Warm Companionship

Lying in bed half-awake in the early morning, my wife’s hand reaching over to stroke my shoulder, her touch containing tenderness, different from the semi-detachment of our usual physical contact.

Reaching across my chest, my hand stroking hers in response. A soft warm exchange, affirmative of affection.

But entirely unsexual. For me, the natural path would be to extend the stroke, caress her neck, maybe touch her breasts. Not with particular intent, more an exploration of the moment, reaching for a latency, seeing if it blossoms, fine if it doesn’t, fine if it does.

My wife now turning on her other side. Soon the sound of her regular breathing and gentle sleep.

Remembering, the first time I recognized the fact of her unsexualness, the slight shock, realizing that I’m in a situation that’s foreign to me, that not everybody is the same as me, that this is a cold reality I’m going to have to get used to. A watershed moment. Innocence lost and maturity achieved.

After that, applying mild tests. As now, responding warmly to physical touch but not sexually. Trying to be unforthcoming. Feeling strange, as if becoming cold. Surprised to see my wife responding well, a weight of expectation removed.

So now we have mellow companionship and occasional warm gestures, and exchanges of affection. Probably as much as can be hoped for, there are plenty of people who’d love to have that.

And for sex I have Jenny. Or if I want someone new, a thousand women waiting on a website, ready for me to phone them.

Lying in bed, thinking, this is fine, it’s how I now prefer it. Endless sex with the same woman, even if it never faded, which perforce it does, maybe after seven years, ten if you’re lucky, but even if it didn’t, is that what I’d want? Sounds an impoverished way to spend a lifetime on this rich earth.

The room slowly getting lighter, my thoughts becoming less sleepy. Well, of course, one thing I could do, explain this all to my wife, keep things open and honest. Such a course of action, something I might once have naively done. But my thoughts going back to that moment of maturity, recognizing that other people aren’t the same as me, remembering the corollary, you can’t explain to people who can’t understand.

Better to treasure the warm companionship, share the things we can, shield out the things we can’t.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Little Walled Garden of Paradise

Stepping out the front door, heading off to the station, a meeting in Westminster, plenty of time to catch the train. Buying a ticket, standing on the platform, absorbing into languid mid-morning rhythms. Catching myself smiling, seeing other people look at me warily, as at a lunatic.

Turning off the smiles as best I can. Looking at the other people, thinking to myself, I have something you don’t, a lover. A little sun-filled patch of heaven in my mind, walled off from the world. Visited only seldom in the flesh, thereby preserved from overexposure’s deathly clasp. From that small sunny patch, my whole world suffused with an inward glow.

Arriving at Westminster, checking in with security, fifteen minutes early. Reading the newspapers in the foyer. A secretary coming to collect me. The meeting starting. Brisk, steady progress, difficult issues addressed, decisions made. An hour later, all done.

Coming home, making coffee, my good mood still bubbling. Only a couple more days, then I see Carol. Yet even without seeing her, my life improved, more balanced somehow.

My wife happy too, I wonder if in some way I’m putting less pressure on her, somehow making her feel less worried about sexlessness. You can imagine her in secret moments confessing, actually she’d prefer me to have a lover, have a burden lifted. Impossible to verify, she’d probably add the proviso, just as long as I don’t have my face rammed into the details. Maybe she thinks it but doesn’t articulate it. Whatever.

I wonder what I’d feel if she did have a lover. Fine, I think. For all I know she does. Maybe that’s why she’s looking good. Well, look after it sweetheart, it’s precious.

Sipping coffee, black fresh and strong. Thinking about Carol. Yes, that’s what I’m aiming for, that she thinks of me in the same way, her little walled garden of sun-filled paradise. Not the main part of her life, not even a place she visits often, just somewhere she knows she can go, be with someone who wants to be with her, someone with no other agenda but to spend occasional time together.

Well, that’ll take skill, creating that space. Even more skill, keeping it uncluttered. But while I can, I will.

Sex Sort Of Slid Off The Agenda

A dinner party, just my wife and I and another couple, Peter and Bella, at their house. The door opened by Bella in disheveled state, eyes red from weeping. My wife hugging her, leading her to a sofa, sitting her down, sending me to get her a glass of water, stroking her hand.

