Lunch with Ingrid 5

Packed and ready. He’s gone to deliver the dog to his sister. Butterflies are on the march again in my belly. I might need to go pee again in a minute. The cats are sitting on the back of the sofa looking on, taking it all in, judging me, and finding me guilty of desertion. It’s the same every time we go away.
His firm is sending a car in a couple of hours to transport us to the airport. There’s nothing quite like being chauffeur driven by a man in a uniform.
I wrote the final piece of my lunch with Ingrid a few days ago but haven’t had the will to put it up. There are bits of my life that make it hard to look myself in the face, when you sit down and recall the details. I have absolutely no trouble recalling details. That’s my curse.


….continue from Lunch with Ingrid 4

“After that there were other men,” Ingrid continued, slicing carefully across the centre of a thin cucumber. “A black male model with a cock like an aubergine; we banged everyday for three weeks, till one morning he told me he loved me.”

She’d sliced the cucumber into small slithers and was pushing them around on her plate.

“He was nice, but I didn’t want nice, not any more. After him there were a couple of photographers, one Russian the other French. I nearly fell for the Frenchie, but what would have been the point, he was married too. Then there was a well known designer. That lasted two months; before I found out he was also screwing his assistant. Then I had a threesome with two handsome studs I met at a club. They were a couple of professional fuckers who hung around fashion shows, hotel foyers, bars and restaurants in the hope of bagging one of us. Just about every country has them – some more than others. They are an occupational hazard. They look at us like items on a gigolo menu; blonde, brunette, red-head – turn up, take your pick, take it to a hotel, fuck it stupid. The sex was generally good and often fantastic. But everybody knew that it was only ever going to be a one time thing, kissing and fucking and goodbye before daybreak.
Most of time I was slightly drunk or slightly high or slightly both when some good-looking guy made a point of catching my eye. I was smoking more and more dope, and snorting thousands of pounds of coke a week. I recall that I had the deluded view that it was purely medicinal.”

She laughed, more bitterness coming through.

“Then one morning I woke up next to a woman,” she went on. “I didn’t recall how she’d got there, or what we’d done in the night. Initially I tried to convince myself that we’d just shared a bed and that I – we hadn’t done anything. I was still there deluding myself when she woke up. Have you ever….?”

I shook my head emphatically. “No,” I lied.

“Neither had I, till then. What was more surprising was that it turned out that it wasn’t she who’d picked me up, but the other way around. I’d kissed her first, and made the suggestions that ended with us going back to my hotel room, getting naked and making love.”

Ingrid pushed a slither of lettuce into her mouth, chewing slowly. “She had lovely deep brown eyes and a cute button nose,” she went on after taking a sip from her glass. “We talked, had breakfast in the room, shared a bath and made love again. Then she dressed and walked out of my life. I never saw her again. She too was married. I’d just fed a need for pussy she had now and then.”

This time her smile wasn’t bitter, only sad.

“I hadn’t realised that I had any such feelings toward other women, and for a few weeks I managed to convince myself that it was a one off; that the dope and the booze had caused me to act out of character. I picked up a couple of stray men to try to prove my point; the first one was only interested in pleasing himself; the second worked hard to please me. But even after multiple orgasms, I knew something wasn’t right. So a couple of days later I walked into a lesbian bar and walked out with a red-head. She was nice, slightly plump around the middle, with a soft belly, and she still had a thick fringe of pubic hair. We ended up spending the afternoon at the Hilton. After that there other women – many, and men too – but fewer.”

I could see she was trying to judge what effect her words were having on me. I smiled and kept my expression as neutral as possible.

“I rarely use a man these days,” she said after a minute, “I’m almost a complete lesbian, but I still have a very small craving to be penetrated by an amateur; someone hard and brutal, with big hands and a rigid cock. Dildos and vibrators are great, but we ladies make love to each other in an equal opportunity sort of way; whereas a man can generally be relied upon to make a woman feel like second-class citizen when he spreads her legs and shoves his cock into her. Even the best lover among them will have the wild look of the beast in his eyes as he slides in and out of a wet pussy. And the more we cry out and rip at their backs the wilder the beast becomes.”

She stopped talking as the waiter approached again with another bottle.

We ate slowly while she continued to talk. Christian had been right – she had needed someone to talk to; someone who would listen and not interrupt; someone who didn’t look at her as though they were judging her; someone on the verge of admitting to herself that the woman on the other side of the table got her juices flowing.


Thursday morning, 2 am –

There’s nothing so lonely as the night, when insomnia drags you from a warm, comfortable bed. So, here I am once again tap-tapping on my laptop in the small hours.
As usual I’m playing catch-up, though I haven’t been completely neglecting the writing since my last offering.

At the moment I find myself suffering from a wash of hesitation and indecision as to just how much detail to divulge. Perhaps it’s my hormones.

Some might laugh and say “bitch, it’s far too late to start fretting about such things, after the amount you’ve already given away.”

But that’s just it – the more I say, the greater the chance that someone who knows a little of my life story will do the maths, add two and two and come to the right conclusion.

The other thing that has slowed the process is… time – not too little, but too much.

