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Another blogger commented recent on my post about feeling sexually deprived while still being surrounded by sexuality.  Because it was left as a public comment, I feel no compulsion to maintain the anonymity of chely5150, but it was lengthy enough that I decided to go ahead and respond publicly, as I have before.

I classify this correspondence as more misplaced rage, and I invite chely5150 to read that post, as it applies here. In summary, chely5150 suggests that Ashley’s lack of interest in sex is likely my fault. She cites her own experiences with an unfaithful husband and a lack of love and respect in their marriage as a reason for her own disinterest, and says that such could contribute to our situation. (It is worth noting that my and Ashley’s sex life has improved substantially from what it was in the roughly two years since writing the post eliciting her comment.)  Snippets and responses are as follows, and you can read the full comment on the original post.

I was, AM the wife who wants to explore and discover all things sexually together with my husband and we did, until the emotional covert emotional abuse began. After years of abuse, so perfectly concealed behind the facade of our perfect little family… I became Ashley. I no longer found that much pleasure [in the man] who adored and loved my body but NEVER could find the need to adore and love ALL OF ME!

I can certainly see how emotional abuse could make you lose sexual interest in your partner.  But let me be perfectly clear–that has never happened in our relationship.  For whatever problems Ashley and I may have had, we have never been abusive toward one another, and she has always insisted that I am the most loving, compassionate person she has ever known, and that I am an excellent care giver and provider for her.  One could arguably define my infidelities as “covert abuse”, to use your phrasing, but frankly, I wouldn’t. Sure, it’s scummy, but I would not go so far as to call cheating “abusive behavior”. (But I invite psychologists/counselors to provide evidence to the contrary.)

So, right out the gate, your experiences do not apply to us.  But let’s continue.

And I began to loathe the man who could treat everyone (pretty much) with such love and care and respect that I HATED evry thing about him.

If I understand you correctly, you’re suggesting that you hated him for loving and respecting everyone around him, but not yourself? I can also see how that might be painful. But it also strikes me as slightly selfish and demanding of you. I obviously can’t speak to your personal situation, and I have no desire to belittle or demean you, so I will simply let that comment stand as is.

And yet I loved him, I tried to leave him a couple of times but could never fully escape. After many years of depression I decided if we were going to stay together dammit I was going to make it better for us. And we did (yeah ah huh) and others thought too until the day I discovered his affair. And then weeks later when I discovered so much so- it has been excruiciating to say the least.

Ahh, and now we come to the point of this message.  Your husband cheated on you, and you see much of him in me and what I write.  Fair enough, I suppose.  Lord knows I’m a cheater.  But if I may ask, have you determined *why* your husband cheated on you?  Have you given any thought as to whether you may have done something, or a series of somethings, that might make him want to fuck someone else?  Or is it genuinely that he is simply a cheater?  Note that both are plausible, but given the resentment you display toward him, the evidence would suggest that unhappiness on his part might have caused his behavior.  Again, I don’t have the complete picture, so I can’t say definitively.  But have you considered that the fault may not lie solely with him?

They say I have PTSD, but I just go forward…..

May I encourage you to seek counseling for that?  PTSD following such an event is, to my understanding, a common reaction, and you may very well be suffering from depression.  Please, dear reader, see someone.  I suspect my close friend Hyacinth might be able to offer guidance here.

So while I fucking hate you with all my being…

I bet you’d love me if we met.

…I respect the fact that you are being honest…

Oh. Well, thanks.

…as much as one could expect honesty from a LIAR…

My, that’s awfully manic of you.

…being on the other side of those sheets and knowing but not knowing is probably the hardest thing to live with.

This is something that, again, doesn’t really apply to me.  If Ashley were to find out about my infidelities, I would own them.  Once caught, you’re done for.  Best to fess up to it and hope to salvage something from the wreckage than to pretend the boat didn’t crash.  But, in your case, you have my condolences.  Knowing but never receiving a confession is a good way to breed resentment and often prevents any sort of closure.

Maybe just maybe You had something to do with your wifes sex needs diminishing. If it went away there is a reason.

By Ashley’s own admission, her lack of sexual interest stemmed from three things: 1) experiencing physical pain from having sex with me due to my girth (which, thankfully, has resolved since we have begun fucking more regularly); 2) insecurity due to gaining weight post-marriage; and 3) a lack of sexual experience sufficient to keep up with my own interests.  She has since come out of her shell, remarkably so, and our sex life and marriage have never been better.

Who the fuck died and made you GOD? What makes you think you deserve to have your every desire fulfilled?