The story emerging between sobs. Picked up Peter’s phone, looked at his recent calls, not sure why she did it. Saw a number, dialed it. A young girl with foreign accent answering, hello darling, hearing Bella’s voice, ending the call. Bella confronting Peter. A confession duly extracted, yes, just this once, he rang a number from an internet site, curiosity only, wouldn’t dream of going through with it. Bella unbelieving. Peter storming out, gone she knows not where.

My wife talking softly, reassuring, absorbing the hurt. Me, watching, admiring her skills, annoyed that she has to do this, she does it enough at work, there’s no energy to spare.

Bella’s misery drizzling on. How could Peter do it? The very thought of a prostitute, sordid and degrading. Grabbing a cushion, pulling it to her tummy, wailing. Me awarding myself points out of ten for putting up with it, also for curbing my irritation at her histrionics, thinking, she’s getting a sliver of enjoyment out of this, holding centre stage. The longer I stay cool, the more points I get.

Thinking, escorts, sordid and degrading, how would you know, Bella? Ask an expert, namely me. Some are, some definitely aren’t, maybe I should introduce you to Jenny, she isn’t, in fact, this scene with you now is far the more sordid and degrading.

Also thinking, I remember last time I was with you a remark you made, something about how after the first two years of marriage, sex sort of slid off the agenda, it’s the natural order of things. Well, maybe Peter had other ideas. Maybe Peter thought, if you think like that, maybe he should get his sexual needs met elsewhere, that’s also the natural order of things.

Also thinking, Peter, my friend, rookie mistake, what the hell were you doing leaving an escort’s number on your mobile phone, if you’re going to maintain separate selves you need to manage the boundaries. Now look what you’ve done, caused unnecessary pain, nobody had to know.

Pouring myself a beer. One hour down, five points out of ten. Another hour of this, I get ten out of ten and give myself permission to leave the women to it.

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.

Kissing Plan

Emailing Carol, our agreed way of communicating, unintrusive but also intimate. Hey there beautiful, what a lovely day together, I’m still feeling the afterglow, just wondered if you’d like to meet up again, talk about it all, maybe a coffee? Or perhaps a glass of champagne and some candlelight somewhere? Any time you’re free. Rxxx.

Two hours later, her response, hey R, you don’t know what you’ve done to me, I feel released, I feel like a woman again, I came home with my son, made dinner for the family, straight away things felt different, I was just happier, and so were they, now I realize I’ve been wound up way too tight, wanting something that my husband can’t or won’t provide, now I can just live with it, now I’ve got myself a lover. I’ve got to be in Ireland for a few days, but yes, baby, yes, let’s meet up again, I need more. Cxxx.

Waiting for a while, then emailing her, hey honey, if I have to wait until you get back from Ireland, I’ll just have to tell you in an email what I was going to tell you across a candlelit dinner, you have a wonderful allure, it’s conquering me, probably a good idea to have a few days to catch my breath, in the meanwhile, I’m spending more time than I should daydreaming about you, especially about kissing you again. Rxxx

Checking for Carol’s response every hour or so. Nothing for a day. Oh dear, maybe I’ve come on too strong. Then, my inbox lighting up, email from Carol. Hey R, mmmm, sounds terrific, as I remember it you have quite a kissing repertoire, what sort of kissing are you daydreaming about, you’ll have to tell me by email, keep me going until you can do it in the flesh. Cxxx.

Also waiting a day, picking up her rhythm. Then, hey C, my lips on yours, my tongue touching yours, pulling you down on that sofa in your mother’s apartment, sitting together like adolescents, kissing your throat, my hand under your top cupping your breast, moving to your back, unhooking your bra, letting you do that girl trick of taking it off, your teeshirt still on. Kissing more, playing with your nipples, kissing them too, flicking them with my tongue. Hey C, that’s about half way through my kissing plan, the other half is strong stuff, may be best if I just do it or try it, rather than email. Rxxx.

The Difficult Bit

Sunday morning, weather bright but still windy, powering round Regent's Park on my bicycle, settling into a steady fast rhythm, perfect for thinking.

