But I needed some dammit!
After nine years of zero sex, out of a 23 year marriage to that point (yes, you read that right), I need to get LAID.
Nine years might as well be a decade. Before the drought my husband and I had sex two or three times a month on average. You do the math. I was missing 324 fucks from my life.
And if hubby lived to 78, I’d be down 1,080 more! And then what? The geriatric widow scene? No thanks.
As the drought deepened my solo stats skyrocketed well over par and like golf — the higher the score the worse it felt. When I was getting laid every other week, I’d touch myself about twice a month. I was content. Hugs and gentle kisses carried me through. When the sex stopped even daily masturbation couldn’t fill the gapping hole it left in my life.
And when I say sex, I am talking about missionary position with a bit of doggie style and a side of oral. I didn’t need to be tied up, pounded, have an extra cock poking me, or play with a girl to get off. I’d never done any of that.
The kinkiest thing I’d done was make love outside in the rain beside a pool when I was 20. I lived in a small apartment building, and we all knew each other. The backyard had a good privacy fence, and there were no high buildings around. It was sort of like Melrose Place, but with less beautiful people. The only reason I agreed was I knew no one else was home.
I also had sex in a car during the day once.
Wild? I wasn’t.
When I got married, I was happy. I stayed happy right up until the day he got sick. The kind of sick that doesn’t get better, but doesn’t kill you either.
I buckled down and starting living out the “or worse/in sickness” clauses of my lifelong commitment. Never mind that I wasn’t quite 38. It took 324 misses and a solo count that would embarrass a mini-putter, before I woke up and realized I missed missionary. How lame is that?
As my nether parts withered, I worried I’d never fuck again.
Of course, adultery is immoral. Sometimes people call me names when I mention it as an alternative to monogamy, and I get that. I’m not proud of what I do. But, celibacy is no fun. Sickness is no fun. Despair is no fun.
What I liked most about sex was laying there and watching him enjoy himself as he used me. It made me feel needed. Would I be able to find another man who could satisfy me as easily I wondered?
Before I started on my quest for a lover, I did some research. I am an over-thinker at heart. I started with, “how to cheat,” and from there did some field work, using the little info I’d found. After looking over the notes I compiled, I decided to write a book about cheating. I wrote the book I needed because the available resources were pretty thin when I went looking.
And I did all this to have missionary sex every few weeks. Or so I though.
As a chubby (but cute!) middle-aged lady who wouldn’t look out of place shelving library books, there I was…on the prowl. I shudder to think at how I must have reeked of desperation.
In Cheaterville, desperation is called “being thirsty.” The thirsty ones should be avoided because they’re only in it for a body count and not much more. But god, was I thirsty!
Thankfully, unfaithful men aren’t easily put off by desperation.
My thirst met a tsunami of willing cock. I nearly drowned during sexy chats that soaked me. I met a few men for adult fun and while it didn’t make up for those lost years, I soon felt satiated.
I was getting better sex than ever before.
Not only better, but different. For the first time in my life, I had the confidence to tell my lover what I wanted. And I knew he wouldn’t embarrass, shame or ridicule me, but would support me as I explored.
My lover held me as men took their turns on me at a sex club; a fantasy I’d never dared whisper even to my closest friend. He was there during MMFs and foursomes. There when I fulfilled his girl-on-girl fantasy. Out of this, our love for each other grew. I’ve never felt so adored and understood. He was open to me and my sexuality and I loved him for it.
Once I had a little sense fucked back into me, I found I started to recover my balance. It took a while, but it helped my spirit and mind return to equilibrium. I rediscovered my center that I’d lost in his illness.
Sex was one small part of it.
Ironically, I don’t have a high sex drive and having more sex didn’t make me want more. All I needed to slake my thirst was to feel like I’d caught up. Having my needs met satisfied me, and once again I could get by with monthly encounters. A frequency far better suited to COVID than my frenzied start.
My lover and I enjoy each other even more now. My libido isn’t on fire anymore and I’m calmer.
My husband’s illness was a death sentence for our bedroom. My dead bedroom taught me that solo sex wasn’t enough. I needed more and eventually went out and found it.
Not everyone gets a “happily ever after.” But that doesn’t mean you should forsake the small comforts along the way.
And if you are on the other side of this sexless equation, let your spouse have their sex life back. Life is hard enough without losing that too.