Swings & Roundabouts

Singledom or Coupledom? The Diamond Geezer reviews the dichotomy with his experiences every year on November 3rd, the anniversary of his last break-up. Nine years to date. His lists the pros and cons as follows:

"Some might say that we single people are missing out on the joys of coupledom, and maybe we are, but I'm convinced that there are equally many positive points to being single:"

Single: You get the whole duvet to yourself.
Coupled: You don't need a hot water bottle.

Single: There's half as much ironing to do.
Coupled: There's twice as much ironing to do but somebody else might do it.

Single: You can hoover the carpet when you think it needs doing.
Coupled: Somebody else hoovers the carpet before you think it needs doing.

Single: Nobody ever tells you that the kitchen must be repainted and the bathroom must be retiled.
Coupled: Two people can repaint the kitchen or retile the bathroom far more quickly than one.

Single: You never have to waste a Saturday doing what somebody else wants.
Coupled: You never sit around on a Saturday wondering what the hell to do.

Single: You can play your music collection really loud, even the track that nobody else likes.
Coupled: Your music collection is twice the size.

Single: You can watch whatever TV channel you like, without arguments.
Coupled: There's someone else on the sofa to snuggle up to.

Single: Nobody complains when you burp, belch or fart.
Coupled: Somebody points out when you have dandruff on your shoulder.

Single: You don't have to put up with somebody else's niggly annoying habits.
Coupled: Somebody else puts up with your niggly annoying habits.

Single: The toilet seat is always where you left it.
Coupled: The toilet seat isn't always freezing cold.

Single: You never come home to a blazing row.
Coupled: You sometimes come home to a cooked meal.

Single: You get to eat the whole ready meal for two yourself.
Coupled: It takes just as long to cook for two as it does for one.

Single: You can spend all your money on yourself.
Coupled: There are two salaries coming in and only one set of bills.

Single: You can walk away from a flatshare, any time.
Coupled: You can afford a mortgage, together.

Single: There are no important birthdays or anniversaries to accidentally forget.
Coupled: Somebody actually remembers your birthday.

Single: You never have to buy useless presents for your partner, just for the sake of it.
Coupled: Somebody buys you presents occasionally, and it's the thought that counts.

Single: You're allowed to flirt with people in the street.
Coupled: You don't need to flirt with people in the street.

Single: You never have to spend entire weekends being polite to the in-laws.
Coupled: Your in-laws are always ready to provide advice on your faults and shortcomings.

Single: You can still have a riotous social life in your 30s.
Coupled: You can still have a riotous social life in your 60s.

Single: You have no friends to go out with because they've all partnered off and are staying in.
Coupled: You don't have to go out with those annoying friends you had while you were single.

Single: You don't catch every sniffle, cold and flu bug off your partner.
Coupled: When you suffer a major cardiac arrest, somebody actually notices and dials 999.

Single: You never get left all alone and desolate because your life partner's just passed away.
Coupled: When you get old and infirm, you don't end up in a care home because there's nobody to look after you.

Single: If you meet the partner of your dreams, it's not too late to marry them.
Coupled: Nobody ever meets the partner of their dreams, so better to get married before it's too late.

Single: Being coupled is restrictive, stifling and a sign of personal weakness.
Coupled: Being single is unnatural, lonely and a sign of personal failure.

Single: You never get your heart broken.
Coupled: You sometimes feel your heart leap.

Single: You can have sex with anyone you like.
Coupled: You can have sex whenever you like.

Single: The bathroom is always free.
Coupled: The bedroom is always full.

Single: You can lie in bed in the morning for as long as you like.
Coupled: There's a very good reason for lying in bed in the morning.

Single: Nobody sees what you look like first thing in the morning.
Coupled: Somebody loves you despite what they see first thing in the morning.

Single: You never discover that your partner took another bloke to the company's (very expensive) Christmas party, having insisted to you that "plus one" on the invitation was a misprint. Not that I'm in any way bitter, you understand...

Hmm, jury's still out, I reckon.

Frustration

Physical, mental, emotional. The opportunities with D have been few & far between, and our last session involved a return trip for him to his room at 1 in the morning that was Benny Hill-like in his farcical attempts not to get caught. There would have been no point returning to my room - I had drifted into the arms of Morpheus with a smile a mile wide, and wouldn't have heard him.

