Sometimes, when I look back over the past almost three years, it seems like a roller coaster of sex and passion and emotion and complication, and sometimes anger, confusion, misunderstanding. Occasionally, though, things have happened that were straightforward, simple, pleasant — a short break from the roller coaster, a gentle approximation of real life, but with a fuzzy lens.

The Eighth was like that. Sometime in the autumn of 2007, I had stopped seeing The First. There was no rancour — just exhaustion. I told him I needed a break. I think I told the same thing to the Third, although that particular break wasn’t as permanent. Before long, though, the break I had needed seemed more than I could actually commit to. I wanted something… I wanted sex, good sex, with no entanglement, no drama. I found what I was looking for in The Eighth. I met him online (no surprise), but not through the blog. At some point, I did tell him I blogged, and I even sent him the piece that I eventually wrote about him, but to the best of my knowledge, he never went looking for more. That’s the kind of man he was — straightforward, honest, upfront, kind.

I don’t usually write much potentially identifying detail about my men, but in this case, it’s integral for you to know that he was a cop, because it just seems to explain so much about him, and about why I was attracted to him. He was a big, blustering, hearty cop. There was no artifice to him… he was that kind of community police officer that kids and dogs are drawn to. He was married and a father, but had the kind of family situation in which even the most judgmental people would believe his straying justified.  He seemed just exactly the kind of man who would be nice to me, fuck me hard, and not put me through an emotional wringer. And so, after only a few friendly online conversations, I agreed to meet him.

We did the traditional thing… met in a coffee shop. He was smiling openly when he walked in and clearly recognized me right away. Instead of sitting down immediately at my table, he cheerfully demanded I stand for a hug. Being embraced by him really was like being hugged by a big, friendly bear. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he was attractive all the same. We talked for a while, drank our beverages, and when there was a pause in the conversation, he asked me directly what I’d like to do next. It seemed natural to me to tell him that I thought we should go to his van for some privacy, that I’d like to see what it would be like to kiss him. He was parked outside the coffee shop. He took my hand in his as we walked together into the cool late autumn evening.

Before we actually got to his vehicle, he stopped, faced me, leaned down, and kissed me for the first time. I was impressed. There was no harsh first time passion, but much finesse, even a feeling of longing. Then, he opened the back door of the van. The two bench seats were facing each other, with floor space in between. I giggled as I sat on the back bench, and reached my hand out to him as he followed me in. We’d talked about this when we chatted. We’d decided that if there was chemistry when we met, we could spend some alone time, but we would take it slowly. So, when we leaned into each other there in the back of the van, I expected gentle exploration, even some heated making out, but I didn’t expect the fireworks that ensued. Really, he hadn’t seemed like a fireworks kind of guy. I was wrong.

Within minutes, we were breathing quickly and pressing our bodies together. His kisses were making me crazy, and I wanted his big hands all over me. He seemed to read my mind, and began to frantically undo the buttons of my blouse, then pulled off his own t-shirt. His chest was amazing in the dim light that made its way into the van through the rapidly steaming windows. It was broad, and muscled, and even scarred from some past violence. I wanted nothing more than to lick his salty body from head to foot and back again. My hands reached for his belt buckle, and I eagerly grabbed at his long, fat cock as he gasped in pleasured shock. I dropped to my knees on the hard metal floor of the van, topless now but still in my jeans, latched onto his broad hips with my scrabbling fingers, and began to suck on that cock. It was so wide, I had to stretch my lips around it. By now, he had his own strong fingers in my hair, and we found a quick, urgent rhythm that had him deep in my throat, and pulsing, then erupting  quickly while I licked and swallowed him. Without pause, he dragged my head up, my body onto him and kissed me hard, then flipped us around, so that I was on the seat, and he was kneeling before me, his big body awkwardly folded, dragging down my jeans and my panties, and diving his face between my legs. The speed of this reversal of positions left me gasping, even more surprised than he had been. The van began to rock with his bouncing, and his tongue lapped at me eagerly. I grabbed at his abundant hair as he had done to me only seconds before. He was relentless, and I moaned my lust, thrusting my hips at him, body slamming repeatedly against the back of the seat.

The only time he paused was when a group of people passed nearby, and we could hear their conversation and laughter. He lifted his head and listened. I could see my wetness coating and dripping from him, and I bit my lip in anxious frustration, just wanting him to continue, wanting his tongue and fingers back inside me. He looked at me and said he was imagining what would happen if a police colleague stopped by the rocking, noisy van and shone a flashlight through the windows, now fully obscured by steam. I laughed. He didn’t. But he did get back to my cunt, and I tried not to yell too loudly when I came on his face.

