None of my attached or married friends discussed their sex lives in detail. Despite television shows indicating the opposite, marriage remained a rosy positive destination. Bad things happened, but humiliating spousal sex episodes weren’t part of the conversational package over morning espresso.
I’d read about sexual mismatches, how the libido changes over time. Paul was happy with monthly sex, and if that. Lately, I’d felt as though I began the slow ascent to the dirty thirty zone. At 28, I could only imagine what my 30’s would become. If I fuck a complete stranger in a handicapped toilet, what else remains open – apart from my legs?
So there it is. The dismal three year itch. Added to the four years Paul and I dated, it makes seven years and I itched all over.
In my prickly hot state, the decision to divide my life dawned. More notable people than I live double lives. They weren’t any more special or different. Ultimately, we all had one thing in common: we all had urges that couldn’t be satisfied by the conventional people in our lives.
WOW, what can one say, the pic on your profile is nothing short of sensational, would love to feel your lips on the end of my tongue.
The simple message says the most. I select, read and click Waterguy’s profile to familiarise myself with the basics: he is six foot one, claims to have an uncut eight inch cock and lists (giving and receiving) oral sex, spanking and giving anal as a few of his favourite sexual turn ons. There are no profile images. He rates himself as reasonably good looking.
For some oddball reason, I reread his short message. The end bit gets me. I try to picture my lips on the end of someone’s tongue. It’s not something that I’ve consciously fantasised about, but on closer mental inspection or, should I say, visualisation, I can see the appeal.
In my response to Waterguy, I state the obvious, trying not to seem desperate:
Thank you for your message. It’s refreshing to receive your short, but effective, message. I’ve read your profile and feel that your interests and mine can merge.
I provided him with my new email address and made a personal note to myself to buy a prepaid mobile phone. After I clicked send, I considered my gesture. I provided my details first. Why did I submit my email so easily? Actually, it could be the social, cultural and economic factors.
Socioculturoeconomic…How about that for a word? I don’t want to analyze it that much. There were other heavy duty intellectual feminists who tried to alter the course of female objectification. By objectification, I mean the subtle expectation. There are countless magazines telling women what to wear. There are so many clothing manufacturers out there, but only a handful of fashion labels are mentioned in a standard magazine and if a fashion house has the right amount of money, they appear in the opening pages of the glossy publication. We aren’t told. We’re instructed to be feminine or as feminine as designers and manufacturers permit.
Of course, this train of thought chugged along in the hope that it would speed up by some freak act of God and overtake my brain. It wasn’t so simple. Sex pestered my mind. My psyche coveted another sweaty clandestine fuck session. Yes, sweaty. Sex is messy, sweaty and, on close inspection, hardly elegant. I’ve read numerous quotes about sex. Even Leonardo da Vinci had something to say about the ‘act of procreation.’ He wasn’t heterosexual, but even he could understand the sobering image of up close and personal genitalia. It takes time, operant conditioning and experience to appreciate the sight of engorged genitals going at it.
I lay back on my bed, thinking lewd thoughts. My muscles still ache from the spontaneous sexual outburst in the handicapped toilet. I need to sleep on the intriguing message from Waterguy.
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