But since then? I have expended a ridiculous amount of mental energy on worrying about the Ciderman. It has reminded me in a way I'd rather not have been reminded that I miss having someone to worry about. However, if/when that happens, I'm afraid I must insist that it is someone who is willing to worry about me in return. To be fair, his personal life has taken a turn for the Jeremy Kyle - but DNA tests will have to wait another 6 months yet. Is this something I want to be in the middle of? Most certainly not. However, he is so damned pretty - but alcoholic. He's been great at accompanying me to various gigs, but by the time we get home, he's pissed and he falls asleep. And I lie away worrying about him. NOOOOO. I want rampant, mostly meaningless sex where I can slip a bit of emotion (affection, tenderness etc) under the wire without having to admit it to anyone. Including myself. This is all going horribly wrong.

But I put my arms round him and feel the muscles at the bottom of his spine and my knees go weak. I saw him walk out of his house with his hair and coat blowing in the breeze and nearly came in my knickers! He looks fantastic - and while I don't just want him for his body, I sure don't just want him for his problems!! And I went back on the pill, which has flattened my libido to a shadow of its former self. Just can't bloody win...

Joke

Going around the interweb: I'm getting DSS sex - I get a little bit every few weeks but its not enough to live on. Christ - this is like being married, but without the dirty socks. So slightly better?

Advice?

Hmm, so this situation with S. We have set a date, I kid you not. 2 weeks time. So I have a fortnight to try and work out how to make sure he has a good time & I don't traumatise him for life. I've warned him that the first time with anyone new (regardless of how experienced both parties are) has a high potential to be anywhere from rubbish to at best improvable. I've also said that I reckoned the main aims were to be comfortable, leave smiling and not feel like life wasn't ever going to get better. Full sex may or may not be a part of that. I've mentioned that overexcitement is to be expected and is no bad thing, as the next time a couple of hours later will be slower. I've said that even if he isn't expecting it, stage fright can creep up - everyone has experienced condom wilt, but hey, at least he'll be giving it a go. God i've talked this down!

I've laid down that affection and laughter are part of the deal - I'm not a pro doing it for money, and what I get out of it is knowing that he will always remember his first time - I hope with a smile. So to all the guys out there, how would you have wanted your first time to go? 

Cultivation

Good heavens, is the "Wobble" post the one I've left up for nearly 3 weeks? Meh - life continues. 

I've been on what might be considered disturbingly close to "a proper date" with the Ciderman. Since then he's been out of the country & its been a long week. I've missed him quite a lot, but its given me a chance to reflect, to try and separate out what I hope he's like from what he might actually be like and most of all to get my head around the fact that I really could risk getting involved again. Whatever that means.

There's been an "opportunity" with D, which was enjoyable, but necessarily brief as the hotel was crawling with the rest of the department. However, that has now got to the inevitable difficulty where any progression involves an increase in intimacy, and there's no point. Sometimes the futility of it makes me sigh, but he's nice, reliable and takes me out to dinner, so, one evening at a time. And he does do a delicious job of biting my nipples. However, its difficult to relax when my gasps & moans of pleasure might be overheard by my department director, my line manager and 3 dozen assorted others. 

Further, a new situation has arisen with... lets call him S. S is another, younger, work colleague who has developed into a very good friend. However, he has some bedroom issues, and we have discussed a type of Mrs Robinson scenario as a confidence boost. He claims that apart from having zero experience (which I'd guessed) due to confidence issues, he had also, until this week with someone he's interested in, not kissed a girl for over a decade. Surely not! Despite his obvious heterosexuality, he's very in touch with his feminine side and would hate to put any woman in an awkward position and generally impose. Perhaps a mature, experienced, unfazeable older woman is precisely what is needed to administer a short sharp metaphorical slap round the head to move things along. Of course, it could all go horribly wrong, we could regret it bitterly and generally make things worse, but hey, I think "Ah fuck it!", and he is slowly starting to be less risk adverse and take a chance. So we'll see. 

And that's about it from the world of the hair monster. I still haven't solved my lack of pub-mates, but more violin-playing opportunities are slowly coming about. The garden is slowing showing the benefit of a bit of TLC (that's the back yard, not the lady-garden!) I guess one might say that the lady-garden is having a better time of it than my brain at the moment. Training up young S could be amusing for it, but might screw me (& him) up. But well, this is the year of doing things differently, so bring it on. I hope Ciderman rings next week though.

