leaf, sunshine on the lawns, young children learning softball. The minutes crawling by. Finally, five minutes to go, time to head for Jenny’s.

Standing at her building’s front door, ringing her number. Three rings, then stop, agreed signal. Soft clatter of interior movement, then footsteps down the stairs. The front door opening. Jenny in tight denim shorts and cutaway teeshirt, smiling up at me, pulling me in, kissing me, where’ve you been darling, I’ve been waiting for you for weeks.

Moving to her bedroom, both smiling, like old friends rediscovering true pleasure in one another’s company. Are you okay, baby, I thought you must have found somebody else, maybe you did, never mind, I’ve got you back now, come along, take your clothes off baby, let me relax your body.

Both of us stripping. Lying on the bed. Jenny rolling on top of me, letting my skin feel hers. My hands on her back, stroking, soaking up the nourishment of skin’s touch. Her hand moving downward to feel my cock, still soft, too inundated with sensual delight, not yet focused into erection.

Jenny moving down, doing that special Jenny thing, taking the tip straight in her mouth, her hand stroking the shaft gently. In my body a sudden shift, cock stiffening slightly, then firmly, then suddenly like mahogany. Jenny taking her face away, looking at me, smiling, hey baby, you’re desperate, I figure you came to see me just in time.

Lying on my back, eyes closed, feeling Jenny’s mouth round my cock, knowing she’ll keep doing it for minutes or hours or however long I want, my body feeling weightless, like escaping from the pressure of a huge burden.

Stay Alive, Stay Vulnerable

Dammit, still can’t get Carol out of my system. Sitting in the train with my daughter, tagging along an a shopping trip for clothes, her fingers busy sending texts to her friends. Looking out the window, my insides like a dishtowel twisted tight to wring it out, all I can do is think of Carol and her vibrancy and her smile and her twinkling intelligence.

The train stopping. The door swishing open. Passengers leaving, passengers joining, the door swishing shut. Life continuing.

Thinking, Carol, beautiful times together, every moment. Meeting, tentative steps closer, joining up, making love. The moments becoming even more painfully beautiful as they recede into the past.

But more than that, their beauty, they lay partly in the promise of things to come. A promise now snatched away. The wrench still bearing its cargo of pain. Now, on a trip with my daughter, stomach still wringing.

My daughter looking at me, patting my hand, you okay daddy? Sure, sweetheart, just thinking about things. A brief shared smile, then her attention distracted, phone bleeping, a text from a friend.

The train rattling on. Thinking again. Carol. Moments together, purest when taken for what they are, mere evanescent flickers. Yet their residue enduring, the grasping mind refusing to let them go, precious memories forming. Inescapable, the hope and expectation of more.

So you slide into old stratagems, secure the future together. A weird alchemy taking over. The passing moment dislodged from its primacy, crowded out by plans and schemes and dreams of what’s to be. And thus by stealth vitality leaks away and sclerotic staleness starts its slow ascent.

My daughter patting my hand again, texting duties done. So what are you thinking about, daddy? Oh, just about life and the crazy world we live in, sweetheart.

Well, another eternal human conundrum. Stay in the moment, disallow the past, refuse to build a future, stay alive, stay vulnerable. Or retreat into security, feel safe, succumb to staleness. To hell with it, my life’s had enough of staleness’s suffocations, the moment with all its cruel pangs, that’s my choice.

So, come on then, pull out of this mood, spend the moment now, with my daughter.

Sexual Formation, Sexual Reformation

School holidays and my daughter staying for a week, an opportunity to spend some time together. Thoughts of happy families quickly dispelled, however, she quickly making clear the main attractions, namely, relaxation of the absent mother’s rules, the opportunity to hang out with friends, and shopping for clothes.

Oh well, teenage years. Can’t fight them, may as well roll with the punches, stay relaxed. After two days of an empty house, a change in tone, suddenly rooms filled with my daughter and her friends, silence no longer a possibility, chatter and music now my daily companions.

Taking a break, walking to the park, thinking. My daughter and her friends, all of them girls, snippets of their conversations filtering through, mostly about boys, who’s cute, who’s not. A consensus developing as to the cutest. Hearts beating faster at the prospect of going out with him.

Something anthropological here. The boy’s desirability driven not by how attractive the girl finds him, rather by what her friends think. Some sort of submission to communal wisdom.

Returning to the house. Oh good, silence. Not for long. My daughter and her friends piling back through the door. All of them smiling, friendly, chatting. Polite to me. Later, talking with my daughter, asking, why don’t you and your friends hang out at their houses, why here so much, the answer coming quickly, oh, they prefer it here, their parents just lecture them, you don’t, we like just being left alone.

Next day, more of the same. Clothes, hairstyles, shoes. Boys' clothes, hairstyles, shoes. More anthropology. Forget the inner boy, concentrate on the displays of wealth or its proxies. Then compete with your friends for the one with the most.

Thinking about Carol. I wonder if she was like that once. Maybe it’s how sexual preferences are formed. Part of it anyhow. Still, Carol seemed almost the opposite, showing no interest in my wealth or otherwise, in fact, she seemed uninterested in the trappings, as if relieved to be free of them, like a maturation, grown out of childish teenage ways.

Sexual formation, sexual reformation. Amazing how it never really settles. My daughter and her friends, they’re just starting out on a long mazy rock-strewn road.

Porn, Reliable Standby

Another day dawning and still out of sorts, Carol in my mind like a virus that won’t shift. Sexual restlessness compounding the malaise.

Turning to porn, reliable standby, mood lightened by its refreshing shallowness. My preferred website reassuringly familiar. Over the last month, a few thousand new porn postings, each with preview photos, all free, just click, settle back, enjoy.

Checking some out. Tons of bimbos with false boobs and choreographed ecstasy. Quickly paging past them, in search of authenticity or imagination.

Finally, finding something. French, often the best porn. A woman collected from a Metro. Smartly dressed. Seemingly excited but not overawed. Friendly chat. The interviewer checking that she knows what’s planned, a session of debauchery, a young stud waiting in the apartment. Her shoulders in a Gallic shrug, sure, as we arranged on the telephone.

In the apartment, the woman sitting on a sofa, facing forward towards the camera, discussing her sexual situation and preferences. Her eyes distracted leftwards, widening, looking back, smiling, continuing to talk. A man entering the scene, naked, standing next to her. Her hand reaching out, stroking his flank, moving to his cock, taking it in her hand, still talking.

The man pressing toward her face. The woman turning, pushing out her tongue to touch his cock. Her eyes looking sideways, seeing herself on a television playback of the scene. Taking the cock deeper in her mouth, still looking at the scene. The man silent and passive, nothing more than a prop, provider of an erection.

The woman standing, removing her clothes. The man turning her round, bending her over, separating her buttocks, spreading her pussy’s lips, licking her clitoris. The woman arching her back down for a wider spread, shoulders low. The camera panning to her face. Her eyes checking the playback, studying it, skin flushed in excitement.

The camera moving back. The man’s hands on her buttocks stretching her sphincter, ramming his tongue deep inside. Her eyes shutting, her mouth slightly gasping. Her hand moving between her legs, stroking her clitoris, rocking her hips.

The scene continuing. Me, watching, hand on cock. The woman opening her eyes, looking at the camera, straight at me. Suddenly, the excitement exploding, tension leaving my body like the spark of static. Quiet for a moment. Then wiping with a tissue, closing down the site, collecting myself, feeling better.