Anxiety at work, trouble sleeping and shorter gaps between periods. At 44, I recognised all the tell-tale signs of perimenopause, those hormonally erratic years proceeding what my mother still insists on referring to (in a lowered tone) as “The Change”.
A flare-up of acne, increased sweating, a filthy temper, and undeservedly awful hangovers – I’d read all about these happening, and here they indeed were. Yet no one had forewarned me about the dramatic change in sex drive I experienced, not even Davina McCall. My desire levels – having previously been a once-a-week is plenty sort of wife (or, frankly, once-a-fortnight) – suddenly resembled that of an indefatigable teenage boy.
And I’m sorry to say that my desperately increased new sex drive was not directed at Aryan, my husband of eight years. Instead, to fulfil my urges, I purposefully sought out sex with a stranger. You’d be quite reasonable to think that makes me sound like an appalling human being, but I don’t regret a second of my nine month affair. In fact, it’s probably the reason I’m still married. Happily so.
Initially, my head was turned by the best-looking father at the school gates, with his glamorous job in film. While in bed with Aryan – having the half-arsed, comforting, Sunday morning kind of sex that had become routine – I often imagined I was with Hot Dad instead. A harmless fantasy surely never hurt anyone’s marriage?
I wasn’t stupid enough to commit adultery on my home turf. But after years of nice-enough sex (something to tick off the to-do list), suddenly I was lusting after every imaginable cliché there was – the gym instructor, the bar man, the kids’ swimming teacher. It felt primitive, animalistic, and so unlike me – a Home Counties married mother of two, who works in pensions. I even started secretly watching pornography for the first time, marvelling at the eye-popping categories and curious kinks I’d never heard of. I discovered new terms (learning what “cream pie,” “facials” and “daddy doms” were). Even acts I would have previously described as disgusting, somehow turned me on.
My sister, who gladly “shut up shop” in this area ages ago, rolled her eyes when I told her, snapping slightly, “buy a vibrator”. I then confided in my oldest gay friend. He too laughed, and even advised an affair, “Oh, just do it, you’re a practical woman – get online and do it.”
And that’s exactly what I did. I never wanted to threaten my solid marriage to a decent man, or the security of our nice Buckinghamshire home life. But I was entirely driven by a novel urge – before I was old and dried up.
I joined the coyly-named dating site “Illicit Encounters”, specifically for married people seeking affairs. Knowing that for both parties discretion would be key, and expectations would be similar, it felt safer than sidling up to Hot Dad and having my cosy life implode. Everyone on “IE”, as they called it, was anonymous. There weren’t pictures to scroll, just ages, jobs and multiple emojis (think “wine” and “flowers”, more than lewd “aubergine”). It was full of “gentlemen” expressing their wishes for “delicious romantic dates with special ladies”. Many claimed they didn’t want “to rock the boat at home” but “desired adventure”.
I could hardly mock them for being ‘basic’, when I was seeking the same thing. Picking a bland username, I chatted with several men – accountants, ex-army, businessmen. With anyone remotely promising, you’d then move the chat off the site and onto WhatsApp, to swap pictures and life tales. It was a bizarre and yet not unenjoyable process. I needed to confide in someone about the excitement, so I updated my gay friend – frequently. It was fun. Once I found someone who was not weird, I agreed to meet “IRL” (in real life).
And so I met Luke*, a Bedfordshire dad of two, for an after work drink in town one evening. Despite working in IT and attending a famous public school, he had tattoos and a ponytail. It was different and sexy. He ran ultra marathons and didn’t drink, but I certainly downed a gin as we flirted – and then we kissed.
I caught the train feeling exhilarated. I’d had no such experience with another man in the 14 years since meeting my husband. Returning home to Aryan, in his tracksuit after putting the girls to bed, I didn’t feel terrible at all. I actually instigated sex (midweek!) to his delight.
Perhaps surprisingly, I continued sleeping with my husband throughout my entire affair with Luke (with whom I strictly used condoms, I hasten to add). Following that first illicit kiss came a thrilling stream of X-rated texts as we anticipated “doing it” when Luke’s work put him up in a hotel. I don’t know what was more intoxicating, the choosing of new underwear and getting a Hollywood wax, or the novel sensation of feeling a different man inside me.
It wasn’t that Luke was a better lover (though being teetotal and a sports freak didn’t hurt), but I enjoyed the sex more because I felt different; liberated, assertive, willing to try new things. I truly let myself go. But never once did I stay the whole night. Aryan was well used to me sleeping and showering in the spare room after my client dinners.
In those dizzying months, I thought of sex non-stop and easily dropped the 10lb post-baby weight I’d never managed to shift. I bought new clothes and smiled more. Luke and I met every two weeks when he stayed in town. Other than that, our affair was fuelled by sexting, and even once, video-sex.
The only change Aryan noticed was my more groomed bikini wax (I shrugged, truthfully, “I don’t like going grey there”). I know I should feel guilty, adulterers are supposed to do. But I didn’t. And don’t. I’d never have entertained leaving Aryan – or everything we’d built together – but I was having a ball.
While I was totally wrapped up in sexual, very naughty thoughts about Luke, none of them involved running off with him. He was too bitter about his wife, too boring about his fitness, and just… too vegan for me. Seeing him neatly fold up his pants after passionate sex finally gave me the ick. I ended it on the phone, saying I wanted to make a go of it with my husband. And I meant it. Luke seemed disappointed, but I knew he’d never cause me any trouble at home. I imagine he soon hooked up with someone else on the site.
After the affair ended three years ago I never chased another one. Nor would I. It served a purpose at a time I needed it. Only my gay friend knows, certainly not my sister. I’d describe my marriage as happy, Aryan and I still have regular sex, though I regained the 10lb and stopped waxing.
I’m 47 now, still moody and anxious sometimes, yet I’m no longer fantasising about other men. I’m not proud of my behaviour, but it was instinctive and primal. The menopause is closer, but at least now I’ve ticked all the sex and excitement boxes I ever wanted to – all while keeping my marriage intact.
As told to Susanna Galton
(Names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy)
EMEA Tribune is not involved in this news article, it is taken from our partners and or from the News Agencies. Copyright and Credit go to the News Agencies, email news@emeatribune.com Follow our WhatsApp verified Channel