Wobble

Feeling very, very low tonight. I don't know why, but I let the Ciderman get under my skin, which is a predictably stupid thing to have done. But I don't often meet people I want to talk to, who interest me, who aren't 10 years older than me and married.

This evening I spent in the company of two nice couples - late 50s/early 60s. 20-odd years older than me, and reminding me with every shared joke, every sentence that they finish for each other that I will never have that. I will never grow old with a person by my side with whom I've spent the majority of my adult life, who is the father of my children, who remembers that disasterous holiday we had 30 years ago, who planned the house extention with me etc, etc.

But I'm back to the old problem, I'm too young to be old and too old to be young. While the 30-somethings cluster round the pub with friends, I realise I have none to do that with - they are all the old smug-marrieds. While any younger friends I have are having fun, I seem to be always refusing a pint in order to drive home. It's become ingrained over the last 25 years - its what I do.

The most wonderful, memorable weekend of my life was spent, 9 years ago at a music festival. It wasn't because the bands were great, although they were. It was because, after rushing to get there, after sorting out the kids, and making sure the shopping & washing was done, I dashed over to the campsite to wait for the next item on the checklist of things to do.....only for the realisation to dawn that there wasn't anything. I could just: put the car keys down, get myself a pint, dance in the sunshine and repeat - for the next 36 hours. It was revelatory. For a day and a half, I wasn't responsible for someone else, running children here, collecting them from there, organising stuff. It was the first time in my adult life I'd ever had that much time to myself. I was 31. 

Occasions since seem few and far between, which is why I feel I have turned into the most boring, prematurely-aged old bag known to mankind. Its like I know there's a life out there, but have no idea how to access it. How will I ever meet someone? This post is self-indulgent and whiny and I'm not even pre-menstrual, which is even more worrying, really.  

The Hand

He teases my clothes off me, laughingly undoing my bra, giggling as my breasts fall into his hands. But sooner or later, his eyes will find me, drill into the centre of me. His hand reaches out and unambiguously closes around my throat, constricting, squeezing, choking. I gasp - surprise, fear - yes, but undisguisable desire. My mouth drops open a little, lips wet with the previous kisses. My eyes open that bit wider - my heart hammering in my chest. I am pinned to the spot, by his hand, by his look. All I can do is gaze at him, knowing I can't resist, knowing that he now controls my every thought and action. All I can do is gaze, and silently beg him to fuck me. Now. Hard.

The Seduction - Part 2

In the story so far of how I came to be having this sordid little affair with D, I've mentioned in Part 1 how, as Hot Chocolate said, it started with a kiss. Well after this episode, November came and went, as did December with nothing more than blushing smiles and the sort of terribly mild flirting that your maiden aunt couldn't object to. But the idea was out there - floating between us, invisible but tangible. Come the start of the New Year, following a Christmas card and a NYE text, I thought the time had come to move things on a step or two. Christmas had convinced me that I was up for an affair, and without a doubt I found the thought as exciting as I did scary. So I ensured I was booked into the same hotel the night before a department meeting, and mentioned it in passing. The information definitely had an effect - he jumped and stuttered.

There were a number of us staying there and we'd agreed to meet in the bar at 7:00pm. Shortly before 7, the room telephone rang - it was him. He offered to escort me down to dinner and mentioned that his room was handily just across the corrider. Come on over, I said. A minute later came the knock. Pretending I wasn't deeply nervous, I opened the door and played it cool. He strolled straight past me and took a short tour of the facilities. I watched him with one eyebrow raised in a quizzical smile. I was taken aback and a little scared by his air of insouciant confidence. He looked like he spent most evenings walking around women's hotel rooms, and my conscience gave a twinge. That little voice of common sense that we all do our best to ignore started whispering that he was probably a total player who might have shagged every woman in the company. Still, we were only going down to the bar together, right?

During dinner, first his foot and then his thigh pressed against mine. Hmm, this is quite nice and not too scary, I thought. I generally relaxed and the evening passed pleasantly with the anticipation held level. A few glasses of wine later and I was ready to stroll back upstairs. His arm round me up the corridor, I wondered how you negotiated the etiquette of suggesting something improper, and if he would, or I should or what. To my relief, he asked if I was going to invite him in for a cuddle. YES, I thought, that's perfect. A nice, non-threatening way of suggesting something. I mean, as much as I might fancy doing it doggie-style in front of the mirror, no-one is going to condemn me for agreeing out loud to a cuddle! Gentlemen readers - remember this.

