Tag Archives: lovers

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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To bolt

I find it interesting that the word ‘bolt’ has both the meaning of restraint and escape..

I feel trapped, bolted into a situation I want to bolt from. One evening this week I was out for dinner with the husband, in-laws and other members of their family. The conversation turned to super injunctions and Strauss-Kahn’s alleged rape of a chamber maid in NY… and to serial adultery. A sudden cold panic gripped me as I tried to look calm and nod at the appropriate comments. I was shocked to hear their views: that someone who is a serial liar, such as a serial adulterer cannot possibly be trusted in any aspect of life, including their job. They were all very vocal and opinionated on the subject matter. I remained quiet, trying to think of ways to deflect the conversation onto other topics. Eventually I succeeded, yet had to endure an evening of heavy hints and passive-aggressive talk about babies (or lack of).

Ever since then, I have had this incredible urge to bolt. I look at flights almost daily, trying to find ways to escape this bolt hole. Evenings like that feel like a noose around my neck, getting tighter and tighter until I cannot breathe (and sadly not in any erotic sense).

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The need to be out of control

The last 7 days have been, perhaps, some of the most delectably decadent days I’ve had. From my first swinging club and orgy, to indie night with Moriarty and the economist, to sampling the ‘fetish’ scene, being spanked by some guy in a pub, exchanging numbers with three very interesting men, one of whom I sat next to on a flight, to being driven by a cab driver who wanked whilst speeding me to a weekend of partying with Moriarty, the economist and his girlfriend and dancing with a beautiful older woman.

I am exhausted, yet not satiated. I can feel the pull, the drag, the need to cast off all restraints and plummet head first into an abyss of abandon. The more I sample, the more I crave. Perhaps this is some form of self-destruction, but already, my mind is planning my next project. There are a number of candidates to choose from. It is most definitely time to lose control.

 

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Highs and lows

This week has been marked by a series of highs and lows.

One evening spent in the company of Moriarty and my closest female friend, both of whom know about this blog and yet still talk to me. We sat in a room with a view over the city of London, watching the sky turn from pink to violet with golden whisps of cloud and finally black. The conversation was open, sexual, sensual and honest. A rare meeting of minds. Not that we all share the same opinion, but somehow at that moment in that space we were all free to talk. There were moments when I felt suspended, in a glass bubble. Given the topics of conversation I left that space feeling incredibly elated, horny and generally alive.

Picture the same setting the next evening. I invited the economist to join me. He brought the drinks and we sat next to one another looking over the skyline before us. We had briefly kissed on the lips when he first arrived, more out of habit and I tried to withdraw, wean myself off him. It was awkward at first. I think we both knew what the outcome of the evening would be. He apologised for ignoring me completely at the party. I told him it would be easier if we agreed to just be friends. He admitted he wasn’t able to cope with both of us at the same time. It was amicable, sweet.  But I couldn’t bring myself to look into his eyes, and so adjusted my chair and stared out over the cityscape before me. We listened to music and chatted on and off. There were moments of silence, of sadness. I felt a big space inside. It got late and so we left. As we said goodbye outside, we hugged briefly and he asked when I could introduce him to a friend of mine, a possible business contact for him. That threw me. My instant reaction was one of feeling used, but then he continued that it was just another way of asking when he was going to see me.

That cycle home was cold, damp and difficult. I felt as if I had no energy, my legs, head, heart felt like lead. I knew the husband would be at home and so tried to force myself to smile as I reached the house. He was still working and so I said a brief hello and went straight upstairs to bed. I collapsed and fell asleep, the weight of my decision pressing me into the sheets.

Checking my email before drifting off, I saw a message from older lover suggesting a drink next week. Perhaps this lowest of lows will be followed by another high. But for now, I stand below ground.

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The unexpected

It was a late night. An evening I would prefer to forget.

A party, jointly organised with the economist, at his club. The same club we spent an afternoon together, touching, kissing, talking and deciding to have an affair all those months ago. He had warned me she was coming. That initial stab of jealousy had become a constant knot in my stomach. I had spent days trying to gloss over that fact, trying to persuade myself I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Yet as I walked into the club last night, finding just the two of them (no other guests had arrived yet), I couldn’t help but feel a wave of panic hit me. I wanted to turn and bolt. Instead, we greeted and hugged. Their cocktails arrived. He had ordered her a ‘Perfect Lady’. I felt sick.

