Patrick and I have always had an explosive sex life. From the beginning we have been loud, adventurous and hungry for each other.
I have often been told that second marriages are usually about sex, and that certainly has been true for us. But we have been so much more for each other, building an emotional intimacy and trust that only grows stronger after 23 years. In a way that I would never have predicted, however, that intimacy has been strengthened by a frankness about our sexual histories.
The rules have been simple: No names. No details that would reveal when and with whom we had each exercised our considerable sexual appetites before we met. Subject to those constraints though, we never hold back the vivid details, usually in the midst of coupling or teasing each other beforehand. More than once I have spurred Patrick into fucking me harder, driving my orgasm into new territory, by croaking details of what I have done with other men. More than once, my head has bounced harder on his cock as he described some sexual conquest or another.
Although I have never revealed all of the details to him, my own trove of stories is stocked with a fucking spree conducted after my divorce. My sexual urges have always been intense, and I freely indulged them before my first marriage. It probably was an early warning sign that my first husband thought I was too loud and demanded too much in bed. At the end, the marriage was loveless, abusive and, it goes without saying, sexless.
I emerged from the divorce as a woman in her thirties with a need to make up for those lost years. To an extent that I have not told Patrick, I indulged those desires.
That is not to say that I haven't talked about the experiences. In fact, some of my most intense post-divorce passion has become the soundtrack for our lovemaking. Consistent with our rules though, I have remained vague about the when and the where, usually leading him to believe that the stories were from my college years.
One affair involved a college instructor whom I had pursued and fucked as a post graduate student the summer after my divorce. Long ago, I described for Patrick how I had teased a professor in a college lecture with stockings and a garter belt that I allowed to peek out from under my skirt. Ultimately, we ended up in the instructor's office, pounding into me against a closed door, an image that drove my new husband crazy as we fucked early in our marriage. I never lied to Patrick but I certainly implied that the experience was a college escapade.
I also conflated that episode with a story about a man I dated in college. I described for Patrick how this man bent me over a chair, fucked me hard and spilled his semen down my stockinged legs. Patrick never knew--or I thought he never knew--that the liaison actually occurred shortly before he and I started dating. In fact, an early complication of our relationship was disengaging from this man when Patrick and I discovered each other. I never admitted that I had to stop fucking my instructor so that Patrick and I could start fucking each other.
Years have passed since I related those events in hazy detail and I must admit that I never told Patrick how satisfying the sheer carnality of my time with that man had been. As the years passed and as Patrick and I have grown more familiar with each other's past, it was probably inevitable that the truth would emerge. It emerged, however, in a way that stunned me.