So it was that I found myself, for the first time in ten years, engaged in a passionate kiss in a hotel room with a man who was not my partner. Worse, a work colleague. Worse still, someone else's husband. At this point, my resolve began to waver. My thought processes went something like this:

"Ohhh, I really shouldn't be doing this! I work with him and its all a bit close for comfort and when work affairs go bad it can be hideous. What if anyone finds out? My reputation at work will be shot. Oh this is so not a good idea. How do I get out of this? I can't really without making a total scene and I really shouldn't be doi..Ooooohhhhhhh GOD that felt good...... but what was I was saying? Oh yes, I met his wife at the Christmas party the other year and she seemed really nice and I really should not be doin.. OH MY GOD - HE'S JUST UNDONE MY BRA STRAP WITH ONE HAND - HE IS A PLAYER!! I bet he does this all the time!! I don't even know if I really fancy him, I mean it seemed like a good idea earlier but now I don't know if the reality is really what I want and I really shouldn't be doin.. AAAAAHHHHHWWWWWwwwwww CHRIST that feels fantastic.... yeah where was I? Oh yes but that's not the point, I know K and I haven't been getting on, but this really isn't going to help, and I know what I'm like, I will give up on trying to make it better with K and sort out our problems, if they can be sorted, if I've got this distraction but this is so not a good idea on so many levels an..... OOOOOAAAAAHHHHHHHWWWWWWWW....oh, fuck it - I've got a live one here!" 

And the rest, as they say, is history.

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. 

Quest for the Holy Grail

The holy grail of human existance is predicated on the fact that, as John Donne was perspicacious to point out, no man is an island. Or woman for that matter. While Harriet Harman gets her knickers in a twist over the differences between the sexes (she seems to feel there are none, just a male conspiracy to "keep the little woman down"), I think more of the similarities, or at least, the complementariness of the sexes. 

Whilst I leave dissection of Harman's arrant (and dangerous) nonsense to others to complete, (Ms R for instance has a few, sharp words to say on the matter), the subject of today's rather wistful post is the need to find that other, complementary person - the one that fills the physical and emotional void at the centre of each of us. While women seek to fill the void more literally than men, metaphorically the need is the same in us all. Someone who fulfills us physically, who takes care of us emotionally, who gives and accepts our touch, affection, passion and lust. Who cares for us, even we care for them. Maybe the need to nuture is stronger in women, but is it not balanced in our lovers by an equivalent desire to protect? 

Yet the more we reach for this ideal, total, all-encompassing 'other', the more of a mirage the existance of such an individual seems. For whilst we dream of Gods and Goddesses to place on pedastals, we are each of us aware of our own mortal failings. While we have a tendancy to expect perfection in others, we are only too aware of our own feet of clay.

Experience tells us that we will never find all we want and need in one person. But hope springs eternal, or else we make bitter compromises, risking stability for danger, family for fun. We compare and contrast, are kind and cruel at the toss of a coin, each of us at times taking turns to be pursued and pursuer, so rarely the two roles combining in serendipitious fate. So the chase goes on - we are careless that we are the object of someone obsession, whilst the object of our own continues their own life mostly oblivious to us. Or you share an obsession, but its pointless, cos its not going anywhere - its as much of a mirage as a Platonic ideal (as opposed to platonic - if I'm not getting my philosophical constructs confused and generally talking out of my arse. If I am, blame the Kronenbourg).

So what is the answer to life, the universe and everything? Is it 42 married lovers, in the faint hope that if you don't spend too long with any of them, you can maintain some shreds of emotional detachment, and kid yourself that it isn't a synonym for emotional emptiness? Or do you pursue the hunt for the "one, true other", and spend the majority of your evenings sobbing into the sofa? Or do you just marry the nearest person, and try to forget you ever had needs and hopes beyond Tesco and the school run? Christ I'm depressed! That's what seeing K today does for me. That and the fact that I haven't seen D for a week and won't for another two. My efforts at pretending to myself that I'm not slightly pining are wearing thin. 

Sweet Seventeen

This week gift to feature writers and bloggers is the publication of Mira Kirshenbaum's book, "When Good People Have Affairs". From the reviews I've scanned, the thrust of the piece is the argument that extra-marital affairs are so widespread, that it is ridiculously simplistic to label adultery (and by extension, adulterers) as bad. Rather than the certainty of black and white, it might be better to take a slightly more shaded view of the motivations, reasons and explanations for affairs, and avoid the knee-jerk, "They've cheated so its over" point of view.

