It was morning, and the sky was blue. You'd think after a refreshing night's sleep I'd have been fit and raring to go, like any normal forty-something married woman with stuff needing to be done around the house. Ha ha.
Instead, I continued to lie in bed, on my back, my legs apart, my knees raised, like I was in some erotic trance or something, which I suppose I was, come to think of it. My husband Jeff had already left for work. He was an early bird. "If I'm not on the ring road before 7 o'clock, I'm dead meat," he would say. Traffic round our way is just terrible.
To be precise, it was a Tuesday morning. We had had sex on Sunday morning - Jeff and I. With each other that is. More often than not, that was when we used to do it, on Sunday mornings. Unlike when bonking at bedtime, one is not knackered after a long day's work, bilious after over-indulging, or rat-arsed on too many gins. And lying there under the duvet before the day has got going, your body feels all warm and receptive. Well, mine does anyway.
Sunday morning sex is pretty middle class, I know. But I regarded it as proper sex. Fundamentally, first thing in the morning you're supposed to be there, in bed, I mean. And your partner is also supposed to be there, in bed with you. So it's normal. And it's warm. And you're in your diaphanous nightie, assuming you remembered to put it on at bedtime. And there's no rush to get out and about anywhere. So, not only is there time for a decent amount of foreplay to get the juices flowing, as they say, the sound of distant church bells adds an air of sinfulness to what you're doing rather than traipsing along to your place of worship. And a touch of sin always is good for erotic copulation, even if you're a married atheist.
Anyway, now, two days on, my wretched libido was already nagging me again. Like I hadn't been serviced for six months or something. Not that such a condition constituted a major problem - just that everything else in life, like shopping and daily chores, gets demoted in priority. So, not altogether a bad thing when you look at it that way.
My girlfriend Bea would have known exactly what I was on about. She knew me better than I knew myself. As I lay there on my back, all unladylike, as I said, I fantasised that Bea was lying with me, by my side. Or on top of me even. She would know which bits of me needed attention, and how to fix things. She was a real case, Bea was, but more of her later. That particular day was not just Tuesday, but one of those occasional midweek days when I would clandestinely liaise with Dave, an old work colleague. 'Old work colleague' equals 'secret lover', to be truthful. I think they call it a euphemism.
The affair with Dave started after he left the company we both worked for. He moved away up north to be an area manager of something or other, but his job necessitated frequent trips back to my neck of the woods. God knows why, but it did. On the first such occasion, he called me at work and said why don't we meet up for lunch, just to reminisce and stuff. Yes, I say. OK. I am a sucker for a free lunch. And further, I'm pathetically easy if a couple of margaritas are thrown in too. In the unlikelihood you ever want my body, you know what to do.
During the whole time we worked together, we had never even kissed, Dave and I, full lips and properly embraced and everything. The nearest we ever got to physical passion was an office party where we danced and Dave tried to feel me up. Or that might have been someone else - it's a bit of a haze. I remember laughing, and overtly rejecting his advances, whoever it was. Well, you have to be seen upholding some sort of decorum, don't you? The last thing you want is to be the subject of gossip flying round your workplace. Spread the dirt about all your sleazebag colleagues by all means.
Therefore, with our first lunch-date meal finished, we were saddled with one of those delicate social challenges whereby after an hour of polite but bordering on flirty conversation, we needed something tangible to precipitate actual action. I could hardly use being treated to a stodgy lasagne and a house red justification enough to swoon into his arms like in an old Hollywood movie. I felt I needed more before pledging my undying love and having him whisk me off to the Kasbah, or somewhere, where eunuchs would massage me with exotic lotions, and he would deflower me on a king-size water-bed amidst a heady environment of oriental fragrances and wafting palms. "Fancy coming back to my hotel room?" he asked.
I guess that occasion more than any other set me on morality's slippery slope downwards. I remember thinking what does it matter as long as no one gets hurt, except me maybe - I wasn't embarking on a criminal career or anything. No one was doing anything they didn't want to do. As long as suitable precautions were observed, irresponsible risk-taking would be avoided. And neither would it diminish the value of anyone's marriage. The way I saw it, if I was a happier and more contented woman, my husband would be a happier and more contented man. I was a mature grown female for Heaven's sake. Why shouldn't I add a bit of excitement to my life?