That was our first date. We went further than we had planned, but we ended the evening with uncomplicated cuddling and laughter. It was exactly what I had wanted and needed.

We saw each other twice more. Once was in his van, parked in an obscure lot where we were unlikely to be observed. He fucked me then for the first time, on my back, with my feet looped into the ceiling mounted shoulder belts that were meant to be used in the back seat. That’s how he was… creative, spontaneous, full of life. The final time we were together, we spent the night in a hotel. It was amazing… non-stop, high energy, no limits. I have this very clear memory of him trying to fist me. His hand was huge, so there was no way he was ever going to manage it, but he tried for close to an hour, during which time I squirted repeatedly. He lay back between my legs, and manipulated his hand in and out of me, with lots of lube, past the knuckles of his fingers, but never that of his thumb. It was incredibly intimate, and left me with a love of being handled in that way. In the end, he had to give up, but the time he spent exploring my limits that way was intense for both of us… he was blown away by it.

It was a great night, but after that, we never could seem to find time to be together again. We were uncomplicated, but his personal life was not, and things began to weigh on him. His marriage was taking. He stopped being the optimist I’d admired, and the laughter seemed to disappear. Eventually, we just drifted apart. Even that lacked drama, though. We had what we had, and then we didn’t. Perfect.

I wrote about The Seventh once before, on a previous blog. The gist of what I wrote was that there were certain ways to treat a lover, and certain behaviours to avoid… and The Seventh managed to do all the latter and few of the former.

I met him online. He was articulate and confident — more than confident, actually. He walked that fine line between dominant and domineering. The timing of his entrance onto the scene was fortuitous, though… I had become close to someone who also fancied himself a bit dominant, but who lived at a distance. There seemed no likelihood that we would meet in person (although we did… after a rapid evolution of our relationship from online lover to online friend, he eventually became “The Ninth”, oddly enough), but he did want some involvement in my sex life. And so, one evening, as I chatted online to both men, The Ninth decided he’d like to converse directly with The Seventh, playing the role of my dom. He suggested that if the Seventh wanted to meet me, he’d have to follow some guidelines, as set out by my purported capital D-Dom. The conversation was amusing, and the idea was more compelling than I liked to admit. The unexpected consequence, though, was that The Seventh obviously felt that he had something to prove — his own more dominant role in my life.

We arranged to meet at a stereotypically sleazy motel (to be fair, when we met in the parking lot, he suggested we try the motel across the road, which appeared slightly less cockroach-ridden). When I opened my car door to him, he leaned in over me, checked to make sure I was wearing the slutty outfit he had requested (I was), pressed his mouth on me, and slid his hand under my skirt. I wasn’t shocked… this was prearranged, and that’s why we were there, after all. I did, however, feel uncomfortable when his fingers first brushed my labia (no panties by request) before I’d even heard his voice. When he paused to lean back and look at me again, he pointed to the front of his t-shirt and said his first words to me: “Look. That’s me.” He was wearing a designer t-shirt with the logo Boss in large letters. Uh huh. Really, that’s when I should have known (and left).

Nevertheless, it all still seemed a game to me, albeit a slightly dangerous one. To give him credit, I didn’t feel threatened by him. I mostly wondered who he was, really. This strutting, bravado act seemed far too make-believe even for the kind of role play we’d planned. Once in the lobby, he leaned against the chest-high counter to make arrangements for a room. As he spoke flirtingly to the desk clerk, he gestured me over, then put my hand on his zipper, and pulled downward. I manipulated his stiffening cock briefly through his fly, out of the sight of the clerk. I think this may have been the highlight of the evening.

The rest of the time was spent in our room. He proved to be a nervous lover, trying to accomplish far too much in the shortest time possible. At the time, I wrote that he had sexual ADD. I never did end up undressed… still in my skirt and tank top, I was tossed about from one awkward position to another, from fellatio to  intercourse… at which point he realized he’d brought only one condom. Much more fellatio ensued, from every possible angle, interspersed with him swearing about the lack of condoms. My own frustration increased, and I longed to just tell him to relax, for fuck’s sake. Instead, he became more frantic, ordering me about, trying madly to maintain his domminess. I began to long for him to be finished, but I endeavoured to be a good sport, and continued to flatter and obey him.

Finally, it was time for us to part. Rather than seeing me to my car, though, he pointed out that he was parked outside of the sliding patio door to our room, and so I should take the key card, walk back through the lobby, drop it off, and make my way back to my car, in my heels and slut outfit, through the dark parking lot.

What a gentleman.

The next day, as I reported back to The Ninth, I saw The Seventh come online. I did the polite thing.