Ms Kirshenbaum lists 17 reasons why people cheat. For ease, these are: Break-out-into-selfhood, Accidental, Sexual Panic, Let's kill this relationship (and see if it comes back to life), Mid-marriage crisis, Trading up, Heating up your marriage, I just need to indulge myself, Ejector seat, See if, Distraction, Surrogate therapy, Do I still have it, Having experiences I missed out out, Revenge, Mid-life crisis and Unmet needs.

She further suggests that you should stay with your partner if your affair is a heating-up-your-marriage affair, let's-kill-this-relationship-and-see-if-it-comes-back-to-life affair, do-I-still-have-it affair, accidental affair, revenge affair or midlife-crisis affair. However, she says that you need to think carefully about whether to stay with your primary partner if your affair is of the following kinds: the break-out-into-selfhood affair, unmet-need affair, having-experiences-I-missed-out-on affair, surrogate-therapy affair, ejector-seat affair.

Now whether this taxonomy of reasons is completely exhaustive, I don't know. Where does, "Well, he asked and I was a bit pissed and quite flattered" fit in? And the categories are obviously not mutually exclusive - my affair with D ticks several boxes, both for me and for him I imagine. Still, most of the ones on my side are in the "split up" category, and a number of his are from the "stick it out" side of the fence, so there's a nice bit of post rationalising.

Further the author is wholly convinced of the wisdom of NEVER confessing the affair, perhaps a route that Titus, the Lazy Philosopher wished he'd taken in hindsight. Still, if the affair is of the type to give the marriage a kick up the arse, how do you establish that yes, you really are that pissed off and things really must change if the other party is blithely unaware?

I find the entire subject quite fascinating from a philosophical stand-point. I was quite flabbergasted to read in the Guardian this particular quote: "'Adulterers are neither kind nor good people, so what sort of sympathy are we supposed to give them?', said Leila Collins, a psychologist who has given relationship counselling for 15 years. 'A good person doesn't betray their loved ones. A good person who is unsatisfied in their relationship ends it before starting a new one.'"

What? Are you barking?? And what exactly qualifies Ms Collins to go busybodying around in other people's lives? I'm not talking about the bit of paper she may have tacked to her office wall, I'm talking about some tangible life experience, wisdom and compassion. Are you telling me that one placement of a penis negates a lifetime of selflessness, devotion and duty? Total bollocks. But yet, the pain, hurt and devastation that the discovery of an affair can have is not to be denied. But to read that a bit of dissatisfaction is apparently sufficient reason to jettison the other parent of your children and doing so in pursuit of a new relationship makes one a "good" person is not only ridiculous, but both naive, dangerous and destructive.

Cuddle Time

Last month I mentioned my Dichotomy - that life was pleasant but without extremes. Part of the upside was my saggy, baggy, deaf old cat. This morning I found him dead in his basket - 19 years of memories consigned to the incinerator. I'd expected, in my usual non-sentimental style, that when then time came, I would simply bag him up and drop him off at the council tip, but this morning, I uncharacteristically came over all mawkish, and paid £65 to have him lovingly cremated.

Wow, is there ever money in dead pets - I shall bear it in mind if I ever need a career change and feel I could manage to keep a straight face long enough. It was almost worth the money for the comedy value - the ever-so-sympathetic-wily businessman says: "Would you like to lay him out in the Chapel of Rest or shall I? You can take as long as you want to say your final goodbyes." Me: "Errr, can't you just take him away, he's starting to smell..."

Strangely enough, almost the last person to see him alive was D - he had a free evening and popped over to the house. His first visit to the house & the first occasion that wasn't a fumble on expenses. Life, eh?

All-male brothels for women

I was reading a commentary by Ariel Leve from the Times earlier, on the subject of Heidi Fleiss' new venture in the Nevada desert - a brothel for women. Her column, although amusing, missed pressing most of my recognition buttons. Perhaps its because she's from New York. Apparently, she can't sleep with someone without wanting to talk on the phone afterwards. Talk? To someone you've just slept with?? Christ alive, we're British, don't you know. We don't talk - we go to the pub, we get pissed, we pull, we sleep with someone, we bump into them again, stuff is repeated and sometimes shuffles in embarrassed fashion into something resembling a relationship. Certainly no talking involved though.

