Don’t Be A Wimp

An email from Jane, hi R, sounds exciting to be in your summer, i remember how much i used to look forward to it, it’s winter here in sydney so it’s good to get your emails, my little blasts of sunshine. chilled frizzante, picnic rug, unhooked bra, you with your hard-on making me wet, yes i remember, makes me feel young thinking about it.

still looking for a lover here, come on R, come over to australia for a couple of weeks, we can grope again. my mr auditor turned out to be unbearable, we went out for dinner again, i went up to his hotel room, landed out semi-naked with me sucking him but i could tell he was all stuck inside his own head feeling guilty about his wife, eventually i told him, if you’re going to have an affair you have to immerse yourself in it, set some boundaries, don’t be a wimp, this was on my way out the door.

since then of course he wants to give it a second go, thinks he’s in love with me, but now i’ve fallen out of love with him, i think it was only an adventure in my own head, my idea of him, maybe just my need for a lover, rather than him as a person. so i guess i was guilty of doing what i accused him of, not being in the moment. oh well, you can’t fake the ache, i’m simply not interested in him now, nothing more to be said.

which leaves be back at square one, stuck in a loveless marriage. maybe not square one any more, actually, at least now i’ve accepted it, also reconciled myself to the thought that i don’t want to go through the upheaval of separation, put the children through it, i’d rather look for a lover. that’s another problem with mr auditor, i can just tell that if we became bedpartners he’d arrive one day saying he’d left his wife, can’t manage a dual life, what a baby. then he’d expect me to follow suit, turn nasty if i didn’t.

now the problem is finding a mr suitable. handsome, athletic, intelligent, interesting. hard to find. except on dating sites, of course, where all men claim to be all of those things. oh well, mustn’t grumble, think i’ll just lie back and think about frizzante and picnics and my darling R. email soon, you sexy thing. Jxxx.

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.

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.

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.

Sexually Acceptable

Another response on the marital dating website, hi, like your profile, let’s chat sometime, my photo password’s smiles, xx. In her profile, the usual stuff about being stuck in a stale relationship, looking for excitement, said to be attractive. The photos showing someone on holiday by the beach, smiling at the camera, throwing a frisbee.

Oh look she’s online, hi there, is this a good time to chat?

The screen quiet for a moment, then a line of text appearing, yes, now’s fine, how are you?

Well thanks, nice weather at last, good to feel the sunshine.

These bland pleasantries continuing for a while, then, from her, look, do you mind if I get straight to the point?

Sure, go ahead.

Well, my long term relationship, the thing is, we’re lesbian.

Oh, I see, well, does that mean you’re bisexual? How do I fit in?

A pause from her, then, not really bi, just sometimes I need a hard cock.

Well, I think I can provide that.

And the taste of spunk, you don’t get that from a vibrator.

Well, always happy to be fellated.

The other thing, what turns me on, it’s a bit unusual, normally I don’t tell anyone about it.

Okay, well, you’ve got to decide whether you want to tell me.

Another pause from her. Then, I like to get bitten.

Now a pause from me. Then, what, you mean with my teeth? Where?

Pause. Yes. On my thighs and bum and tits. And not just nibbles, really hard. Don’t know why, but that’s what turns me on. Always has.

Pause from me. Thinking, well, it’s good not to waste too much time on this, that doesn’t turn me on, I like sex to be caring and sharing, hate causing pain, she’ll probably find me effete. Typing, would you like to meet up sometime? Thinking, that’ll get the subject off sex, and we can find practical reasons to put off meeting up.

Okay, actually I’m just off to America this week, can I contact you when I get back?

Okay, look forward to it. Bye for now. Bye.

End chat, click. Thinking, I hope I didn’t come over prim and shocked, I’m hardly in a position to lay down the law on what’s sexually acceptable, nor is anyone else, just live and let live is what I say.

Curvaceous and Shapely

A reply on the marital dating website, from Black Cat, hi there, like your profile, swap photo passwords? Reply, sure, my password is radiowave. Two hours later a message from her, my password is GetsTheCheese.

A quick glance at Black Cat’s profile. Young 40s, curvaceous and shapely, lives in Highgate, she and her and husband both with successful careers, two teenage children, has it all but doesn’t want to grow old without something more, seeking a strong discreet solvent goodlooking man to provide the magic. Other stuff about recreations and books and so on.

The photos backing up the profile, a smiling attractive slightly chunky woman with black hair in a bob.

Replying to her, hi, I see you like cinema, is there anything at the BFI London that you might want to see? Something a bit sooner? I see you like to cycle, shall we ride round Regent’s Park together? xx. Send, click.