Carol, wow, what a wonderful sexual woman. A stunning receiver of sexual attention. Receiving requiring just as much skill as giving. All done with easy naturalness. And not just receiving, also giving. My cock in her mouth, taken hungrily. The giving and receiving blending into one.

Another cyclist overtaking me with some ease, never mind, I’ve got bigger things on my mind, just keep going. The day’s brightness but unsettledness, exact counterpart to my inner world, blown away by Carol.

Yesterday, making love, stroking, kissing. Getting up, getting dressed, remaking the coffee, pouring it, sipping it. Carol saying she needs to go, something about picking up her son from a school trip. This detail of her life emerging incidentally, others perhaps to follow in the future, filling out the outlines.

Now, today, in Regent's Park, the difficult bit, letting things take their own course, not forcing them. Difficult not to ring her, Hi, let’s meet up, I’m desperate to see you again, I’m addicted to your smell, your tastes, your voice, your smile. Maybe she’d like me to ring. Maybe by not ringing I miss the moment. Maybe she needs space.

Another cyclist overtaking, come on R, snap out of it. Switching to interval mode, half a lap at eighty percent, half at fifty, six laps, then make a new plan.

Well, this is how I’ve positioned myself with her, can’t just collapse now. We’re lovers, not spouses. Our lives don’t overlap, they intersect. We’re not going to break up our respective marriages, it’s too painful for all. If we got together it would just takes us back to where we started, in three years we’d be bored with each other. So if she wants me, I’m her occasional lover, if that’s not enough, shame, but at least we had yesterday.

On my bicycle, coming up to the previous overtaker, seeing him respond, dicing each other for a while. The physical exertion a balm.

Finishing up, riding home, showering, making lunch, sharing it with my wife. Chatting about the week, two friends together, harmonious, easygoing, unintense. Wonder what Carol’s doing, probably similar with her family.

Actions and Consequences

Carol raising her glass, tapping it against mine. toasting. Alive and uncomplicated.

Moments passing. But R, the snag is, life’s complicated. And the complications intrude. Your wife and my husband, for instance, what about them. Actions have consequences. If we’re lovers, then what are the consequences?

Watching the ducks on the little lake, pondering. Looking up at Carol, looking at me. Well, Carol, here’s a suggestion, you decide what you want to do, and look after the consequences your end. Which would not seem to be far-reaching if we can both be discreet. And I’ll look after my side. And we both promise each other that we’ll each stay clear of the other’s life, other than in the moments we share.

Picking up her hand, stroking it, trying to soften the words, also not wanting to duck the issue, she’s too precious a person to be other than straightforward.

Rising, taking our glasses to the trashcans, tossing them in. See, Carol, that’s what we need to do with the extraneous details in our lives, dispose of them responsibility. Both of us struck by the ridiculousness of the analogy, laughing together.

Strolling across the park, heading back to her apartment. Here are my assumptions, Carol. Your husband and my wife don’t meet our respective needs, for whatever reason, staleness, temperament, diverging paths, anything. But it’s too hurtful to them and others and us to uproot everything. Now that action, uprooting, would have consequences. So, we live with what we’ve got.

But Carol, that can be a prison, unless we make it otherwise. We have to find the freedom within life’s impeding structures. For magical life-enhancing moments when they suddenly arise. Like now.

Taking her hand, pulling her to me, giving her a hug. Carol smiling, hugging back.

Okay R, I need some time to think about that, sorry if I’m slower at all this than you.

Sure baby, that’s fine, no rush, no predetermined destination, me, I’m just enjoying the journey.

Moving on, chatting, watching football games and kite flying and cycling and other inconsequentialities.

Reaching Carol’s apartment, stopping. Oh Carol, one other thing, that kiss you owe me, well, I don’t want it. Carol’s face crossed with a slight frown. No, honestly, I don’t. Not if it’s given because you owe me, that is. If you kiss me when we get into that apartment, it has to be because you want to, want to quite badly actually, in fact, exactly as much as I want to be kissed by you.

Carol smiling, opening the door, letting me in.

Curvy Voluptuous Nymphomaniac

London’s air thick with cultural conflict, not between ethnic groups, they get along fine, rather between those falling prostrate at the prospect of the royal wedding, and those that don’t. For the worshippers, happiness at a very picture of forthcoming marital harmony. For the others, indifference to an outworn narrative, especially when sugar-wrapped in such pomp.