“Hi. How are you today?”

His response?

“Fine. Listen, you’re not going to get all clingy, are you?”

That was an easy one.

“Um. No. No danger of that.”

I blocked him.

Despite the fact that our first threesome was neither a complete failure nor a resounding success, The First and I were eager to try again, this time with a man. He had someone in mind, someone he told me about, someone who was a bit of a surprise to me.

“Marianne, you know I’ve been talking about experimenting with a man?”

Well, yeah, I knew. He wanted to try everything, everyone — including a man. I had no problem with that… why shouldn’t he? He’d been deprived of sexual fun and adventure for as long as I had… in him, in came out in a need, or even an obsession, to do everything.

“Well, I hooked up with someone last week. I told him about you, and he’s pretty keen to be with both of us.”

Okay. Well, it did feel like being presented with the situation fait accompli, but it wasn’t the first time. I think The First always worried about disapproval, and acting first telling later was one way to not have to deal with that. Either way, I was excited. Two men at once! Apparently this man, The Sixth, was ’straight but curious’, like The First. Personally, I think sexuality is on a spectrum, but if they both chose to identify as completely straight but have sex with each other, that was not a problem for me.

So we met one evening, at The First’s house. The Sixth was not a man I’d take one look at and know I had to have. He was short, and slim, but athletic. Despite being our age, he looked older; he had a charming smile and an equally charming ease about him. We talked, and laughed. In some ways, he was easier to talk to than The First. He was married and lived a lifestyle similar to my own. The transition from conversation in the kitchen to kissing in the bedroom seemed easy and natural. He was a talented kisser, and I remember standing with him, eye to eye, nose to nose, and getting lost in those kisses. For a moment, I forgot that The First was there, too… until he began to undress me from behind, while The Sixth continued to kiss me.

This threesome was very different from the previous one. Well… there were two cocks there. That has to make it different, right? And these two cocks were not of the sort that avoid each other like any accidental contact would bring the world crashing down around us. No, in fact, not only did I get to move my own mouth rapidly from one to the other, I got to watch my lover sucking another man’s cock, and the other man’s lips around my lover’s hardness. Both, though, were eager to put me in the centre of the action, so to speak. Four hands roamed my curves. Two sets of lips took turns licking me to orgasm. And Marianne never had to go without… no rest breaks needed or wanted.

Two images, memories, stand out most clearly in my mind.

The First lay on his back, thrusting upward into me, while I rode him, staring intently into his eyes, but looking to the side every few moments, to watch The Sixth. He lay beside us, one hand on his cock, manipulating himself back into stiffness, the other hand stroking each of us in turn, gently, caressingly, in contrast to the frantic fucking happening beside him. I paused in my rhythm just long enough to reach out and touch him briefly. I saw that the touch made him shiver and begin to pulse, and so, without thinking, I leaned my body down and to the side, The First still inside me, and I took The Sixth’s cock into my mouth, and sucked. My hips continued to move, now in concert with my lips, and both men came in quick succession, one into my mouth, one into my cunt.

Later, I was the one on my back, my legs spread and bent back, knees brushing shoulders, while The First kneeled between my legs, thrusting forcefully into me. The Sixth kneeled behind him, his arms around the sides of The First, holding my outstretched hands, and he used his force to push The First into me, over and over, slam, slam, slam. And when my orgasm hit, hard and fast, I yelled out both of their names, and the two of them collapsed forward, their doubled weight on me. Heaven.

This threesome was almost ridiculously comfortable and easy. The First and I seemed to be able to maintain our usual level of intensity. It wasn’t quite the same with The Sixth. I liked him, and he was an awesome kisser. Still… passion and attraction aren’t predictable, and despite his good manners, I suspect his real interest was in The First, not me. We talked about getting together again as a threesome, but that didn’t happen. Neither did another  meeting alone between him and The First. Sometimes, it’s just time to accept the experience for what it was, and look ahead to the next adventure.

When I first conceived this (highly unoriginal) idea for a series, I intended to write about all the men who have been my lovers. That thought was shortlived, though, and was quickly amended by the recollection that not all of my lovers have been male.

Don’t get me wrong; on the sexual orientation spectrum (and yes, I do think it’s a spectrum rather than a series of easily distinguished definitions), I am fairly far along toward the end that most enjoys the kind of lover who potentially might stuff his cock into my cunt at some point in the encounter (at least once or twice). Far along, but not all the way there. I’m fully able to appreciate sex appeal in a woman, and even want to make love with her. In fact, at one point I felt like I needed to explore that possibility. I was, needless to say, encouraged in that need by my adventurous lover, The First.

