My dreams and thoughts the past several days have all shifted to the sexual. In my twenties, it seemed to be all I fixated on, all that I could think about. It didn't matter where I started out, it was always back to sex. As I grew older, my fascination and obsession continued, albeit in a different sort of manner.
And now in my forties, I have the benefit of hindsight to avoid making as many foolish decisions based on a lack of experience. I still contemplate sex all the time and wonder now if that singular focus ever truly subsides throughout the course of life. It's always there, but it shape-shifts. It changes forms, like a conjuring magician, but the desire and drive are never gone for long.
Sometimes I dream of my musical partner. Those are the dreams of the erotic, but also of the bizarre. Before I fell out with my ex-wife, I seriously considered moving in with another woman. Our lovemaking was like nothing I've never experienced before with anyone else. She squeezed me as tightly and (a little painfully, I'll admit) as she could across my back, as though by force of will alone she could guide my cock inside her at the precise spot she needed to climax.
Oral sex, my tongue against her drooping pussy lips was ineffective, even though I prided myself on being good at it instinctively with other women. I was told with a smile to go gentle on her slightly sagging breasts, which even with mild treatment didn't produce much in the way of pleasure for her.
So it would have to be fucking. Like I said, I'm not used to being squeezed so tightly and with such physical exertion. It was like she became a feral animal for thirty minutes. The conclusion was always the same. The moment she reached orgasm and I reached orgasm, her eyes rolled back in her head and she let out a strange sounding sigh. Afterwards, she leapt up from the bed and headed immediately for the toilet. Proving what a strange character she was, she always let out a hearty giggle when my semen fell out of her vagina into the basin. It's what we call gravity.
I knew we'd never have a successful romantic relationship because I have never had much appreciation or patience for fourth-grade immature humor, but apparently, she did. That day, we'd had lunch--hot dogs I'd found in the refrigerator, which we both ate. She couldn't help herself but make sexual hot dog puns for days afterwards. But she was not in denial of her eccentricities.
"I'm an odd duck." And she indeed was.
She would not tell me her real name. Nor would she tell me her real age, which I estimated was somewhere in her fifties. She always took along a small glass jar full of lube, which was needed because she wasn't naturally the wettest. And when I thrust into her, I could tell the difference between how it felt inside her and a younger woman. It wasn't unpleasant or unpleasurable, but the friction inside the vagina was more palpable. It squeezed me back. I kind of liked it. It was different.
As she stripped off her clothes, her whole behavior changed. She swung her whole body a sensual quarter turn that was all long hair and shoulders, intended my direction. Most of the time she didn't smile, so this was rare for her. Rare and appreciated.
This was new for her. She'd called around to all her girlfriends to see if sleeping with me would keep me around as her musical cohort. She desperately wanted a man to play alongside her huge, cumbersome double bass. She'd had no luck with women musicians. Men only. But what she never recognized is that she was so smothering and bossy that she drove one male musician off after another. That was a lesson I was soon to learn.
At the time, I was in my mid-thirties and in the middle of a decade-long marriage that had long lost its zest. My wife and I were going through the motions, so I began to explore the age-old concept of adultery. I can understand why it's a sin. I'll probably go to hell for saying this, but cheating is fun. All the secrecy, all the extra steps one has to take, the pleasure of sneaking around and the risk-taking that goes along with it is fantastic.
The problem (how typical) is that my odd little duck was starting to fall for me. She was in the middle of her own unhappy marriage, betrothed to a super nice guy who had a neurological condition that had forced him to retire early. For reasons never articulated to me, she no longer loved him. She cared for him, but I bet they had sex about as often as I did with my own wife, which is to say, not very much.
She assured me that he'd never believe that she'd been fucking another man, much less one so much younger than her. And I had no reason to believe otherwise. She never lied to me. But she was beginning to wear on me. I worked from home and had my own assignments to complete, but she always wanted to come over every day to my apartment to practice and then copulate, in that order. I never asked what she did for a living.
I began to see how tenaciously she was clinging to me. The metaphor inherent in our sex life was an apt one. She was heavily persistent and often invited herself over when I was in the middle of something. But I was getting something out of it, so I never complained too much.
