Sexual Annihilation

A family gathering with friends, altogether about a hundred people, an amateur band playing, people getting up to dance, my wife with her ancient uncle, me with my daughter, groups of women, men standing on the sidelines watching, some couples looking expert.

Looking around, seeing an unknown woman of stunning beauty dancing with a much older man, looks like her grandfather. Wrenching my eyes away, then keeping a lookout for her. Later, bumping into her, inviting her to dance, she agreeing, but strangely, neither reluctant or enthusiastic, as if complying mutely. The dance ending, both of us drifting off our separate ways.

Later, my wife telling me the tale. The unknown woman, daughter of a family friend, never previously been seen because of never being allowed out of a rehabilitation centre. Or hardly ever. At the end of each long rehabilitation, apparent recovery, release, but her old heroin dealers then finding her again, waiting their moment, plying her, ensnaring and enslaving her again.

Before all that, my wife telling me, she was a shining star, a gifted student, a blooming beauty, giving up all other interests to become a ballerina. Maybe some unknown thing went wrong, maybe she found the wrong friends, maybe she just wasn’t quite good enough as a dancer. Anyway, one day, a phonecall to the parents, you’d better come and be with your daughter. Arriving, finding her confined to bed, she’d disappeared for a week, eventually found in nearby woods, naked, confused, needle-punctured, bruises and welts over her whole body.

And apparently used for sex so often as to eradicate the whole idea of sex other than as a means of getting her next fix. The damage apparently permanent and irreversible. Once vibrant, now just a meek, compliant rag doll.

Each episode of rehabilitation, the daughter emerging with stunning looks and ballerina body restored. Soon to be the plaything of dealer gangs. My wife telling me, better enjoy seeing her now, you won’t see her again like this, she’ll either be spaced-out and broken-backed, or she’ll be in rehab again. The process incidentally bankrupting her parents.

Driving home, thinking, hurting. The terrible loss of such a lovely person. Somehow made worse by the sexual annihilation. That precious sexual germ, such a wonderful thing no matter how difficult, no matter how protean, how terrible to have it hollowed out entirely.

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.

Sucking Me Unasked

My hormones jangling again at Jane’s email and her Australian adventures. The thought of a sex-party, seen through the wide-eyed stare of an innocent interested woman, containing a potent erotic charge.

Here in London, my wife departing for work with a brief peck on the cheek, a squeeze of my hand, and a smile. Another exhausting day in prospect for her, looking after others, their needs somehow never reducing no matter how much care they receive. Squeezing her hand back in admiration, have a good day darling.

But the hormones still urgent. Remembering, my last foray led nowhere, just that bland East London suburb and the child-woman and her controller. An event unpleasant to recall, as profoundly unsexual and ugly as could be contrived in deepest hell.

In desperation, trying Jenny’s phone. Her voice answering chirpily on the third ring, hi, I’ve been waiting for you to ring me, when are you coming? Arrangements quickly made.

Arriving early, walking around Finsbury Park, now familiar environs, feeling a sense of peace, knowing that in fifteen minutes we’ll be smiling in recognition and hugging and she’ll be sucking me unasked. Five minutes to go, a text message on my phone, hi baby I’ve left the outside gate open, just come up when you’re ready.

Doing so, closing the outside gate behind me, climbing the grimy stairs, tapping on her door. Jenny’s face appearing. Immediately, the sense of knowing each other, having something special between us. Both of us unable to stop smiling.

Jenny pulling away, telling me, I know you, you don’t care about what I wear, you just want me naked. Stripping off her gown, sitting on the bed, nothing on bar a g-string. Come on baby, take your clothes off quickly, come to me here.

Complying. Lying naked on the bed. Jenny kissing my face briefly, then chest, then straight to my cock, hard already, taking it in her mouth. A deep shuddering relaxation settling softly on my body. Jenny with her sucking and stroking, and her smooth skin and curves, ministering to my needs both physical and spiritual. Long minutes passing, Jenny timelessly patient.

Changing positions, licking her, putting on a condom, entering her, making love. Chatting, stroking, smiling. After an hour, sated, satisfied. The lack of orgasm, irrelevant.

Dressing, kissing her goodbye, leaving, the smell of her sex still around my mouth. Relaxed and at peace for the first time in weeks.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Need For Woman’s Womanly Touch

Waking up this morning, feeling the hormones, a zingy feeling in my loins and enough self-knowledge to recognize the glow of need for woman’s womanly touch.