There again, women from across the pond seem rather hung up on "dating", whatever the hell that is. Some Canadian bint was slagging off British men as "too polite, too repressed and too misogynistic" and has written an article called "The Tragic Ineptitude of the English Male" implying that British men are drunken women haters. Despite not actually ending up in bed with one the whole time she lived here (surely frigid?), she is cashing in on her lack of first-hand knowledge, xenophobic misandry (yeah the irony completely passed her by, but then Alanis Morrisette highlighted that Canadians never really had a firm grip on the concept) and general cultural missing-the-point to turn this drivel into a TV series. I'm sure the Canadians will lap it up.

Personally I know nothing about this dating malarkey; my history is all around long-term serial relationships. They all started with a shag, because then you both know where you are, and assuming neither of you actually blow your nose on the curtains, it then morphs into a relationship, (because you didn't chose a flaky feckwit to start with) and its just less trouble to carry on with the one that's there & willing, rather than cast about for someone new. Its not clever, its not exciting, there's a high percentage of danger of ending up spending your Sundays in B&Q, but hey, at least you get laid and the opportunity to go halves on a curry on a Saturday night. Perhaps I settle for too little, but many of my friends seem jealous of what I had. 1 marriage, 2 long-term relationships, 1 one-night stand that dragged on for a week (damn I'm good!) and the current entanglement. And not a single date.

But one thing she said did pull me up: "If I announced I’d like to have sex with no expectations, demands or agenda - I’d have to turn men away." That I suppose is exactly what I am doing currently - I have no expectations, demands or agenda in this fling with D. Why would I? He's married and staying that way, with my blessing. But according to her I should be beating them off with a shitty stick, as the saying goes. And I guess if I advertised the fact that I was that accommodating, I would be. Somehow though, it is a bit sad though that I have given up articulating even to myself what an expectation, demand or agenda might look like. It seems so fantastically pointless including someone else in your plans, even a hypothetical person. Is that just giving up?

Becalmed at sea

I'm aware that my rate of posting has dropped off recently. This is mostly because I have nothing new to relate - there are only so many ways I can put "Saw D - shagged him". I have been attempting and failing to drum up a social life. I have identified that what I need is not a man, but a life. Unfortunately, all the good times outside of a bedroom I have had recently feature an offspring or two, and that is no way to proceed long term.

I have seen K a couple of times - I've even been in his new flat. That was.... a lot to describe in a simple blog. As a word association dump to give you an outline: Heart wrenching, bitter, detached, lonely, impatient, superior, guilty, miserable, quietly chuffed, relieved, horny, ashamed, motherly, lover-ly, nurturing, reluctant, exultant, sad, tiptoe, irritated and vindicated were some of the emotions and descriptive words that go part way towards summing up my feelings during the time it took to get a guided tour and drink a cup of coffee. Bottom line is that its over and he's not my problem any more, and worrying about him is detracting from the energy I need to rebuild my life. Tough but true.

D has been making considerable efforts to ask me my movements and invited me down for a "visit" at his hotel on my way past. I'm not sure he wanted me to stay all night, but I decided I would. I probably won't next time - good grief, hearing his snoring is a relief because it means he's stopped fidgeting. Temporarily! But I like him, oh I like him lots.

Over the weekend I called in to Hay, just to claim some literary boasting points. Unfortunately, we just missed Ian McEwan's discourse on "On Chesil Beach" (which is really rather poignant if you want reminding what crap sex is like). Whilst she was pottering round the poetry shelves in the various bookshops, I found myself browsing the Mind Body & Spirit sections, wondering if there was a way to magic up a social life. I came across a white (whoops, nearly typed that as shite....a Freudian finger-slip?) magic book of spells. I read the one that claimed it would draw my lover to me for ever. Well, even if I could be arsed to assemble the petals and rose oil and whatever, I'm not sure I'd want him hanging around all the time. There was also one for getting rid of a rival - you wish her good things apparently (and assemble even more crap) and she'll scoot off after them and leave the object of your joint desire alone. But then I decided that if by some coincidence, writing on a chicken's egg in green ink at moonlight were to coincide with a marriage breakup, I'd feel too guilty to get in there anyway, so best leave well alone. Too apathetic to make a good witch, I guess!