At first, we just talked about it. Then we decided that we were ready to look into real possibilities. We even met with one of his other lovers, but I felt awkward, a little pressured, and there was most definitely no spark between us. We  decided to find another couple. I think I believed that I’d be braver in a scenario where there was couple sex with the freedom to do a little swapping and experimenting. I made it my mission to find the right couple for us… I think we both realized that I would be more likely to relax into the new experience if I were the one to choose. So I found and cultivated the acquaintance of a couple who were advertising online. I chatted with him. I chatted with her. Honestly, I found neither of them compelling in either intellect or personality, but they were pleasant, patient and eager. Like us, one of them was married to another, and the other was single. They were about our age. It seemed a reasonable match. So we arranged to meet.

The week or so between setting a date and actually meeting was probably the most exciting part of the experience for me and for the First. We talked about what it would be like. We giggled together, looked at their photos, and planned. We discussed every possible way things might unfold. On the day, though, the male half of the other couple suddenly had to work out of town. I was most definitely disappointed. In my opinion, he was the more appealing of the two. Still, the plans were in place, and, for me at least, it was not that easy to get away to be with one person, let alone two or three. So… we amended our plan from swapping to threesome.

That evening, The First and I went together to pick her up. She, The Fifth, was not quite what I expected. She was less refined, earthier, a little kookier than I expected. She loved to laugh, though, which was attractive in itself, and she was very good-natured. We checked each other out in the car to The First’s house. I was to be her first sexual experience with a woman as well. Back at the house, the three of us had a drink together. And then I had a second drink. And a third. And when I came back from preparing myself a fourth mixed drink, The First and The Fifth were standing together, kissing. I felt curiously distant. I felt no jealousy, not even that much curiosity… just acceptance of the situation, and willing to be carried by the momentum. She turned to me, our bodies met, and we kissed.

What was it like kissing a woman for the first time? It was very much like kissing a man to whom I was only mildly attracted, only softer. Her lips were gentle, and it was a pleasant sensation, almost comforting. The main heat in the room, though, came from The First, who joined the embrace, and began to stroke both of our backs. The kissing lasted a while… they kissed, I kissed him, she kissed me in turn. When we finally moved to the bedroom, he undressed us both while we watched each other, reaching out to caress lightly from time to time. I liked her breasts. They were like mine, only a little smaller and therefore higher. Her body was womanly, not so different from mine. On the bed, I touched her nipples, then leaned over her to kiss them, one at a time. She reached her delicate hand between my legs, and I was surprised to realize how aroused I was. The First had joined us on the bed by then, and was moaning softly as he touched her pussy, she touched mine, and I continued to kiss and lick her breasts.

We were together there for what seemed like a short time, but was actually about two hours. The Fifth and I each fucked the First, and took turns socking his cock. Once or twice, our lips met around his shaft. We fingered each other, and I remember coming over her hand. We didn’t go down on each other, though. Somehow, we both knew that was a hard limit for us, at least this first time. I remember, too, being curious to watch him fuck her, seeing the moves I knew so well, but being performed on a woman who reacted very differently from me. Once or twice, I left them to it while I fetched drinks or took pictures. It just seemed right.

For me, the highlight of the evening was knowing that I felt comfortable and at ease in my choice of when to participate, when to back off. I was able to satisfy my curiosity, to some extent, and to see first hand how another woman is in bed. I didn’t feel any desire whatsoever to repeat the experience with The Fifth, despite the fact that she and her lover asked us repeatedly to do so. To be fair, I think she found The First as attractive as I did, and wanted another chance to be with him. Understandable. He followed my lead, though, and we decided to look elsewhere for our next adventure. She just wasn’t… my type.

The other notable moment for me came after The Fifth left us. The First asked me what I thought of watching him fucking another woman. I said it was interesting, especially seeing a woman whose response to him seemed relatively low key. He laughed.

“No. She’s a very sexual woman. Her responsiveness would rate pretty high, compared to most woman. It’s just that you’re, well, off the scale.”

I blush.

Sometimes I can be more brutal on myself than The Third could ever be with his cane or biting sarcasm. When I made up my plan for this series, listed everyone with whom I’ve had sex outside of my marriage, my first instinct was to skip over one of them. That’s not me, though. I can’t live in dreamland permanently. I’m that person who has to look at the face of a dead loved one in the coffin, even when all I want is to turn away. And then I’ll imagine that face, over and over, until I feel myself begin to accept the reality of my loss. Perhaps that what I do here, too. I will keep replaying the reality of The Fourth in my head until it has no strength to hurt me.

That being said, there’s very little to add to the story, already described here. Go ahead and take a look if you need to. I’ll wait.

