Category Archives: General

Reflections

I walked into the busy restaurant, the buzz and warmth enveloping me after the slight chill of the first breath of autumn. The waitress asked if I had a reservation. I scanned the room, my eyes coming to rest on his familiar outline. He sat at the back, in a private booth and waved at me as our gazes met. I walked towards him, smiling from ear to ear, my heart feeling lighter. Buoyed by an excitement I haven’t felt for some time.

We sat opposite one another. So much unsaid, so much to say. I haven’t seen my older lover in over a year. After he left me waiting for over and hour in that pub one autumn evening last year, I told him I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t wait for him. I was angry, I called it off. We didn’t talk again.

Until a few weeks ago when, out of the blue, he sent me an email saying how he cherished our moments together. We arranged to meet. It came at the right time. I have let go of that anger, I feel content in where I am right now. I have fallen in love with my husband again. I’m doing ok.

Seeing him again, felt like that final missing piece. Another layer has been unpeeled. So many memories of our shared intimacies, his writing, my writing. Our incredible physical union. I feel at ease with him. We talked for hours, drank red wine, ate a delicious steak, reminisced, explained, touched, stroked. The waitress smiled knowingly at us as we (he) paid and left. We walked to a hotel bar opposite and ordered a nightcap. Without the table between us and the privacy of a dark corner, we sat facing one another, tracing contours through clothes, kissing, inhaling such familiar scents and getting lost in one another.

It felt good. We parted. I returned home to my husband. He returned home to his wife and children. I think we’ve agreed to see each other again. Cautiously, tenderly, delicately. It feels good.

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The summer of separation

With shock I’ve just realised that my last post on this blog was nearly four months ago. And it has taken that long to feel able to write again. You see, I’ve been in a state of hibernation. I left my job and have been away from my husband for nearly two months. Oh, we haven’t separated in terms of marriage. He simply understood my need to escape and get away. To be alone for some time. That time is coming to a rapid end and I have only a few more weeks to myself. 

It has been a much needed break from everything. Time to read, to think. I’ve even had time to write, but haven’t felt able to. 

Certain episodes have taken place over the last few months that are barely worth recounting here. But, for the record, I have discovered that I am able to have a vaginal orgasm (i.e. no clitoral stimulation) for the first time in my life. That’s progress, eh? And I’ve been testing new waters – venturing into the world of BDSM. My objective is to push my boundaries and try to break out of this shell-like armour I have built. Occasionally, I do glimpse something of the old me. I’ve been practicing letting my emotions surface. Its difficult. They’ve been kept under wraps for so long. Physical pain is one way to unleash them. 

I feel calmer. Perhaps more centred, more me. Whoever that is. 

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Fear of flying

If you haven’t read it you should. At least, that is what my vague recollections tell me. I read it many years ago – Erica Jong’s ‘Fear of flying’. At the time, I’d just left my heated affair with my original lover to live abroad and pursue my dreams. That was a heady time. Heat, lust, touch, sensations. The book seemed so relevant then. It is funny how certain books strike a chord at particular times in your life. I remember reading ‘Nausea’ by Jean-Paul Sartre when I was 17. It felt as if that book had been written for me.

Where is the book I need to read now? I feel so distant from everything. I want to feel. I want to feel alive. I feel removed, behind a wall of muslin, unable to really see or feel anything. In that frame of mind, I ‘confessed’ some of my most inner thoughts to the pilot today. It felt good.

I told him how I have only had sex once with the husband in the last 6+ months. I told him how I feel so much better when we are living separately, in different countries. I told him that I have been trying to find a way to ‘separate’ without really ‘separating’. I crave independence. I long to remember who I am. I long to not be married.

It was a conversation shared with someone I have merely flirted with. In an underground car park (of all places!). Yet it meant a lot. For once, I felt a connection. I wanted to tell him so many things. I longed for a quiet corner table in a cafe (in Paris or Berlin). A bottle of wine, anonymity as we talked. For hours. That open, honest conversation one has so very rarely.

If I had been sitting in that corner of that cafe, I would have told him about the drunken sex had with the co-pilot last week. The anal sex with him on the wooden floorboards of my living room. Of digging my nails into his back until he bled. Sex that was searching, but not fulfilling.

For a few moments, I opened up. He could see that. We had a discourse, a direct and honest conversation. I trusted him implicitly. I’ve emailed him tonight, asking him to dinner. Time to overcome my fear of flying with the pilot.

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Brinkmanship

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon in the company of the pilot, his wife, child and their friends. A mutual colleague (and yes, another serial adulterer) had invited us over to his place to ‘work’. No one told me it would be a family event. I genuinely thought we were going spend Saturday afternoon working at his place. 

