The games we play

Now I have blogged before on here how I (somewhat irrationally) cannot sleep with two men concurrently - that if I start anything with someone new, it marks the end of an old relationship. But I've never been a married man's mistress before (at least not without any expectation of that status changing). 

Last week was a funny one - a situation arose at work which I was getting very wound up about. Frustratingly, if I hadn't been screwing D, he may have provided a practical solution, but we had both previously agreed to avoid any situation in which he might become my direct manager again, for reasons of ethics. Or morals. Or whatever. However, a resolution that involved him was almost so obvious it was starting to raise eyebrows that it hadn't happened, and that was starting to reflect badly on me professionally. Typical - I knew this liaison would not improve my career, but I didn't think it would negatively impact it, even without being discovered. How naive.

So in the hotel after work, my heart wasn't in it. And worse, he noticed. Worst still, he understood, listened to me and sympathised. We have our boundaries and that crossed mine. Someone actually caring about how my day went and listening is alien. It makes me realise that there's something wrong with a life when a woman gets to the age of 40 without having experienced that before. That makes me feel sorry for myself and that makes me absolutely furious. I hate any suggestion that I might by wallowing in self-pity - I am not a victim. So I got up and left; drove home illegally fast, listening to Marilyn Manson. The one thing I wanted more than anything that night was not to spend it alone. The one thing I refused to do was admit that fact, even to myself.

But my slutty guardian angel was looking over me. Shortly after I got in, I got a text from one Cider Man - did I want to meet him for a pint and a round of pub games? Yes - yes I did. Lager & pool was just what I needed. He's going through some changes himself. So I got exactly what I needed: a warm body to curl up with, a chance to sooth my own soul by comforting someone else. All without having to admit to any emotional vulnerability myself. I rock!

Oh and today I charmingly knocked sufficient heads together so that the difficult situation at work has hopefully been resolved. Its just best when everybody does what I want!

The Seduction - Part 1

I have been poking around the blogosphere this week and am particularly enjoying RiffDog at Ashley & Me. His writing is very accessible - humourous and addictive. It's seriously making me reconsider my writing style & content - more sex required? His descriptions of his various first dates reminded me fondly of the first night with D, and perhaps you good readers would like more detail of what happened.

As a recap, D is a married man with whom I work. Last November, in the bar after a departmental awayday, he unexpectedly kissed me goodnight. On the lips. In my natural surprise and confusion, I pinched his bum. Rewinding further, he used to be my direct boss. I really enjoyed working for him - he was relaxed but totally professional. The sort of boss that you want to work that bit harder for and I was rather in awe of him. In fact, when the reorganisation was announced and he told me I would no longer be working for him, a look passed between us - a complicated look, perhaps speaking of thoughts that were less about manager to subordinate and more of one adult the equal of the other. But the moment was fleeting, departmental lines were redrawn and for a year or so, we had no reason to be in contact.

Another reorganisation later, we found ourselves in the bar at the end of a long boozy night. Not even alone - a couple of others were there too. Which is why his kiss goodnight so totally confused me. We work in quite a macho, conservative industry - not a touchy-feely media-lovey-type world, so this was definitely not normal. I floated back to my hotel room like I was being borne along on a cloud. Did he mean it? What did he mean? Was I mis-interpreting it? He surely wasn't making a pass, was he? Yes - I know the blokes reading this will be thumping their heads against their screens screaming, "Of course he bloody was!", but you have to realise. I'd been in a committed relationship for nigh on 10 years. In all that time I'd barely looked at anyone else (apart from Cider Man here) and certainly no-one had made a pass at me. In fact in the previous few months, as things went downhill between K & I, the realisation of this was starting to grate. I wondered out loud to friends if this was because:

a) I'd been giving off "I'm taken" vibes,

b) because I was so out of practice that I didn't notice subtle indications, or

c) was the problem in fact that I had the body of a teletubby and a face like a smacked arse?

So that's my excuse for a grown woman lying awake wondering if the man who kissed her full on the lips liked her at all. Honestly, the thought seemed so bizarre and unlikely - I'm still laughing at my innocent bewilderment.

So after a good half hour's thought - I'm blushing here - I sent him a text of "Nice bum". And felt terribly shocked at my behaviour and instantly embarassed and convinced I'd made a total fool of myself, that I'd utterly misinterpreted an innocent, friendly kiss and I would probably be formally reprimanded for it. Breakfast was a trial. We studiously avoided catching each other's eyes and I decided that if confronted I would plead alcoholism. Or something. The conference session the following day was mercifully short and we left the hotel without a further word being spoken. The following day I got to work to find a short email from him: "Sorry - I should have said something yesterday. I'm out of the country, back Wednesday week." Well what did that mean? Did that mean that I would get the formal dressing down when he got back? Would we both draw a discreet veil over an embarrassing yet minor incident? I decided that least said was soonest mended and resolved to put the episode out of my mind. Which worked, until the day he got back. He came round to my desk, stood in front of me and eventually looked me directly in the eye. I looked at him.... and as the huge, goofy grins simultaneously hit our faces, I knew that whatever happened between us, things would be alright....

