Once a week, my husband and I have sex. Usually on a Sunday. He'll roll onto his side and snuggle up behind me. His hand will move under my vest top and locate my tits. He'll cup them and squeeze the nipples until they harden. The he moves his hand downwards, slides in front of my pubis and inserts a finger into my vagina. He'll rub and stroke me until I'm wet then he either pulls me on top of him or he tells me to get onto my hands and knees -- that's his particular favourite. From there, he can pull my hips hard against him and manipulate my body so that it moves at the exact pace he likes.
When it's over, he drops fluttery kisses on my back in gratitude, reminding me of that age old saying -- 'women use sex to get affection and men use affection to get sex'. Then it is all over for another week.
I am faceless and nameless in this exchange. A convenient hole, who never turns him down. The ironic part of the whole process is that I have a much higher sex drive, but it is futile to try and change our situation. Occasionally, my attempts to initiate sex at different times/places work -- most of the time they don't and I feel rejected and a little bit dirty. Those early lessons from adolescence -- that men are sex mad or that naturally they have the higher sex drive -- have remained with the two of us. It is a fiction we silently preserve.
As my years have increased, so too has my sex drive. What used to be messy, uncomfortable and unpleasant is now the fantasy that absorbs a great deal of my thoughts. My sexual past is varied -- my first partner liked blow jobs and the sex with him hurt every time because I wasn't turned on enough but too inexperienced to know better. I gritted my teeth and bore it. My most rewarding experiences were with a married man. I started my sexual relationship with him in the usual way -- faking my orgasms, pretending that I could come through penetration alone. Then I stopped faking it. He was anxious to please me so I lay back and let him. He would kiss me, slip fingers into me and stroke me for as long as it took (sometimes a great deal of time; the female orgasm can be elusive).
The real orgasm made me scream -- the long slow build up, the panic that makes you beg someone not to stop, the glorious peak that lasts mere seconds, the shuddering spasms as it ends -- and brought on contractions that I liked to feel, sticking my fingers into my vagina and feeling the tightening grip of them. Then I wanted penetration, the brutality of a thrusting cock -- and he had that in abundance. When he was hard, his cock was huge -- uncomfortably sore at times, but he came quickly once he was in me so I forgave him.
I dream of seduction and frequent male arousal. A year ago, I stayed overnight in a Travel Lodge as I had a meeting in London first thing. I didn't get there until late -- one hour until closing time. I ordered a glass of wine and sat at the bar with a book. I had no intentions of doing anything other than finishing off my wine and then going to bed alone. The barman -- he couldn't have been more than 22 -- chatted to me, bored I think with his Tuesday night shift -- and I moved our conversation up a notch so that before he realised it he was flirting with me.
He was tall and wiry with dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin and a soft Northern Irish accent. I changed my body language, I leaned into him, I licked my lips and crossed and uncrossed my legs several times. I am not beautiful and far from physically perfect, but I can look into someone's eyes and send out a signal that we could have a great time in bed. It's subtle and very effective. As drink up time approached, he looked momentarily nervous and in a rush, having already established that I was staying in the hotel and by myself, asked if I wanted another glass of wine in my room. With him.
I felt my nipples stiffen and a rush of blood to my groin. My stomach signalled its appreciation, my knickers fizzed and I tilted my head and nodded. To be discreet, I went up first and he joined me ten minutes later. I'd rushed into the room, tidied up the mess of my spilled out suitcase, brushed my teeth and given myself a quick wash between my legs.
I was shaking when he came in, holding two glasses and a bottle of wine. He put the glasses down and grabbed me to him. It was a long time since I'd been kissed so thoroughly. I could feel a rock hard cock jabbing into my stomach through our clothes and the hand not tipping the back of my head up to his face had a firm hold of my bottom, squeezing it from time to time. I stopped kissing him, my breath coming in ragged and he pushed me towards the bed.
His hands went to my shirt and he began unbuttoning it. He undid my bra and laid me down on my back. His mouth moved downwards, from my mouth to my nipples. When his lips closed over the left one (the one that's pierced), I thought I might come then and there. I stroked his gorgeous thick hair and then wiggled down a bit to try to unfasten his trousers, but he stopped me and kissed me, little fluttery wispy things down the centre line of my body. By now he was kneeling on the floor between my legs and unfastening my trousers. He pushed my hips up so he could get them, my tights and knickers off in one smooth movement. I admired it -- the move of a practised Lothario -- and revelled in lying naked on the bed in front of a young, beautiful, fully-clothed man whose hard-on could be seen through his jeans.