Turning to the escort website in search of distraction. The profiles especially modified.

Hi, my name’s HappiLicks. Want a princess, but without the annoying ceremony? Cum to me honey, I’ll give you what you want. One hour and you’ll have the orgasm of your life, and you don’t have to stick around afterwards, live with all the boring conversation. If you like you can watch the happy couple on television while I suck you off. Ring me now baby.

Hi, I’m Kate, same as the princess but better looking and better boobs. You can have me, sixty pounds for half an hour, a hundred pounds an hour, ten pounds off on the special day, Friday. I can wear a bridal veil, if you like, nothing else, whilst you take me from behind. Anal included if you’re not too big, you’ll have to be gentle, I’m tight, just like a virgin bride.

Hello baby, this is Lilly waiting for you, I do everything, I’m submissive so you’ll have to force yourself on me, just like a prince returning after battle and desperate for relief. Very flexible, you’ll be able to bend me into any position. I won’t say no, unlike a princess. You can imagine that you’re married to her, and I’m your private mistress, except you don’t have to pay for all my time, just for an hour. Cum to me, baby, make sure you bring a full load, I want to suck it out of you. I’m waiting for you baby.

Hi honey, I’m SunnySex. Fed up with the thought of a street party? Annoyed by everyone cooing around the television? Escape to my arms, honey, I can sooth your troubles away. Curvy voluptuous nymphomaniac, I’m everything the princess isn’t. So you can have a good time with me. Only eighty pounds for an hour, twenty pounds back if I can’t make you cum at least once. Cum on baby, you owe it to yourself, don’t get stuck in front of a television, have a big fat orgasm instead.

These profiles, enough to restore sanity. Tempting thought, an orgasm rather than television, I might ring Jenny.

Sexual Genius

Walking through Finsbury Park, air full of sunshine and fragrance of spring blossom on trees. My body still buoyant after Jenny’s touch. A sudden insight. Her sexual genius, it’s not the mere physical contortions, it’s that when I go to her, she sees a man with a wound, in need of healing, and she welcomes it, and she finds the wounds, and she assuages them.

Standing at the hilltop, surveying the scene, pondering. That crucial moment for a woman, confronted with a man’s sexual wounds, she can take it as a gift, like Jenny, to be entrusted with its healing. A gift as profound as a man can bring. Or she can see it as an insult, how dare you presume to exploit me with your disgusting appetites.

On the street below, a blaring of horns and shouting between motorcyclist and busdriver. Both male. Hey boys, you wouldn’t be doing that if you’d just been where I’ve just been. I wonder how many other mistakes they’ll make today, same reason.

Thinking, or of course a woman can just have dull sexual antennae, fail to see the need, fail to see the gift it represents. Like my wife. Maybe like all wives, after a few years of marriage.

Another insight. That sexual genius of Jenny’s, it’s exactly the same as Jane’s, that ready acceptance, that pleasure in being sought out as sexual healer, that instinct for finding the exact cure. Amazing, that thought. Maybe in Jenny I’m recreating Jane, becoming twenty again, exactly how old I feel right now. Maybe not so amazing, that’s what sex is, regeneration.

Watching the traffic, flowing smoothly now, drivers all apparently happy. Interesting, maybe these ones really have been with their Jennys, that’s how they stay calm.

Thinking more, so that’s a male viewpoint, what about female, could it be the same? Maybe that’s what a man should do, become attuned to female sexual wounds, be proud to be entrusted with their cure.

Another sudden insight. That would explain a lot about Carol, she’s carrying a sexual wound, I think, maybe she needs a man who can provide the exact right cure. A cure which, thinking about it, involves patience, waiting until she’s good and ready. Sexual cures, it’s not just the physical technique, it’s also the timing, the lightness of touch.

Everything Utterly Different

A business deadline looming and a lot of work to do, a decade ago it would have taken weeks and required endless travel, today it’s just a question of staying organized, using the internet. Comments on a document here, an email there, a spreadsheet here, and it all comes together.

Reaching a breakpoint, making a cup of tea, spring sunshine filling the kitchen. Checking my secret email account, seeing one from Carol.