Back? Okay. To put the sordid little tale in context, I had decided on a week in Slutville to replace the week I planned to spend with The Second, who backed out in the days before he let me go all together. First I spent a sexy rollercoaster of a weekend with The First. Then I met The Third for the first time, and he spanked me, fucked me, and took pictures of me hogtied. Then I met The Fourth, who took advantage of my naivete (being kind to myself here — perhaps ’stupidity’ is a better word). Then The Third came back and helped to heal the wound to my psyche with his kindness and affection (and yes, more fucking, sucking and being tied up).

And that’s all that I plan to say about the Fourth. We had sex, so he’s on the list, and now you know.

I told you that The First and I are still friends.

I mentioned that The Second still reads this blog.

Well, The Third is not only a friend who reads this blog, but when I told him I wasn’t sure what to write about him, he came up with a suggestion — Fear and Frustration.

The Third came into my life, surprisingly enough, at the suggestion of The First and The Second. I don’t think I ever told him that. I guess he knows now. A few months into my parallel relationships with The First (angst, sex, hurt feelings, more sex) and the The Second (quick slide from passion to caution), both of them independently noted my increasing curiosity about the world of D/s, and each of them decided that I should find a dedicated dom to give me a chance to explore my submissive side. Ever obedient, I began to chat (even more) online with dominant men. The Third approached me through one of those single-purpose dating sites for married people. At first, he seemed to be just another articulate, witty potential lover (yes, there really are more decent wolves out there than one expects). Then he said something interesting. I can’t quite remember the exact wording, but it was about his ‘dominant’ personality — a clear fishing expedition to see if I would pick up on the D/s connotation. I did, and we began to plan a first meeting.

That’s where the frustration comes into the story. We set a date… which had to be cancelled because of inclement weather. So we set another date. Something came up for him. Then something came up for me. Then bad weather again. By the time we had cancelled our meeting five times, he was frothing at the mouth and I was beginning to believe that fate was trying to send us a message. Nevertheless, circumstances finally presented an opportunity. The week that I had planned to be with The Second, when he asked me not to come to him after all, I decided that I would spend my time being as slutty as possible. I’m not sure what I thought that would do for me, but it seemed a good idea at the time. First, I spent a weekend with The First (explosive, emotional, surreal), followed by a week where I would meet both The Third and then The Fourth.

Here’s the thing about The Third — he was meant to be a new experience, simply something to satisfy a craving, a curiosity. He did things to my body I had never even imagined. I was surprised to discover that my limits were almost non-existent. Not only could I take pain, I could revel in it. Not only could I accept being restrained, I could slip in sub-space with ease. He was a good dom, a very good dom, and the fact that he was a very good fuck was a bonus. Sometimes the plans he made for me (he is such a planner, a planner and a control freak) frightened me. Sometimes I rolled my eyes. Usually, though, he was right on target. What he planned was what we both needed. The reward of his cock was always motivation enough. He has this amazing cock — very long, on the narrow side, with a delightful and pronounced upward curve. I liked it when he fucked my throat (which he did for seeming hours at a time). I loved it when he fucked my cunt (that upward curve meant that he slammed into my g-spot, over and over, hard, relentlessly). It was absolutely amazing when he fucked my ass (sometimes I screamed at him to stop when the stimulation was too much, then begged him to start again, all in the same breath). He used toys on me. He used found objects on me. And he used his hands on me — sometimes tenderly, and sometimes leaving red marks on my ass. Always he understood that I needed to be cuddled after our extreme encounters.

That level of mutual understanding had unexpected (to both of us, I think) side effects. It wasn’t just a one time spank n’ fuck. We ended up meeting regularly for over a year, outlasting either of my previous extramarital relationships. Every time we would begin with kisses, and end with holding each other close, whatever the wild things we did in between. We knew each other so well. I looked into his eyes while he smiled with evil intentions and took me past another boundary. He looked into mine when they pleaded with him to go easy on me and begged him to go hard on me. It was inevitable that one day I would scream “Fuck, I love you!” and that he would whisper the same words into my ears as he held me and I came down from that orgasmic high.

That changed everything, at least from my perspective. I was no longer okay with how he ignored me between our trysts except to arrange the logistical details of the next. I don’t like emotional confusion, I never have. And he confused me, mightily. I found refuge with others who were more consistent in their attentions. And one of those others began to mean more and more to me. My meetings with The Third became less and less frequent. And then, one day, we just decided that we needed a break. So I settled into the semi-domesticity of temporary exclusivity with The Eleventh (no, you didn’t miss anything — didn’t I tell you that I was the queen of simultaneous sexual relationships?), and The Third and I stopped seeing each other, or even communicating.