No reply that day. Nor the next. Wonder what that means? Some other guy got there first? Better looking than me? Younger? Maybe he came over as some sort of romantic white knight. Maybe his photo had sportscars and yachts and polo ponies in the background.

Maybe I hit false notes with my reply, reading it again, no, looks all right, if she was put off by that then that’s partly the point, I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not.

Or maybe she’s just gone off for a few summer days with her husband and children and can’t get the opportunity to reply.

Still, you can afford lots of failures, all you’re looking for is the one success.

Lovely Lips

Last night, a quick look at the marital dating website, see if there’s been any response, I’d sent messages to about ten women. One response, from Lovely Lips, hi, sounds interesting, like your profile, do you fancy an online chat, ten tomorrow morning, x.

Wow, how exciting, love the x, replying last night, sure, let’s chat at ten.

The appointed hour duly arriving. Signing into the website, checking Lovely Lips’ profile. Husband often away, looking for occasional fun, lives near Hampstead, slim, said by many to be very pretty. Perfect, this feels promising.

The icon showing that she’s online. Five past ten, reasonably punctual but not too eager, clicking the chat button, the chat screen firing up.

Hi, got your email, is this a good time for you? Hi there, yes, fine. Hey, Lovely Lips, you’ve got an interesting profile, whereabouts near Hampstead do you live? Oh, quite close, have you done this sort of thing before? No, have you? Just once or twice. Anything come of it? No, nothing yet.

The online chat continuing. Her sentences crisp, good spelling and educated punctuation but not pedantic. Before long, a lot of questions being asked about my situation, especially past relationships.

This going on for forty minutes. Fun for the first twenty, then like having a conversation with an obsessive, no detail too small to be endlessly excavated.

An attempt from me, hey Lovely Lips, shall we exchange photo passwords, get a picture of who it is we’re chatting with. Oh, sure, but I’m just about to upload a new set, I’ll message the password to you when I’ve done that.

Finally, from me, well, shall we get together some time, how about a coffee at that Turkish place near the station? Yes, sounds good, but let’s maybe have another chat first, maybe next week. Okay then. Okay, speak next week. Okay, bye. Bye.

Thinking about it afterwards, she was getting her kicks from the process, probably just passing idle hours having online chats with various keen men.

Beguilement

Drawn by an unseen pull to the site for extramarital affairs, studying the profiles. Recurrent themes emerging. Attractive slim early forties. Husband often away on business.  Seeks occasional company. Still together but not sexually. No wish to end my marriage or yours.

Okay, too tempting. A hundred quid a month is a lot but I see that the sexes are about balanced on the site, the subscription must keep things in line. Women probably pay less, but that's okay. A high subscription from males is already some sort of signal. Of what? Resources. Seriousness.

Well, my own profile. Scribble, scribble, edit, scribble. A cup of coffee. Headscratching. More editing. Finally entering some words.

About me. Articulate, relaxed, upbeat. Settled in my marriage and not looking to upset anyone, but home life is dull, life's short, and in need of adventure with the right person. Where it'll lead, we don't know, but it'll be fun...

About you. You'll probably also be in a stale relationship and have some free time during the weekdays. You'll want to liven things up with occasional secret trysts with someone who finds you beautiful...

Further stuff about height, smoking, drinking, education, figure, occupation. Checklists quickly clicked.

Photos. A smiley for the public profile, in case my wife or her friends or mine come across the site. Then a few real ones if I get any responders, so I can give them the password.

Okay pause. Go ahead? Yes. Pay with credit card. There, done. Let's see how it goes.

Extramarital Connections

The trouble with not having sex, you can ignore it only so long, then the hormonal pressure starts strangling you.

Today's plan, try the internet, one of the websites for married people who want an affair. Sounds like a good idea.

Quickly finding one. Free. First, quick details about me. Okay fill them in, any old rubbish, can fix that later if the site's good.

Okay, search. Seeking a woman, click. Aged 25 or over, click. 55 or younger, click. Who cares, let's see. Situated in, dropdown list, London, click. Only profiles with photos, click. Search button, click.

Oh look, two hundred suitable lovers found. Well, only looking for one. Okay let's look at some.

The photos for each profile invariably impersonal, sunrises, flowers, smileys suchlike. Access to the photo library requiring a password.

Okay, find one to message. Here's one. With gsoh, what's that, oh, good sense of humour, well, baby, that's not for you to say, move on.

Oh look, all have gsoh's. Let's just message this one, see how it goes. Click the button "Send message to this future lover".

Oh, for this I need premium membership. How much is that? Wow, a hundred pounds a month. Mmmm, might have to think about that.