Hi R, just to say thanks for a fun morning, thought I’d try the email address you gave me, I’ve just set up a secret one for myself, good idea, protects against curious eyes and ears, much better than a cellphone. Also, just wanted to let you know, forgot to mention it, I was too engrossed in our conversation, I’m actually away in Mexico for ten days or so, helping out with an archeological dig, maybe it’d be okay to contact you when I get back. Please reply – I want to be sure my new email address is working. Carol xxx.

Emailing her, hi Carol, got your email, have a great time in Mexico, sounds exciting, yes, email me when you get back, R xxx.

Sipping my tea, enjoying the kitchen’s sunshine warmth. Pondering the joys of technology. Carol will probably pick up my email somewhere in Mexico. Jane will email some time, let me know how things are going in Australia. Different secret worlds, each in its separate domain, kept effortlessly separate. A few years ago, a world of landline phones, no emails, no internet, and the secret worlds would have collided. Today, everything utterly different.

Firing up the escort website, just for the devil of it. The screen filling with profiles and photos, vistas of blowjobs and anal ecstasy and pussy delights. A rumbustious and unashamed purveyance of pleasure. Proved in my own experience to be highly effective in delivery. A few years ago, no such thing existed, if you wanted any of this you’d have to wade first through streetcorner sleaze and predatory pimps.

Switching to a porn website, again, just for the devil of it. Surveying the thousands of new videos, thinking of clicking one, not in the mood, maybe later.

Thinking, if all this didn’t exist, the pressures would just build and build, eventually explode, like my first marriage. Interesting, maybe I’d still be with her if I could have done what I can do now. I wonder how many marriages all this technology is saving today.

It’s The Knowledge Not The Fact

Walking back with Carol, chatting inconsequentially. Stopping for a farewell coffee. London traffic outside the window proceeding with customary combination of smoothness and vexation. The blast of steam in coffee machines percussing. Friends meeting, hugging, chatting. Everyday noise and activity asserting.

An unspoken understanding not to talk about our parkbench moment, or not yet. Touching like that, it happened, it was wonderful, it might or might not happen again, talk about it now and it becomes too big a deal, forces us into some sort of lover’s groove. Maybe some other time, but not now.

Leaning toward her, saying, there’s still that question about your husband and my wife, what they’d think if they saw us here, I’m not trying to duck it, in fact I think it’s crucial, if you want I’ll give you the long answer. Carol smiling, nodding, okay, go on.

It would probably do damage, if they knew. So that gives us a choice. We can tell them, and damage them, and unleash malign forces with power to wreck. Or we can not tell them, keep things separate, you and me a separate domain, nothing to do with them. Or of course we could decide to keep life simple, renounce one another.

Carol looking at me, interjecting, yes, and that would mean that we’d know that we’d been pure and true and we’d have that consolation for a life of soul-sapping blandness.

Yes, exactly, good word, bland, that's exactly it, so, Carol, just telling you how I’m dealing with it, not suggesting that it’s necessarily the right thing for you, my position is, I’m free to do whatever I like, just as long as I don’t do damage. And it’s the knowledge, not the fact, that does the damage.

So, as you ask, that’s where I’m at. Me, I don’t want my life to be in permanent marital lockstep. And I don’t want to play all change partners, either, you land up in the same place. And I don’t want a bachelor existence, I’ve tried.

So, that’s it, the long answer. Smiling at her. And where it leaves me is, if you ever want to have coffee with me, then that’s a great life-enhancing thing and I’m going to do it, and I’m going to avoid any incontinent leakage of the information to my wife.

Carol leaning forward, taking my hand in both hers, smiling, thanks R, it’s good you’ve arrived at something so clear, it’s more for me to think about, figure out whether what’s right for you is right for me.

Soft Shiver

Pondering Carol’s question, what would her husband or my wife think, figuring out a response.

The tranquil scene disrupted, a young spaniel chasing a squirrel with wild enthusiasm, swerving to avoid our park bench, continuing its harebrained pursuit. The squirrel hurtling up a tree, the spaniel forgetting its canine limitations, trying to follow it, falling back, trying again, giving up cheerfully, trotting back to its owner. Impossible not to smile at the spring exuberance.