Until a few weeks ago…

Ugh. What made me think writing in brief about past lovers was going to be easy? It was simpler the first time around, when I could describe actions and reactions and flesh and fucking. Now, I’m trying to encapsulate the feelings and complications of weeks and sometimes months into a few paragraphs. And, in this case, I’m trying to do so when I know damned well that the subject of the summary will read it. Probably repeatedly. I don’t know why he still reads me. I’ve considered a few possibilities:

a) He’s sentimental about our time together, and enjoys hearing about what’s happening in my life, in the only way that he feels is safe to do so.

b) He still cares about me, and he can’t stay away, despite the envy and/or jealousy that reading about me with other men produces in him.

c) He thinks I’m potentially a vengeful psycho and wants to make sure I don’t write anything revealing of his identity.

d) He’s easily bored, and mine is one on a list of many sex blogs he reads regularly.

Probably a). Whatever.

The Second was the first man to come to me through the blogosphere. I had just started fucking The First, and writing about it. There was this very difficult day when I realized, or found out I suppose, that The First had fucked another woman on the same day he had fucked me, and I lost my mind. It was a temporary loss, and not much of one, but I was in a state of confusion and despair when I received an email from a man, a reader, admiring my writing and asking for general advice about love, life and affairs. I responded to him, using him as a much needed outlet for my angst. And he responded. And I responded again. And suddenly, we were chatting online, and he was losing control of his typing abilities, and having his first cyber-orgasm, sticky fingers and all.

The Second was this dashing combination of naivete and masculine confidence. He had never stepped over the marital infidelity line before, but now he threw himself in the maelstrom with no hesitation. We chatted at all hours, finding any second to be together that we could. He would take his laptop to coffee shops and motel rooms, just so we could be online together. We talked on the phone from his office, and he made up excuses to be wherever he needed to be to make contact. I was flattered and swept off my feet, and I think he felt the same. We were both in deep, emotionally, within weeks. Even though I was still negotiating the shoals of passion with The First, it never occurred to me that there was any conflict in also falling in love with The Second at the same time.

When The Second told me that he could arrange to be in my part of the world in the very near future, I was overjoyed. I couldn’t imagine any man getting on a plane just to be with me, but that’s what he did, and more. He booked the most beautiful room imaginable for us, and treated me like a goddess. That’s how he saw me, and that’s how I felt with him. Our first night together was a fairytale, complete with candles, music, and a little light bondage (that kind of fairytale). I can close my eyes right now, and remember the exact feeling of his thick cock sliding into me for the first time as I sat on an office chair, facing him, smiling. I can still recall the weight of him pushing me into the mattress, and see his self-satisfied smile as he watched my face, and thrusted firmly and slowly in and out, in and out, eliciting moans and declarations of adoration from me. And the kissing… it was continual, a pattern of top lip, bottom lip, full mouth exploration. I can feel it right now.

The things that weren’t perfect that first night just added to the sense of him being real and important to me. I remember him kneeling in front of me in the shower, and almost drowning. We were always able to laugh together. I remember him standing beside the bed, aching to be in my ass, but losing his erection the minute he realized it was hurting me. That was an overriding theme, at least at the beginning; he wanted me to be happy, to feel good, always, whether it was with him or with others. He didn’t seem to experience jealousy, and it was far, far too early in my exploration of extramarital sex for me to settle for fucking just one man. There was a little friction between The First and The Second, which crushed me, but The Second handled it all admirably. He encouraged me to keep learning, to keep loving, to keep having adventures.

We met two more times. Each time, he flew to see me, and we spent the evening together. His body and his face became as familiar to me as his voice and his words. One evening, I attempted to dominate him, binding his wrists and blindfolding him, but ultimately I gave in to his need to touch and see. Always, he watched me, his hyper-intelligent eyes analyzing and knowing. It’s possible that he knew me better than anyone. I don’t know.

We were supposed to meet a fourth time. I was to come to him. By then, though, little issues had started to crop up. He was less available to me online. He insisted that he was becoming more cautious and less willing to take risks because he didn’t want anything to happen that would mean losing me. I believed him, sort of, but I became more anxious and worried that he didn’t want to spend time on me. I could feel him pulling away, while he told me, over and over, that he still loved me, that I had to stop being so insecure, that my insecurities were the only thing that could come between us. Then he asked me not to come to him… it would be too risky, and he had to work, would have no time to see me. I accepted the explanation, swallowed my hurt, and continued on with my life, still occasionally asking him what was happening between us. Finally, I came right out and asked him to end it if that’s what he wanted to do.