When I started, I wrote as I thought, no editing, no back-tracking. Now, I find myself pouring over almost every sentence ad infinitum, chopping and changing, substituting and re-proofing. It’s exhausting.

So now you have my excuses, I promise it won’t be long before I take up the reigns of the story again. Now where were we………..?

What lies below was written back in April.

My world has been well and truly rocked. Here I am several months later, less able to see my feet than I was the last time I opened up my lap-top, with the intention of communicating with those few who are still interested in what has happened and is happening in my little life.

Yes, I’m as round as a barrel. My waist is daily disappearing; my ass is expanding; I waddle like a duck when I walk, and my tits…… lets not go there.

It seems like an age since I looked at that little blue line of fate appearing on the pregnancy test stick. I’d wanted this so badly……don’t get me wrong, I still want it, but I want it to be over. Today.

Some women I am told enjoy the nine months it takes to incubate the egg into a fully functioning independent life-form. Me, so-far it’s been day to day vomiting and increasing discomfort. I’m not so much blooming as ballooning.

He’s already the proud doting daddy. Every morning he kisses my bump and almost as an afterthought remembers that I’ve still got lips.

Of course he says that he doesn’t mind what it is. But I know he really wants a son. And I’d like to oblige, even though a little part of me would prefer that the little bundle has a vagina.

We still make love, more at my insistence – food, in the shape of soft iced-cream, asparagus and avocado isn’t all I crave……. all the time. I’ve never felt so constantly, overwhelmingly horny. I’ve really taken to bending over the sofa or kneeling on the edge of the bed. Of course he obliges, but he’s always so… so God-damned careful, loving and gentle, it makes me want to fucking scream. But the orgasms… God! They don’t just make me go weak at the knees, they actually turn my bones to water, and make the atomic bomb go off in you brain. Some of you ladies will know what I mean.

Then there is the other side of the news I divulged last October – my mother’s cancer diagnosis.
For her, the last five months have brought hospital visits, chemo, radio therapy, nausea, dizziness, sickness, hair-loss and bloating. It’s hard to watch someone you love, who was so alive and vibrant at the start of the year slowly transform into a listless wraith, staring into space, lost in her own diminishing world.
Even so, she tries very hard to be cheerful, which kind of makes it harder for those of us who love her.

Fat as a hippo

Those few who have followed this narrative will know of my present condition: in a word, fat as a hippo. But that’s four words. Hey, ho!

Pregnancy is meant to be such a wonderful thing. Pregnant women are regularly described as blooming. Well, at present I feel less like a blossom and more like a moose. My reflection, when I can bear to look at it, shows the face of a woman who hasn’t slept much in days, because she can’t find a comfortable position to lie in. And anyway, she has to get up every bloody five minutes to go pee.

I know I’m singing a song that countless women have sung before. And I know that there are some ladies out there who insist that they’ve enjoyed every moment of every pregnancy they’ve had. And that includes my sister. Well, lucky for them.

But in reality I have no right to complain, I did this to myself. Or more accurately, I let him do it to me.

Speaking of he, who I have mentioned seldom in this narrative, the prospect of fatherhood seems to suit him well. If anyone is blooming, he is. He is, and always has been a natural romantic, who only reverts to savagery when someone hands him an odd shaped ball and tells him to run the length of the field, knocking aside and generally mauling anybody who tries to stop him. It’s a game - really it is.
It's my personal opinion that although the game was invented by gentlemen, it is more suited to hairy neanderthals with a penchant for brutality and legalized violence. I love him dearly, but I've seen the blood-lust growing in his eyes at the prospect of another brutal, bone-crunching face-off with his teams arch-enemies.

His favourite thing at the moment is to pat my expanding belly, smile proudly at his handiwork and ask, “Is the bun baked yet?”
Very cute!


After Giovani

“There are a number of luxury cabins,” said the pretty stewardess, her springy blonde hair bobbing around her shoulders, as she descended the winding stairs into the belly of the boat. She turned to look me up and down, her hazel eyes judging me, and finding me guilty of future crimes. “We’ve made up the blue room for your use,” she said finally, turning the nearest handle and standing aside for me to precede her.

I nearly whistled at the opulence - the over-the-top, over-sized bed - gigantic smoke tinted mirrors on three of the walls and on the ceiling. I knew what she was thinking, I was thinking exactly the same thing.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “This is only a day drip. I don’t actually need a bedroom. I-”
“Oh. I…we thought….” She left the sentence unfinished, but I could see clearly in her blue eyes exactly what they’d thought was going on. The boss had brought his newest lover on board, and was intending to wine, dine and fuck her on the high seas.
What other reason would a well known seducer have for taking a woman out for a ride on his mega-yacht.
I was certain that the gold ring on my wedding finger had been noted. So not only did they think that I’d come along so that their millionaire boss could strip off by clothes and have me thrashing about beneath him; they also thought that I was an adulterous.

“I just need somewhere to change,” I said, deciding against any long explanation or rebuttal of her unspoken words. The small twitch of her eyebrows told me that she wasn’t likely to believe any sort of denial of the hot erotic image she had playing behind her eyes.