The little scene itself providing some sort of answer for Carol, forget about what might be going on in other people’s heads, instead, relish the thrill of being alive, like the spaniel. Still, the spaniel has an advantage, it’s unburdened by the clanking machinery of a human brain.

Carol looking at me, still smiling at the spaniel’s antics, speaking, well, that was what I wanted to ask you, R, now I’m here the answer seems obvious, who cares what they think, we’re just two people sitting on a park bench enjoying the view.

These sentiments corresponding so exactly with my own as to precipitate the impulse to hug her, chatter in enthusiastic agreement. But staying quiet. She’s like a small animal from a dark cave tiptoeing into the sunshine, feeling the warmth, relaxing, if I get noisy now it’ll send her scuttling back inside.

Still, impossible not to respond at all, I’m not trying to be her therapist, the trick is, keep it cool. Looking at her steadily in the eyes, hey Carol, I have an idea, I’ll tell you how I look at it, what works for me, then you can decide if it works for you. That okay? Carol looking at me intently, okay.

Stretching out my hand, reaching for hers. She offering it, trusting. Turning her palm upwards, stroking it. Looking down, stroking her wrist, the inside of her forearm, the hollows inside her elbow. A soft shiver running up her arm’s length. Her face flushing faintly,

Smiling at her, giving back her arm, well, Carol, that tells me the important thing I need to know, namely, whoever it is that’s responsible for looking after your physical needs, he’s not doing a very good job. Settling back into the park bench, looking for the spaniel again, watching it chasing another squirrel. My point made, now withdraw, give her some space.

Carol looking at me, oh God, R, is it that obvious, I didn’t realize I was broadcasting it, in fact, I’m not sure I was even aware of it. Sweeping her hair back, laughing, well, you’re going to have to let me think about that, wow, you touching my arm like that, I’m still tingling, I think I need some time to settle down.

If We Want To We Definitely Should

Yesterday, a text message on my phone, hi R, another coffee?, Carol x. Suddenly the day filling with sunshine, matching the spring weather outside. That x, full of excitement and promise, the more so for not having been offered in the past. Texting back, sure, R x. Times duly arranged.

Today, sitting down, same spot as last time, waiting. Carol coming over, kissing my cheek. Another thrill. Something not done last time and presumably therefore not offered lightly. A slight pattern suggesting itself, let her take the lead on such things, push too hard and she’ll wilt away. Puts me in a slightly helpless position, nothing I can do if she chooses not to take a lead, still, if that’s how it’s going to be, run with it.

Thanks for coming, R. That’s okay, anything particular you want to chat about? No, not really, well, actually, I was just thinking about something you said last time. Oh yes, which little nugget of wisdom would that have been? Um, you know what might be nice, we finish up our coffee, take a stroll through the park, chat in the sunshine.

A fine idea on a fine day. Finishing up, walking down the road, crossing it, into the park, daffodils on display. Low bright sunshine reflecting on the pond. Young children playing excitedly on swings and slides. Carol taking an interest in the early budding of some exotic plant.

Looking at me, making up her mind, well, R, you made some joke about how your wife and my husband should get together, get outraged about us meeting up like this, do you remember saying that? Yes, I remember making some smart-aleck comment like that. So R, we’re both married, do you think we really should be having coffee together, strolling together in a park?

So innocent and sweet a question making me want to smile and hug her, like a daughter. Seeing a park bench, inviting her to sit down, sitting down next to her. Well, mrs beautiful Carol, as it happens I’ve thought a lot about that, not just you and me, about the whole business of marriage, and have some sort of answer.

Carol looking at me earnestly. Okay, the long answer we can save until later, the short answer, yes, if we want to we definitely should. Smiling at her. Carol, released from thought of an impending lecture, laughing. Oh, okay, that’s alright then.

Just about to take her hand and kiss her cheek in affection, remembering my plan to let her take the lead. Her eyes looking into mine steadily. But, R, what if your wife or my husband sees things differently?

Peachy Bum

Once again, low-grade scratchiness on my skin and that sizzling feeling inside, sure signs of need for a woman’s sexual touch. A big business presentation coming up in the next few days, better sort myself out or I’ll start getting things wrong, miss the nuances, push too hard, start annoying everybody.

