I don't obsess about finding a partner. I like my independence. I'm happy to be out of a bad marriage, busy with two young children and my work.
I'm well aware of the dearth of men available for middle-aged women like me. I tried online and telephone dating with little success, but that is how I met him.
At my age, physical appearance is less important that it was when I was 25. He looks presentable and warm, seems well educated and worldly. I like that he lives in the city, and we enjoy many of the same things about urban life. I like his left-leaning politics and the fact that he works in a caring profession.
But he's not single. His wife, once a well-paid professional, quit her job to pursue her dreams. Although she has established herself in the arts community, she makes nowhere near enough to maintain their comfortable lifestyle. He works hard supporting his family. He has grown children, a distracted wife and time on his hands.
We met for the first time over lunch eight years ago. He liked me and I liked him. We both enjoy sex, and lamented the lack of it in our lives.
Our relationship has ebbed and flowed. Sometimes I'm busy and uninterested and we don't see each other for two or three months. Sometimes we meet twice a week, not always for sex; we may have dinner or go to a movie or a gallery. His wife has engagements on many evenings and weekends, giving us ample opportunity to meet.
Often we use my house, but today, a dreary, rainy Sunday afternoon perfect for staying in and having sex, my daughter's plans have fallen through and she's home. Waiting for him to pick me up, I rifle through my lingerie drawer and select an outfit he likes. Changing into it makes me wet, and I'm r eady and waiting when he pulls up.
In our favourite motel, we draw the curtains and fall into each other's arms. Demands of motherhood, pressures at work and the troubles of the world vanish. Locked in his arms, I feel only bliss.
His tongue explores my mouth, his hands massage my ass, then move to my back to pull me tightly toward him. We tumble to the bed, filled with anticipation and desire. I pull off my clothes and he smiles at my lingerie. I climb on top of him, unbutton his shirt and suck his nipples. I tease him about more grey hairs on his chest and work my way down.
I slip his pants off and stroke his cock. I suck it hungrily, licking the shaft, circling the head and flicking my tongue against his sensitive ridge. I vary my movements, going slow and deep and then short and quick.
He moans under my touch, his hands grabbing my hair. I could make him come, but I want his cock inside me. His hands and mouth tease and entice, me but he knows what I want as well.
Then he's on top, his hard cock inside my wet pussy, his body pressed into mine. Nothing else exists in this moment except the two of us locked in pleasure. He moves and I meet him. I know he's waiting for me, matching my thrusts as I edge higher.
My fingers grip his back as I'm released of everything. A brief pause, and he continues. I lift my legs higher, he groans and sinks deeper. I feel his cock inside me, feel every muscle in his body tense as he arches his back and roars.
In the post-coital cuddle, relaxed and spent in each other's arms, we talk lazily about our lives. After a second orgasm, we dress and check out.
The rain's stopped, and he has a half-hour before he must head home. We pick up coffees and drive to the lake. Strolling along the waterfront, we're surrounded by wildflowers and swooping and diving birds.
He drives me home. We kiss and embrace warmly, then head back into our everyday busy lives.
I know I deserve more than he can give me, and sometimes I ask myself what I'm doing in this relationship. But today, I'm perfectly content.