Lying back watching the light break through the windows, pondering. What’s Carol thinking? At the coffee shop she seemed cool, but with a sense of something more, maybe that’s reading too much into things, there’s nothing to pin down, but that’s what you’d expect, it’s early days, anything specific would be too strong.

Imagining her womanly touch, what it would be like. Kissing her nipples, seeing how her body responds. My hand stroking her stomach, hipbones, inner thigh. Feeling whether her body clenches or relaxes. Stroking her pussy’s lips, feeling them open. My fingers gently searching for the wetness. looking at her face to see if she’s enjoying. Licking her, seeing if she likes that, discovering what she tastes like. Seeing whether she enjoys my body, fondles me, wants to take me in her mouth.

The thought too exciting to lie still. Shifting on the bed. My wife beside me stirring, ten minutes or so and she’ll be awake and showering. Hormones still zinging through my loins.

Wonder what Carol would think if she knew my thoughts. Pleased to be fantasized about? Offended at being thought of in that way? Outraged at my presumption? Confirmed in some conviction that all men are sex beasts? Oh well, who knows, she can think what she’s going to think. What I think is, it’s a compliment, it’s meant lovingly.

No help now, though, lying on my bed in the dawn light. Don’t even know if I’ll see her again. If I do, we’re still miles away from any prospect of sexual togetherness, and that’s just fine, these early noncommittal moments have their own wondrous magic, they need their own time to work through their own dynamics, rush it and you lose something precious and unrecoverable.

But still, those hormones. Maybe I should ring Jenny, meet up, get her to work her magic.

Thinking, how would that affect things with Carol, the pureness and cleanness of her and me. Answer, grow up dammit, not at all, it’s a separate chamber in the mind. Carol’s got a husband anyway, I’ve got a wife, we’d better be able to maintain multiple chambers. If she’s seeing someone else as well, well, that’s her business, another chamber in her mind, not my concern. The only thing that matters, she thinks of me sometimes, and when she does there’s a warm glow, the rest is just periphery.

Getting up, using the bathroom before my wife wakes, forming a plan to ring Jenny.

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.

Wonderful That You’re Not Here

Saturday evening, my wife away at some family event, the house empty except for me. Bubbling gently on the cooker, a simple sauce, beef and tomatoes and oregano. A pan of water boiling and the pasta thrown in. Pop of a cork from a bottle of Italian red, pouring some into a glass, smelling, tasting.

Sitting down, enjoying the sense of physical ease. Thinking, it’s probably attributable to Jenny, half an hour with her still working its magic more than a week later. Her skin and smells and touch, her wordless understanding of my body and its needs.

Draining the pasta, stirring in the sauce, serving it on a plate. Topping up the wine. Surveying the scene, contemplating its simple joy.

Jenny having a presence, but far preferable just at this exact moment for such presence to be in mind only. For her to be here physically, that would turn this simple meal into something different entirely. I'm sure I remember reading somewhere, only part of the money you pay to an escort is to be with her, the rest is so you can leave afterwards.

Raising a glass. To simple pleasures, free of entanglements.

My thoughts no doubt fully reciprocated, she probably has her fill of men, being an escort means she can seal off her free time. No need to pander to male egos or be sent running on errands or be moaned at for spending too much money.

But thinking again, maybe she does have a man somewhere. I wonder, does she do with him the things she does with me? Or is he the last one she’d want to have sex with, too exhausted having done it all day, thinking to herself, it’s fine for money, it’s fine when the man leaves afterwards, but not now I’m home, it’s time to relax. Maybe she and her man, all they do together is argue about bills and drinking too much and not getting chores done.

Half the bottle of wine finished. Plate empty. Wonder if I should have some more, um, well, okay, as it’s so delicious, I think I will, thank you. Serving myself. Refilling the glass.

Raising another toast. To solitude. And to Jenny, I love you baby. Wonderful to have you in my mind, wonderful that you’re not here. Some time in the next week, maybe we can meet up, you can once again do all those wonderful things to my body and soul.

Sexual Conundrums

That scratchy feeling again, the need for a woman’s touch, seems like it’s a two-week cycle, if it stretches out any longer then tetchiness creeps in. Best to deal with it, sixty pounds and half an hour with a sexual therapist, cheap and clean and better than all the alternatives.

Checking out the escort website last night, aha, Jenny’s back, that’s exciting. The information roiling in my head in the small hours, her physical spell revivified. Only a few minutes spent together, hardly any words exchanged, just a euphoric merging of skin and flesh and smells, and the imprint still sharp.