A strange afternoon, with three children playing and running around, two wives, distant, unsociable, watching TV, whilst the three of us poured over laptops, working and cooking dinner for everyone. The pilot would brush past me in the kitchen, tackling me to the floor, playfully. We stepped out together to pick up some missing ingredients and beers. He drove. We talked about sex. He told me about a 3 year affair he’d had at his last job. Apparently, no one knows about it. Not even the co-pilot. I told him about my little bondage fun with the co-pilot. He said he was jealous.

Then he asked me a question that’s been playing, tantalisingly on my mind ever since: “Have you ever had aggressive sex?” I racked my brains, various images, memories flitted across my eyes. Animal, yes. Instinctual, raw. But not aggressive.

Now I am curious. I imagine what he would be like. I think he knows me better than I know myself. I long for this brinkmanship to climax. 

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The pilot

Let me introduce you to the pilot. He is someone I work with. Charismatic, engaging, intelligent, ambitious. He can also fly a plane and for the purposes of this blog, will henceforth be known as the pilot.

We have spent a couple of evenings together (always within a work context), yet it is already clear that both he and I share a physical attraction. His hands have strayed to touch my back, slipping around my waist as others were not looking and quickly withdrawing before being caught. Sitting side by side at a table, our legs brushed and remained touching as conversation above the table continued with other colleagues. We have exchanged late night texts, confided aspects of our personal lives with one another and I am beginning to realise he and I may well be a similar species: adulterers. There is something about the way he makes eye contact (held just a fraction longer than is socially acceptable); his smile (the slight twitching of the corners of his mouth as he decides whether to toy with me or not); the way he looks at me (I feel undressed, light headed).

The unspoken conversation between us is unravelling into the most delicious, delectable game of flirtation, chastisement and desire. How delightful that he and I have a meeting over coffee tomorrow morning.

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The road to recovery

I suppose I’ve come off the rails a bit recently, neglecting this blog, my adventures in adultery, losing my lust for life and libido in the process. Don’t get me wrong, there have been flirtations, fleeting embraces and some incredible head (courtesy of a surprise visit by my older lover). But somewhere in my brain that switch hasn’t flipped for some time. I long to lose myself in sheer physical, sensual arousal.

I had a good half hour of thinking time, driving across London this morning. I drove past the pub where I met Moriarty before going to the swinging club all those months ago. It crossed my mind to go there one evening, to be touched, sucked, fucked out of this numbness. I spent an evening with Moriarty this week. He cooked, we talked, drank wine, touched. It felt like a thaw, a long inhalation of breath. Something began to shift, lift.

The next night I saw the economist, ironically he has broken up with his girlfriend. We had dinner, though he remained on a work conference call throughout. We went to a gig, hands touching briefly, the alcohol loosening our inhibitions. We spent time at a bar afterwards. I told him how much he meant to me. We kissed. But it is clear to me that he is not someone who can cheat. And I cannot bear to witness him find another girlfriend again, standing on the sidelines as a substitute.

And so, I am reaching the conclusion that the road to recovery lies ahead. A new lover. A new lust for life, for living, for fucking, for feeling. I am hopeful.

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In the mood for mourning

I sit in my armchair. In my flat. The window is wide open, the cool night breeze catches my nostrils every now and then. I see rectangles of lights (lives) flicker on and off over many hours. A little spy hole into other people’s lives. The artist who has no curtains, but the most wonderful arched window. He arrives home, turns on the lights, takes off his shirt and assumes his seat on another armchair, out of my view.

I listen to music. In the dark. I have a beer. A laptop. It has been so long since I last wrote anything. I mourn that fact.

Other things I mourn: the loss of ‘this’. My flat to myself. The husband arrives tomorrow morning. After 3 days (not even!), alone at home; time to sleep, to sit, to think, to look, to read, to listen to music… in the dark (with a beer). I mourn the loss of that sudden sense of self, of independence, of freedom, of space.

I mourn: the economist. I sit looking out of a window overlooking the facade of the bar where we first ‘met’ (our staircase encounter). I listen to ‘his’ soundtrack. The one he made for me when we sat together one evening with a view of London’s lights. I have been listening to ‘his’ music for months. He was the reason I chose to change my life, my city, my country, in search of freedom, of independence. Funny how things work out. Different city, same husband, no economist and less independence than before. How the hell did that happen?

I mourn: inspiration, ideas, freedom. Suffocation, but the very slow, slow kind of asphyxiation. The creative kind I’m talking about.

I mourn: too many things.

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