My wife for once free of pressure at work, spending time with me, planting in the garden together, playing boardgames in the evening. Smiling and sharing. But the closeness having no sexual possibility. A philosophical point for me to ponder, other people can be utterly different from you, beyond your understanding, and it’s still fine to share a life with them. For me, sex lies elsewhere.

Tempting to email Jane, I need to respond to her, reach out across the seas, but I can’t arrange my thoughts properly, can’t think of anything to say. I really must sort out myself out.

No text yet from Carol inviting me for coffee as half agreed after changing her flat tyre. Probably for the best, I can’t think how that would work out. Last night, lying in bed, thinking about something else, suddenly the whole scene with Carol replaying in my mind, her face and voice and demeanor casting an absolute spell, making me fall helplessly in love with her, now I can’t make her face come into focus when I try to remember it.

Ringing Jenny, my absolute comfort in times of sensual desperation. Straight to her voice message. Could be she’s with a client. Trying again periodically, same result. Probably means she’s gone back to Budapest to see her children, hope she comes back soon, I need you Jenny.

Logging onto the escort website, alighting on Peachy Bum. Sixty pounds an hour. Soft, pert and peach shaped ass for you to feel and fondle, then you can suck my nipples. We can french kiss, have oral both ways, no protection needed, and have unlimited sex, protected only. Have me sit on you face while you eat me and lick me everywhere. Cum as many times as you can. No extra charges. The photos in Peachy Bum’s gallery giving credence to her peachy boasts.

Ringing her cellphone, making arrangements. And now here I am, filled with excitement and slight nervousness and the sense of being alive, standing before an affluent suburban residential development, landscaped gardens and trellised walls, finger just about to press the buzzer to Peachy Bum’s apartment.

Sex Doesn’t Matter At All

Woke up this morning feeling warm about Jane, and in a frame of mind to send her an email.

Hi darling J, so you’ve decided you’re going to have an affair. How exciting. Remembering how you looked when I last saw you, it's what you need. Whoever you have it with, he’s a lucky guy, I wish it could be me.

Let me tell you something, darling J, I only mention it because as the years go by women seem to doubt their sexual attractiveness, well, your magnetism’s as powerful as ever, you looked to me just as you did as a student. I wish I’d been less reticent when I was with you in Australia, I’d have given you as much cunnilingus as you wanted, the thought now gives me an erection.

You say you’re going to stay with T. I’m glad, it saves a lot of trouble. You and I are at the same nexus, J. For what it's worth, I have some thoughts to share, see what you think.

The crucial thing about marriage, at least for me, probably for a lot of people, is that doesn’t go with sex. Sex is transitory, intense, chaotic, desperate. Sex is about discovery and excitement. Marriage is none of those things. Marriage is about steadiness and reliability and durability. Which makes it annoying that they’re so yoked together.

Maybe it made sense in bygone times. Marital fidelity would matter if we still had primogeniture, restricted social reach, high mortality. When marriages lasted about seven years before one or other died, faithfulness might have been achievable, maybe that’s why the seven-year itch kicks in when it does.

But now it's all different. Now we have contraception and women’s emancipation and social networking. You’d think that ideas of fidelity would update themselves.

But still, what I find surprising, J, is that marriage itself stays worthwhile. For me anyway. Sharing the lifelong narrative. Laughing at old jokes, remembering old things. The time the cat went missing and turned up days later in the laundry basket. Getting up early together to watch a spacecraft return. Holding hands to comfort one another at a friend’s child’s funeral. Do without those small things, you start to go crazy. Tiny reference points for sanity.

And of course, the big thing, if you’re going to have children, they need the steadiness and reliability and durability too. Marriage is very good for them.

That’s what I think, J. It’s not that marriage doesn’t matter, it’s that it matters a lot. Too much to be shackled to sex. Because in fact sex doesn’t matter at all. It’s like a meal, you eat it, you savor it, you enjoy it, you get vital nutrients from it, but then it’s gone.

And when we see each other again, J, we can take a break from the cunnilingus to raise a toast, to the glorious transitoriness of sex.

Stay well, darling J, and stay your beautiful self. Love, R, xx.