Obviously, I hoped he would deny wanting to be done with me. But he didn’t. He finally admitted that he had chosen to re-focus on his wife, on his family, on his life, and that he couldn’t do so while he was always thinking about me. I knew it was a valid choice for him, whether or not it would make him happy. I cried, and I agonized, but I didn’t ask him to reconsider… not in so many words. I offered to be his friend. I’ve offered to be his friend a number of times since then. Sometimes he responds. Sometimes not. I went on with my life and my affairs. The First was still in my life, and now so was The Third, and The Fourth, and even The Thirteenth. My passion was never reserved for only The Second, but I did miss him, dreadfully, and for a long time.

And now… he reads this, and that is our only contact. That’s okay. Life is fun, and full of excitement, and second chances (and third, and fourth). I hope he is happy.

The First. I sit here, looking at the blank page of WordPress Add New Post, wondering what more there is to say about The First. He came into my life mere days after I began writing my first blog. I wrote about him more than I’ve ever written about anyone. We were together for 10 months… an eternity in the fast-moving world of extramarital affairs. I wrote about our first meeting. I wrote about learning the crushing truth that I wasn’t his only lover. I wrote about my own realization that I needed others as well. I wrote about the time I tied him to a bed, and posted photos of his ass with my lipsticked initials indicating my temporary ownership of that gorgeous ass. I wrote about breaking a bed with him, I wrote about getting high with him, I wrote about my first threesome (arranged by him), and I wrote about my second threesome (also arranged by him).

Yes, he was The First — the first ‘other’ man I fucked since vowing to be faithful to my husband so many years ago. There were a few other non-starters before him, though. There was the man from my past, the last man I fucked before I married, who suddenly came back into my life to remind me that I’m still a woman (how I could have forgotten?). He was too far away, though, and a little too nuts. There was the man whom I had decided to make my first, who backed out at the last minute. I really had high hopes for him. Lesson learned. There was the man who thought that my agreeing to meet him meant that we were soulmates. Not so much. Can you spell OBSESSION? Finally, though, it was The First who was the one to lead me through his front door, and, soon after, into his bed.

Our first time together was trial by fire for me. In one short afternoon, I experienced my first real, tongue-involved kiss in a decade and a half (I still remember melting into his embrace, feeling his insistent lips on mine, wanting to inhale him, to explore every bit of him with my mouth) and my first blow job within memory (awkward, uncomfortable on my knees, but so very worth it for his reaction — and a great lesson in how to give pleasure). I was obliged (as I ran naked before him up two flights of stairs) to accept that the imperfections of my body could be considered sexy. I learned that I could go let go sexually, be uninhibited, explore — and no one would be shocked or horrified. I learned to accept pleasure, not just give it. I remember lying back, his head between my legs, and I literally couldn’t remember the last time I’d had that experience. More importantly, I allowed myself to enjoy, even relish what he was doing for me. And I came. I remember that. I came, I knew I was coming, and I let it happen, over and over. And he loved it.

The ten months of our relationship were filled with so many new experiences, for both of us. He called me his adventure girl, and that’s what we did. We came up with ideas, preferably ones that were at the very least extreme variations of what we’d done before. The ideas sometimes went beyond the sexual and into the intellectual or even emotional realm. Analysis was his forte, and I did my best to keep up. Our tendency to discuss everything, every experience, ad nauseum, meant that sometimes fireworks happened in more than just the bedroom. The sex was endlessly intense, and so were our conversations, and our disagreements. We negotiated the deep waters of jealousy, although we hesitated to label it thus. We fought inconsistencies in our behaviour and in our feelings. Sometimes it felt like we could read each others’ minds, and we didn’t always like what we read there. Finally, we headed in very different directions — him to post-marriage long-term relationships, me to learning the rules of low risk infidelity.

Ultimately, I’ll always remember and honour the role of The First in my life — we learned so much together, including what we did and didn’t want. I’ll never forget one day when my marriage, my family, my life all seemed to be dissolving before my eyes, and I sat crying on the phone, while The First told me to ‘just breathe, just keep breathing’. He was right. I’m still breathing, still here. We both found out that, despite our mutual and stormy lust for sexual experience, and our often uncomfortable love for each other, we could be ‘just friends’. Almost two years after our last sexual encounter, we still share our stories and look to each other for advice and encouragement.

And really… he was an awesome fuck. Perhaps I’ll fuck him again. What do you think?

Before I could begin my series, I had to make a list for myself of the people I’ve had sex with in the past few years. You’d think that would be an easy task. Not so. In my first draft, I left someone off, and Mr. Wonderful had to remind me. How embarrassing… my current lover recalls the details of my sex life better than I do. Anyhow, making the list allowed me to notice a few (not-so-) interesting facts.