Sublime Symphony of Passion

With the benefit of the distance of days, I can now being to consider my response to Prom 24 last Monday - a concert that began oddly but finished with magnificence. 

The first half kicked of with Bach's Toccata & Fugue, but for Orchestra with Organ accompaniment (arranged by Sir Henry Wood - the instigator of the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall). This seemed a waste; when the organ at the hall is cranked up, you realise that this strange building with its acoustically idiosyncratic design was actually constructed as part of, and an extension to, its organ. The organ is the pulsing heart of the building, which is why under-utilising it in that monument to the organ - Bach's Toccata & Fugue was a wicked abomination.

This was followed by a further abortion - a Violin & Horn Concerto by a raving Victorian lesbian. Tokenism at its worst. There's a reason there are no Violin & Horn concertos in the standard repertoire - it doesn't work. The horn drowns the violin. Its pointless. Its not worth the tube fare. Its a waste of everyone's time, patience and earwax. Add in the fact that there is no discernable melody for the orchestra (the inimitable BBC SSO) to get their teeth into, and my irritation overflows. But the second half - oh the Gods of passion smiled down upon us lucky souls in the hall that evening. Euterpe melded with Erato to produce an experience that will live with me til my dotage. 

My spies tell me the 29 year-old conductor Stefan Solyom was so hyper before the start of his proms debut he threw up, but focused his mania into a stunning, tear-jerkingly mature performance of Rachmaninov's 2nd Symphony. The third movement in particular, when he discarded his baton in favour of naked-handed direction produced sublime, synaesthetic out-of-body moments. He understood that nothing should come between bare skin and the sound. He pulled the music from the air, phrase folding over and in on itself as the orchestra danced to the hypnotically sensual sounds that was so much more than the sum of the parts. The music swirled around the hall like a tangible thing - almost glimpseable in its profound physicality. Like ripened corn swaying in the breeze; as the band swayed forward into each phase the audience, like mesmerised odalisques continued to echo that motion under the direction of the the devilishly powerful Svengali Solyom. He controlled the thoughts, the actions, the attention, the life-force of thousands, sending us flying on the zephyr of passion-made-sound until he brought us back safely to land and the spell was broken by shouts of bravo.

I make no apology for the use of the term synaesthesia. Good music should, must be experienced by all the senses simultaneously with erotic, angry passion. Violins should stroke the neck, brushing finger-tips extended by cellos teasing down and round to the breasts, the nipples. Clarinets should caress the backs of the knees, up and down the rear and inner thighs. Oboes and bassoons should be breathed in - the smell and taste of their sound internalised. Lower brass resonates in the bones, the pelvis, the spine. Good music, be it classical or rock should be visceral. It should lift you from the moment you are in, far above the Earthly concerns, liberating, freeing, making all things & dreams possible. For that experience on Monday evening, Solyom & the BBC SSO, I thank you.

Life Begins

Here I am, a woman in my prime, and you know what? Forty is fab! My confidence in myself is growing by the day. I can wear low-cut tops without thinking I'm being obvious or mutton-like (does that translate across the Atlantic?), simply because it doesn't really cross my mind. I have soft, round, gently tanned, welcoming full breasts - why shouldn't they see some of the light of day in the summer? I smile at everyone I meet, and they smile back. I'm walking around in my own little sunbeam at the moment, and that light is reflecting upon all the people around me.

After my serendipitious meeting with the Cider Man in town last week, we "hooked up" a few evenings later. It was such a pleasant change to spend time with someone different - met a few of his friends, went somewhere new, had a laugh, and had some incredible oral sex. I'd forgotten he had a tongue stud! Trust me - what all your friends say about tongue-studs is true. Every woman should have access to one at least once - and once you do, you'll want it again and again and again.... And he's nice, and he stayed the night and I had a fabulous time. He can come again - fnarr, fnarr. You know, his back had the softest skin I've ever stroked....

I am so unshakeably sure that I don't want a relationship at this point in my life. I want to cherry-pick the good bits: flattery, attention, plenty of sex, and you can keep the dross: Match of the Day, bickering about who's turn it is to go to Tescos (translate: Walmart) and whether his mother's coming to dinner. I guess that makes me perfect mistress material for the time being. Certainly D is very keen to give me my first fuck of my forties this week.

My social calendar is filling up - quiz nights, BBQs, chamber music, rock nights & tonight - the Proms. I'll be on my own, and enjoying it all the more because of that. Beethoven and Mahler, teutonic delights at the Albert Hall. All in all, I feel like the cat that got the cream. Is life allowed to be this good?

Crossing the Rubicon

I have stepped across the divide, swum defiantly & purposefully to the other side. I have crossed the Rubicon - I am 40. Although it feels odd seeing it in black and white, mentally I'm fine with it. I celebrated with the offspring. Tonight, we're off to eat and drink with friends before ending up in a club to dance like diseased monkeys. Ah, one of the many advantages of having been a teenage mother that the reactionary rag, the Daily Mail, forgets to mention!