He disappeared for 5 minutes, leaving just her and me. I made inane small talk, trying desperately to think of topics to discuss and taking deep sips of my G&T to numb the senses. Once other guests arrived, I mingled with them, keeping a safe distance. The economist and I barely spoke all evening. At the end of the evening, they left together. I still have the image of them walking arm in arm down the street. And I still feel sick.

The prospect of spending a weekend away with them and Moriarty in a few weeks time fills me with horror. I didn’t expect to feel like this.

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Grown up affairs

I have had plenty of time to think about my affair with the economist over the last week. Chatting to him online last week, we agreed to meet for dinner on Thursday.  It will be the first time since we parted company after his birthday visit. Such a magical few days, but also a good six weeks ago. In the meantime, he has continued to ‘see’ a girl in London. Sweetly, he has always told me of developments with other women. And, as I have previously written, I do not think he is someone who is able to ‘cheat’. Therefore, if things get more serious with the girl he is seeing now, I expect he will not be able to cope with the deceit of having an affair with me at the same time.

This leads to a strange dynamic: on the one hand, I feel jealous of this other woman, yet do not want to put him in a difficult moral dilemma. And so, I think on Thursday evening I will do the honourable, grown-up duty of stepping aside. This past week, I have learned to contain my feelings for him, compartmentalising him, closing the lid on his box and placing him on a shelf in my mind. I would rather remain good friends, be able to look at him and his potential new girlfriend without feeling that lurch, that twist inside. It is a slightly painful process, but perhaps one I can distract myself from by finding a new lover or rekindling relations with my older lover. Here’s to a summer of lovers in London.

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The best made plans…

I am a very good planner and organiser. When I decide to try something new, change something old or just shake things up for the hell of it, I will invest 100% of my thoughts, time and energy to get things moving. And so recently I decided to turn my life upside down, change jobs, move countries and start afresh. All in the space of 3 weeks. My new life starts in T-13 days.

The trigger for this most recent shake up was a sudden realisation that the husband wants to settle into a ‘normal’ life. A life where we share a house, our lives, spend weekends on the sofa watching some god-awful Saturday night TV together and, heaven forbid, acquire children, a dog, move to the suburbs etc etc. It was just one comment about moving back to London ‘together’ that precipitated, what I will term, my mid-life-crisis. That same evening, I started scouring the internet for jobs, updating my CV and within a week, I had a job offer on the table. The job necessitates my move back to London, something I have done many times before, without the husband. In the space of a week, I had found a new job, a place to stay and booked my flights. My heart skipped a beat at the prospect of a summer in London, a place of my own and catching up with numerous lovers. I was on a high.

Then the husband said he is coming too. He is going to come to London for some months. I couldn’t mask my disappointment when he told me. The walls suddenly closed in on me and I felt suffocated, claustrophobic, in need of an escape route. I have spent many a sleepless night trying to understand my reaction. In theory, as a married couple, I should be thrilled at the prospect of spending more time with the husband. However, I fear my own space and privacy has become more important. Reading Jenni Murray’s article ‘Sleep apart, stay together‘ I realised that perhaps my relationship is the same – ‘Live apart, stay together’. I worry that a summer together, with no escape, no weeks or weekends apart will spell the end.

And so, already my brain is processing ways in which I can ‘escape’, create my own private sphere in London, outside our ‘marital home’. I fully intend to see the economist, my older lover, find some new lovers and possibly dabble in taking on a man servant as a sub. I foresee many a hotel stay, secret rendezvous in inconspicuous restaurants and groping in dark corners of bars. And to top it all, I now have a ‘friend’ I can play with. Moriarty and I have plans to explore some of the clubs in London together. There are so many experiences to taste, try and delight in. This particular challenge is going to test my planning and organising abilities to their limits. But I think it will be worth it.

Here’s to a summer of fun.

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