Of course, fantasy rarely turns seamlessly into reality, does it? Thus no palms wafted and the cleaner's lingering smell of Domestos in the bathroom was an inadequate substitute for the aroma of Turkish spices. Nevertheless, my little heart did bang a bit faster after David closed the bedroom door, securing us inside, alone. I imagined I would have to take the lead, being more experienced, he being a bachelor and everything. But no, I found him skilled and confident, and disarmingly adept at unfrocking me from behind. I can't remember his exact words, but I do recall him whispering subtly romantic assurances that he had dreamt of nothing but fucking my brains out since the day we first met.
His manual dexterity impressed me further as he single-handedly released my brassiere's 6-hook back fastener, allowing the shoulder straps to fall and his other hand to slide intrusively inside a warm left C-cup. I mean. godammit, even I myself needed both hands to escape from that particular undergarment. There's something goddam erotic about underwear that takes a lot of getting in and out of. Well, I think there is.
I was used to laying on my back when having full sex, or 'making love' as genteel folk call it, bless their refined nature. It wasn't that I was prudish or anything. It was just a surefire way that worked for me, almost every time. Maybe some boffins at the department of gynaecology, osteopathy or orthopaedics, would explain with even longer words why the good old missionary was so right for me. All I knew was that despite (or because of) having a clumping great male on top of me, I could more effortlessly raise and lower my pelvis using tummy and thigh muscles. This would sympathetically counteract the thrusting penis inside me, and an ecstatic G-spot orgasm almost always would launch me to outer space. And when I cum, I cum big-time, I can tell you. My husband used to worry that the neighbours would complain.
And it is one of the few geometrical configurations of mating humans that affords full eye contact - something of an essential, I think, to attaining full satisfaction from a climax. I revel in the opportunity to widen my eyes or pout encouragingly as soon as I spot the tell-tale signs of on-coming male ejaculation. I find this immensely empowering, as if his precipitation is confirmation that I am the sole irresistible object of his desire. Thus, legs open and vagina sweetly lubricated by the miracle of nature, even the strangest of cocks with some degree of rigidity can happily be accommodated, leaving hands free to cling to shoulders, rake a back or chest using beautiful feminine fingernails, hold the sides of a face, or push away an assailant in fake protest. (Or whatever might be my mood at the time.) In another interpretation, I smugly adopt the self-satisfaction of a specialist nurse, successfully treating a helpless patient's urgent condition. Fanciful stuff of course - the man has simply had his end away. But it amuses me nonetheless. Bear with.
Anyway, my first romantic encounter with David went without any hitches, except that it was all over a bit quick. But then you don't want to spend too much time faffing around when it's your first time with someone. There's the danger that one of you will lose interest after spending too much time kissing and petting, licking and stroking, fingering, and all that stuff. Then the pressure of performing can affect your ardour, and nerves take over, zapping your confidence. The man needs to be at his very firmest when it's time to slide it up your love crack, not when he's pampering your mammaries or has his face in your pubes. Also, I'm fairly sure that pre-cum stuff which trickles down and out of his dick and soils your bedsheets, is a sign he won't be hard and throbbing for much longer. Take my tip girls, don't overwork your lover - cocks don't stay solid for hours on end like they do in porn videos.
That illicit liaison was the first of many such, spanning several months, during which I got to know a lot of different restaurants and hotel rooms. On the whole, I would come away from each date with a warm satisfied glow, my morale boosted by what I imagined was my overwhelming sexual allure. I did feel, however, there was always a certain reluctance on David's part to stick to the same lovemaking routines. But I believe if something isn't broken, don't try to fix it. And he always seemed grumpy that I insisted he wore a condom - godammit, I even had to get it out of the packet and roll it on for him. He also wanted to play games, like me pretending to be an out-call prostitute of all things, and he my client. That didn't work out too well either.
The final time we did it, we had got to the point where I was on my back, legs wide apart, and just about ready and able to receive boarders. My outer labia were gaping wide open, my clitoris was swollen, and my pulsating vagina had secreted the necessary flow of natural lubricant to expedite intercourse. Too many words, godammit. I was good and wet, OK? Then I felt something strange.