Maybe it’d be best to leave it at that, treasure it for the brief moment it was, don’t disturb its perfection by trying to extend it. Like returning somewhere for a holiday, finding disappointment second time round. Maybe. But her pull too irresistible, to hell with the mincing philosophications, time to see her again.

Waking this morning, reviewing the plan. My wife chatting over breakfast coffee, looking relaxed. The thought occurring, she’s looking better ever since I started going with escorts, I wonder if there’s a connection. Maybe the removal of some invisible pressure, the thought or mention of sex even on television seems to freeze her, make her construct barricades, find escape routes, now with me she doesn’t have to any more.

So what do I do about Jenny? Tell my wife? It’d be mental cruelty to her. Forego Jenny? It’d be mental cruelty to me.

My wife collecting her stuff, departing for work. A quick sexless peck, a smile, goodbye. Watching her through the window, walking to the station, a jaunty stride. The sight somehow precipitating some decisions. No, I’m not going to inflict harsh truths on her, stuff that she’d find sordid. Stuff that matters to her not at all other than that it must be quarantined elsewhere, like a disease. And yes, if that means living with a lie, so be it, the lie relates to a part of me that she’s not looking after and isn’t interested in.

So here I am, telephone poised. Jenny’s number, enter. Connect button, click.

Fine Sexual Line

Snow thick all over the park, an event in London too rare and exciting for an eleven-year-old daughter to contain her patience for long. The shops quickly selling out of sleds, but one luckily obtained, a plastic disc with a handle, now dragged behind her back up the snowy hill, laughing with her friends, frantically positioning for another slide down it.

Proceedings occasionally halted, a quick run to my side, a breathless summary of the last slide, hey dad did you see how far I went, this sled is amazing. Quick hug, off again. The air filled with laughter from children excited by the thrills and parents thrilled by children’s excitement.

Afterwards, sitting on a sofa watching television, my daughter exhausted, nestled at my side. An interesting dynamic, sometimes she avoids physical contact, sometimes she’s indifferent, other times like today she reaches out. Leaving me to draw a fine fatherly line, welcoming but not overly intimate, warm and inviting when she’s reaching out, unfazed when she’s not.

My wife offering slices of fruitcake. I wonder how things were between her and her father, just one perceived rejection from him, intended or otherwise, and the physical seed of doubt is sown, the sense of being unattractive to men. My daughter unconsciously now applying the same test, sitting beside me, soaking up the idea that her physical presence is something enjoyed by me. Utterly unsexual, more like pre-sexual. When she becomes fully sexual her father will be important only by dint of categorical exclusion.

Thinking about my wife again, that may well be how it started, an edgy relationship with an over-critical father, seeing herself as repellant, mentally putting in place a shield to protect herself against all men, now part of her fabric. Or maybe she was always going to be unsexual, who knows?

My daughter caught up in the television action, some cartoon mouse about to be caught by a fox, her slice of cake suspended in pause between plate and mouth. The mouse escaping, the cake eaten. She jumping up, going off to the next room, some new adventure, physical closeness over. A daughter constructing her worldview, posing a test of some sort for her father, marking criteria not disclosed, results only to be revealed after decades if at all. I hope I did okay.

Explode in My Mouth Baby

Firing up the escort website, finding Jenny’s profile. Excitement building. Not for long however. A brief message inserted at the top, gone on holiday, see you in the new year.

A sense of deflation taking hold, lasting all day. Gradually pulling out of it, recognizing its source. Over the last week or so, first Jenny, then Jane, flooding my everyday thoughts, filling the world with a warm glow. The universe in harmony. Euphoric but unsustainable. Inevitably to be followed by a downer. Now, no email from Jane, Jenny on holiday, nothing. Downer duly arrived.

Soon however rescued by the pressure of everyday life, meetings to attend, meals to prepare, workouts to sweat through. My daughter’s Christmas play, her turn in her class to do Mary. A glass of mulled wine with her mother, still looking great, still looking at me ambivalently. A visit from overseas relatives.

Next day, still feeling out of sorts, fidgety, in need of woman’s skin. Firing up the website again. Checking the recent joiners, adding them to my hot list, weeding out the inactives. Checking the options. SweetSamantha, full-bodied, toned, blowjob specialist, cum explode in my mouth baby. Smiling out of the computer screen, nose and eyes anonymized by photoshop blur, yes that’s exactly what I need, a good blowjob, let’s telephone her.

Five rings, a foreign woman’s voice answering. Yes I’m free today. Yes, twelve o’clock is good. Half an hour is fine. I’ll text you the street and postcode, ring me again when you get here and I’ll give you the house number.