I said goodbye to my thirties in style. D booked into a country house hotel and to continue the incapacitated animal similes, we fucked like crazed ferrets for hours. Then we went for a stroll round the grounds, laughingly considering patches of long grass for privacy and daring, had a drink, had a meal, and did it all over again.

The last month has been an extended dry patch. Holidays interfered with our usual arrangements, which was tortuous. I'd forgotton how randy I get in the sunshine and there was nothing I could do but lie semi-naked on the sunlounger and fantasize. So a proper reunion was highly anticipated. I'd had the chance to warn / titilate him with tales of my near all-over tan, hard fought through sessions of topless car-washing, gardening, pool-cleaning and shed painting. 

I was starting to get anxious that the tan would fade before it had the chance to be shown off, but I was able to parade; naked, laughing, brown and blushing for my lover. I told him that I hadn't been able to sleep the night before through anticipation, but I'd solved the problem by fantasising that he was licking champagne from my breasts. So he obliged for real. 

Its soooo pleasurable to touch, feel, stroke, rub my cheek against his stomach, feel his cock in my cunt, his teeth on my nipples. To touch someone, to be touched. To fuck and be fucked. The end of my thirties was spectacular. Can my forties live up to it?

Six Month Check-up

Looking back over the blog, I thought it might be worth doing a mid-year review to follow up from my New Year's Eve post. But its all so damn good! What a difference 6 months has made. From feeling trapped, defeated and negative, I'm now feeling positive, vibrant and alive. Ok, I'm not a grinning sunbeam every moment of every day, but then, would you want to hang out with someone who was? Or ring the local funny-farm and advise them to bring their biggest net?

So here we go - Midsummer Joy

Emotional
Living in my own space and skin, occasionally lonely but pretty content. Having an affair with that married man, but as long as it stays within its boundaries, all is good. I know where I stand and as long as I know when my next shag is coming, I'm fine. Involved enough to be edgy when I don't know where he is when I was expecting to see him at work and he's elsewhere. Involved enough to not particularly be interested in actually sleeping with anyone else, but not so hung-up that I spend my weekends & evenings pining. Yup, could be a LOT worse.

Professional
Brilliant! The shake-up in my personal life has left me feeling so much more positive and in control of my life and this has been reflected at work. My boss and I are getting on better. I bounce around like I'm walking on air, and I get noticed. I've been approached by the director of another function to transfer to his area to bring my unique blend of skills with me. Just need to negotiate a payrise now.

Family
One darling is living at home, and we're having such fun. Its so relaxed, we never row. She cooks, I shop, its no hassle. She says I'm the best flatmate she's ever had. Well, if you will hang out with born-again Christians, don't expect to be asked out down the pub too often. The other one is too far away for my liking, but she's doing what she wants and is pushing her way through life in the direction she wants to go. I can't help worrying, but then that's my job as a mummy. She's great. 

Hobbies
Bugger the gym - not been near it this year. But I go out walking most Sunday mornings with some friends. Much more civilised. And I've joined a trio to play classical music, and am investigating joining a folk group for general laughs.

The future
Well perhaps that Ayn Rand was on to something. I have indeed turfed K out, sprog minor has moved in and its even better than I dared hope. My indian summer of whoring about is available to me if and when I want to explore that option. Talking of which, went out last night and bumped into Cider Man, (he of my February shinannigans) who was very keen to give me his number. Meanwhile, although I can't afford Australia, I shall be visiting my sister in SA later this year. So no longer stuck. I have options. I have control. I have a big smile. I have a hangover.

Wants and Needs

The secret to contentment is to understand the difference between Wants and Needs, apparently. A number of books have been written on the subject, not least Affluenza, by Oliver James which warns of the difference from a material perspective. But how does this play with emotions - which do we need, and which do we merely want? Is the question even valid? Personal fulfillment suggests that we each have a "right" to all the positive emotions, and shelves of self-help books suggest that we can insulate ourselves from the bad with the right "positive mental attitude".

But where are the boundaries? Is it right to pursue your emotional wants, to elevate them to needs, regardless of the pain it causes others, or ultimately yourself? Or are they the same thing? My heart was wrenched reading this blog-post. I'm sure there are those that would condemn S for willingly involving herself with a married man - regardless of the heartache she could inflict on the wife and on herself. But how can the hardest heart not weep for her? To fall in love with someone unavailable is one thing, but to want to be with the man you love, comfort and nuture him, bear his children to fulfill your biological destiny is much closer to a need - sex and procreation are as much a basic human motivation as hunger & thirst. To have found the love of your life, only to be told he would rather live a half-life with a woman who does not satisfy him is surely the ultimate slap in the face. Worse - surely it is taking the very core of you and shredding it, trampling the pieces into the mud?

I suppose I am feeling wistful after reading this article. Am I alone in reading this article on an American married couple that decided to have sex every day for 101 days and be astonished that the response from her friends was so negative? I crave some sex, some affection, some tenderness, touch, trust, intimacy, to "sink in, trusting, to their pillowy ephemeral depths and to whisper, in the dark, to the comfort of flesh" as Z so beautifully puts it. Such a fundamental need, such a seemingly unachievable ambition, a want - the pursuit of which eliminates any chance of contentment.