For example:

13 — Number of people I have had sex with, other than my husband, since I married. Actually, that’s misleading. For over fifteen years, I had sex with only him. Then I had sex with 13 other people in 2 1/2 years.

2 – Number of women among those thirteen. Both experiences were FMF threesomes.

4 — Number of those lovers who have the same first name.

4 — Number with whom I had sex in a car. Not the same as the four above.

3 — Highest number of simultaneous, long term sexual relationships.

6 — Number of the thirteen who were one-time-only lovers. Well… I had sex with them several times, but on only one occasion each.

3 — Number of threesomes.

4 — Number of partners where the sex did not include sexual intercourse (including the women).

2 — Number that I consider negative sexual experiences.

5 — Number with whom I believed myself ‘in love’ at some point in time.

5 — Number whose profession played a role for me in the initial attraction (not necessarily the same 5 as above).

4 — Number whom I met through sex blogging.

2 — Number of people met through blogging I still plan to have sex with, hopefully this summer.

7 — Number with whom I am still in at least occasional contact.

7 — Number who currently read or have read my blog.

8 — Number with whom I’d seriously consider having sex again.

15 — Number of months sexual relationship of longest duration has lasted. So far.

19 — Approximate number of different hotels in which I’ve had extramarital sex.

12 — Number of orgasms I was forced to count once (I was then punished for losing count). This is not, in fact, the largest number of orgasms I’ve had during a sexual encounter. I think that was somewhere closer to 20. I think. It’s a bit of a blur.

a gazillion — Approximate number of photos taken of me while having sex with the aforementioned 13.

not quite a gazillion — Number of other people I’ve thought about having sex with, but with whom I never progressed beyond the cyber world.

a few hundred — Number of blog posts dedicated to my sex life.

385,000 — Number of times someone has come to one of my blogs wanting to read about my sex life. Scary.

Up next — The First.

The idea is really quite existential. Or perhaps just random. Or maybe what I mean is that it’s a stream of consciousness thing. What’s random is my use of terms I once understood but have long since become too lazy to correctly distinguish, let alone employ. It’s all gone (my mind, my energy, my focus) to the ravages of perimenopause. That’s my excuse. Deal with it.

What I mean to say is that it began with a conversation (if there are no voices, only words, black on white, tip tap, is it a conversation?) with a virtual stranger (virtual, not real, although really a stranger).

So, he says, “I like the way you speak.”

No, he actually says “i like how you speek”.

So, I says, “How do I speak?”

So, he says, “you know with proper grammer and puctuation”

Ah. Yes. So I do. Generally speaking. I tend to lose it in the midst of passion and orgasms and all that. But since I wasn’t in the midst of either, my use of proper grammar and punctuation was intact.

And that made me think about how little I write these days. Which made me wonder whether I’ll ever blog again. And an idea I recently had about a series flew (back) into my consciousness (stream of). Clearly, my attention was not fully on my partner in conversation. In fact, I said, “Gotta run. Later. xo” at just about that moment, in order to give my full focus over to my brilliant idea. However, once my focus was appropriately… well, focused, I realized that the brilliant idea for a blog series was maybe less than original, and fell (more than fell, plummeted) well short of brilliant.

The idea was to write a series of posts about the men I’ve fucked since I became an unfaithful wife, almost three years ago now.

Definitely unoriginal. In fact, I’ve really covered that ground, in this blog and in my previous internet incarnation. So I was forced to think. I really enjoy being forced to think, as long as the thoughts are only slightly deep and not overly complex. I wondered why I would consider writing such a series at this juncture.

The answer seemed obvious. I want to create a retrospective examination of my journey to this point. And since I’m not dying, it would appear that there is some other change in store for me. I believe that journeys don’t really end (ah, is that the existential bit? No? Is it kind of Zen? No? Not that either?), but perhaps when the direction changes substantially, it’s time to take a look at what has happened so far, so that decisions can be made based on a big picture understanding of what has come before.

Needless to say, I’m rather curious about what my subconscious is trying to tell me about my future direction. Am I about to leave my marriage? Am I, instead, going to choose to set aside the risks of infidelity and live the life of a good and honest spouse? Am I ready to stop this nonsense of needing to tell the (incredibly small bit of the) world about my sex life by posting it online, explicit pictures and all? Am I planning to continue but with a new and shocking chapter of my journey which will include gang bangs and the sex slave industry?

If I knew, I’d tell you. Maybe.

In the meantime, though, I’m going to write about the men I’ve fucked since I left the straight and narrow path of marital fidelity. Starting with The First. Stay tuned.