Getting ready to go, a quick shower to be ultra clean for her, checking the map, putting on winter clothes. A familiar low-key excitement building, like before an important sports match or business interview, this is what you’ve been waiting for but now it feels unremarkable, the world has slowed down and gone quieter, not even sure you want to go through with it, but carrying on anyway.

Arriving at the street, ringing again, getting final directions. That distinctive feeling, being sucked slowly into a vortex, a different reality. Pressing her number. The door buzzing open.

Many Sexual Chambers

Well that’s two women fallen in love with in two weeks. Both intensely sexual, each utterly different. One, Jenny, prostitute, almost no shared conversation. The other, Jane, ex-lover from student days, sharer of bottles of red wine and poetry and long car drives. The only commonality, deep communion through our bodies. And all the while the everyday presence of my wife, quiet and lovely and unsexual.

Toiling at the gym on the rowing machine, thinking. From my viewpoint, two sexual geniuses plus my wife. Well actually, a lot of others too. Ex-wives, ex-lovers, escorts visited. Each occupying a secret chamber in my mind.

Taking a break, wiping off sweat with a small white towel, moving on to some weights. So what about their viewpoint. Say Jane’s. Suppose she has multiple chambers in her mind too, suppose I’m just one. Well, unnecessary to suppose, that is definitely the case, whether or not articulated by her, nobody can stay sane otherwise.

Clean and jerk, a lightish weight, ten reps, rest. A sip of water. But that’s fine. I don’t want more than a single chamber in the mansion of Jane’s mind. I don’t even want to be the most important one. I don’t care how many other chambers there are. Ex-boyfriends, her husband, lovers. Them and me, all of us, we’re lucky, we shared time with the lovely Jane. We listened to Bach with her, went to Picasso exhibitions, shared poetry, kissed her nipples, licked her clitoris, woke up in the morning, had coffee, made love again. I hope they all looked after her and loved her, paid homage to her loveliness.

Another ten reps, struggling slightly on the last two, heartbeat faster. Another sip of water. Deep abdominal breathing. The important thing, my particular chamber in Jane’s mind, I hope it’s one that she treasures. Same as with all my lovers and exes. They can be with other men, that’s fine, just, I hope I make them feel special, I hope that when they re-enter my chamber in their mind it’s with a warm glow.

Ten more reps, the last set. Just making it. Sitting, wiping sweat with the towel again, readying myself for bicep curls. Thinking, yes, that’s how the mind works, that’s the past. Meanwhile there’s the now, and urgent matters of the skin, I’m getting fidgety again. Think I’ll look up Jenny.

Making E-Love

A couple of emails from Jane, the sound of her voice on the recorded message, and now she’s as sexually present as in student days. Waking up last night, turning to touch her, surprised to find she’s not there. Instead, my wife, still and cool in pajamas, a different presence entire. But a warmth still glowing from the sense of Jane.

Emailing her. Hi darling Jane, that was a wonderful email. Ever since student days I’ve made love to you regularly, just a shame you weren’t there to join in. Maybe once or twice a year, I suppose. You and your shapes in my mind, and your smells and givingness, it’s a near impossible thing for a woman to do, be so sexually available but yet so desirable, but you manage it somehow, that’s your magic, at least for me. Such a sexual balm compared with its opposite, a supposed sexual heightening through withholding.

That day in the Cotswolds, naked on the picnic blanket, somehow I’d forgotten about it, after your email that student summer sunshine is lighting up my midwinter London. Right now, I can feel your skin and your silken thighs and the cleft of your bottom. Then when I saw you again in Australia, even being together only a few minutes, other people there, fully clothed, I could still feel them, it doesn’t go away, it’s a gift you’ve given forever.

Your husband was there so I didn’t do anything, but it would have been so wonderful to take you away, maybe to the beach, the smell of the sea, the sound of the waves, glasses of cold white wine, chatting, kissing, holding. Back to the hotel room, clothes discarded, my erection ready, you sucking it harder, climbing atop me, guiding me in. Taking my finger, guiding it to your sexy little ass, pushing it in the hole, making me feel the twitching as you climax. Damn, it’s making me hard just thinking about it, my finger can still feel that Jane twitch. And all not to be. I hadn’t wanted to interfere. Now I just have to imagine it.

Well darling Jane, my marriages haven’t worked out as you know, and this one’s sexless. But I’ve given up searching for a sexual wife, I’m going to stick here. But with extramarital adventures. Trust me Jane, it’s easier that way. So if you’re in London, let’s make love. And meanwhile, let’s make e-love. So email soon xx R.