I was tempted to ask how many other women, married or otherwise, had been taken out for a day trip, but decided against it.


I have broken off from my present narrative to write a reply to certain remarks and criticisms that have come my way over the airwaves. Perhaps criticism is the wrong word – rather say comments – or maybe accusations.
Let’s just call it communication.

The bottom line to all this communication is that, these fine people have weighed, measured, judged and found me guilty of being a woman of loose morals. That sounds better than coming straight out and calling me a slut.

Thanks to Mr A, Ms B, Ms C and of course Mr D.

I suppose I’ve been expecting something like this for some time. People have strong views on adultery, and they have it seems stronger views on people who talk about the adulterous deeds they’ve done, are doing, or might do.

Having re-read every word of the blogs I’ve written (post the last batch of mail from certain people), I must point out that I have categorically not claimed that adultery is a good idea, and I do not hold the opinion that adultery is a happy or desirable life choice. For me it was like stumbling and falling down a smooth sided hole, with no ledges or ladders on which to halt my descent, or climb back out. Does that show a weakness in my character? Yes, I suppose it does.

Am I comparing myself to a certain Alice in Wonderland? No comparison was intended, but the longer I think of it the more I realize that my secret life has been fantastical at times, and like the fictional Alice, also rather confusing. Have I been chasing a metaphysical white rabbit? Looking for something that doesn’t really exist. Or am I stuck in a labyrinth doomed to forever search for the prize at the centre?

I could wonder down these mental dark-alleyways all day….

I am, I admit, terminally flawed.
Has my continuing adulteries improved my marriage? No it hasn’t.
Has it harmed it……..? Probably.

Someone wrote that even though my husband is ignorant that his wife is a cheating slut, and that he may never ever discover it, my marriage is broken. Some days when I’m at my lowest, I definitely agree.

Who has benefited from my philandering? I suppose I have. As have those of you for whom my blog is merely entertainment and perhaps a source of harmless titillation.

One of the messages said, and I quote, “…screw around if you have to, but please don’t burden the world with the details. All you are doing is justifying the dirty deed and making the simple minded think that it is alright to follow your example…..”

Yes there are those who feel that people of my ilk are destroying the institution of marriage, by making serial adultery seem like a joyful, harmless wheeze. I wish I had a logical and well thought-out answer to that accusation.

I suppose the best way to demonstrate how I feel about it, is to give this warning to those who, for whatever reason, might follow my path;
Adultery leads to a pile of conflicting emotional shit that never really goes away, no matter how much therapy you get, or how often you are told that you have to forgive yourself. It’s far easier to say you forgive a cheater, than to actually do it. Trust once lost, is generally gone forever.
I know, I’ve seen some shit.

I may be a fool, but I am not fool enough not to realize the risk I’ve run. I worry that I’ll do something – forget something – say something… or that someone will discover my secrets and bring my entire house of cards tumbling down.

I do admit to a certain naivety – like most people who live a lie. I kid myself into believing that I’m wise enough, and smart enough navigate the labyrinth of deceit and subterfuge, and will somehow avoid the pitfalls that wait round every corner.

As I’ve said from the beginning, I wasn’t one of those wives who can cry that their husbands don’t love them or didn’t fuck them any more. I didn’t spend years stewing in a loveless bed, to finally fall onto the cock of the first man to pay me a complement.

I don’t feel myself to be some sort of devil prophet preaching to the multitude. This blog was and remains a way of documenting what I’ve done, in order for me to try to rationalize and perhaps understand the reasons behind my aberrant behaviour.

I’m long past blaming the first man who took me to bed when I was hardly able to understand, or resist what was happening. He may have been in the wrong, but I recall that he too was behaving under the influence of drink and drugs. What followed after that first time was consensual, and done in the full realization that I was elongating a sin against my marriage. But I was already on the treadmill.

I did, do, and will always have a feeling that I’ve lost that innocence and pristine one-man-ness that most husbands want their wives to have. I am to blame, and I’ll always carry that shame, that guilt, that feeling that I’ve forever tarnished something that was so perfect.

It’s hard for me to get across to someone who’s never shared a bed with multiple semi-anonymous men, that there’s a world of difference in the kind of loving and tenderness that comes from someone you know loves you completely and without reserve. It is even harder to explain the waves of affection that flow from me, when my husband claims and enters me, which is entirely different to the animal heat that describes the kind of sex I got with those men who have used my body. And whose body I used in return.

“…he would have every right to despise you…..” someone wrote.

I agree.

“……how would you feel if you discovered that he was in fact cheating on you……?”

Answer – devastated.

Would I understand and forgive him? I don’t know. Probably…….. not.
Yes, that makes me a hypocrite. I’m not perfect. Or even near perfect. But I wouldn’t expect forgiveness from him if he ever discovered even one of my many secrets.

Finally, I don’t expect empathy or understanding from anyone who stumbles on this blog. In fact I would be surprised if there’s anything other than criticism, scorn and derisory comments.

Yes, you guessed it….I often wallow in a slime-pit of self pity. Are you really surprised?