I never claimed to be God, or that I deserved to have my every desire fulfilled.  To suggest otherwise would imply you haven’t read all of my work.  (Not that I expect you to.  Hence, my response.)  I have long struggled with controlling my sexual urges, balancing them against my desire for a fulfilling and loving marriage.  But when you go months at a time without having sex, the ability to resist–hell, the *desire* to resist–disappears.

No man “deserves” to get laid, regardless of marital status.  A woman’s body is her own, and she gets to decide what she does with it, and when.  Period.  But, relationships are partnerships, and if one partner is not sexually fulfilled, well, don’t be surprised if he/she seeks that fulfillment elsewhere.

Maybe if YOU put as much effort into your marriage-not just sexually either, you wouldn’t have put yourself and Ashley (although unbeknown to her) into such a lose/lose marriage.

No one who knows me can accuse me of not putting effort into my marriage.  I haven’t written about it much, but Ashley and I have been to several counselors, alone and together, in pursuit of a “fixed” marriage.  We have spoken at length about it over coffee, breakfast, drinks.  We have cried together because we thought we were failing.  And we have celebrated our not-so-recent upswing.  And, from a domestic standpoint, she and I are true partners, sharing evenly the housework and financial burdens.  Not to brag, but she calls me “the perfect husband”.  (I am far from it, mind, but it makes me smile when she says it.)

Do yourself a favor decide which you want. Can’t have both little boy, don’t work like that! You should show Ashley the respect she deserves and let her choose for herself- No one gave you that privilege. It’s not right -if you love her as much as you say you do GIVE HER THAT RESPECT.

I don’t love and respect anyone enough to give them that, because I am selfish.

Please don’t let my differing opinion affect the fact that I enjoyed your writing, I find it brutally honest and appreciate knowing the thoughts of a sex addict as I am discovering that I have been married to one for a long time.

Well, I do appreciate that, though I would not classify myself as a sex addict.  I once wrote about that possibility, but I don’t think I am so deep into my compulsions to be considered a nymphomaniac.

I am in the deciding process in my marriage, is this what I want for the rest of my life? The jury is still out on that one.

I wish you the best of luck in that.  Choosing whether to continue or end a marriage is not a pleasant endeavor, and I truly hope it works out well for you, chely5150.

Pro tip: You have to take the venom out of your words and be less accusatory if you want me to refrain from responding with so much snark and sarcasm.  Though, admittedly, I use much less of both herein, maybe because I truly sympathize with what you’re experiencing.  Before I was the hopeless cheater I am today, I was cuckolded by the woman I loved, and it left a lasting impression, and I can tell you are hurting.  I don’t want to contribute to that.

Or maybe I’m just going soft in my old age.

Well, hello there.

Forgive my absence. Very recently, I found myself suddenly faced with a series of unexpected deadlines for work, and I had to throw my focus into that. Then, I had to revise a manuscript that was accepted for publication. (Hallelujah.) Since finishing those professional tasks, I have been terribly busy these past weeks being terribly not busy–that is, I went on a vacation. Not a work vacation, wherein I have a little fun in between meetings or presentations or field work, but a true-blue, honest-to-God vacation, hiking and swimming and boating and site-seeing hundreds of miles away from what anyone would call civilization. It was refreshing, to say the least.

Then Ashley went on vacation without me for a week.

And Tina came to visit.

It is a fascinating experience, having my lover in my home when my wife is gone. For four days, Tina and I interacted as though we were a long-term couple. We cooked together, we spent time at the beach, we went out for drinks, all the while holding hands and stealing kisses and sharing quiet jokes and whispered innuendo. We slept in the same bed, woke up together, showered together. The spats and misunderstandings of the past months simply disappeared. We were best friends again, lovers in the truest sense of the word. I can’t tell you how badly I missed that.

And the sex. Holy fuck, the sex was mind-blowing. Passionate and intense, occasionally frantic, never shorter than an hour, and always at least twice a day. Tina is truly insatiable in bed.

Sadly, all good things must end. I recently said goodbye to her, and she has begun the long return trip to her home across the country. It was decidedly painful to watch her go. Neither of us managed it without a few tears.

I am now sitting alone in my home, at my computer for the first time in two weeks. Her scent still lingers in my house, and I occasionally close my eyes as I inhale, savoring the aroma and remembering the feel of her hand in mine, her lips against mine, her hair on my shoulder. I am still uncertain how I came to be in this position, being in love with two women, my wife and my lover.  It is a difficult thing to manage, but weeks like this are more than worth the effort.

So again, forgive my absence. I assure you, I have not forgotten my regular readers, and I am working on a couple of different entries that I intend to post here soon. But, I am also closing in on the end of my contract with my current institution, thus much of my attention must shift to work, both in terms of completing required manuscripts and datasets, and of finding a new position. As such, I may not be as regular a blogger as I have been recently, but I will continue to work here as time permits.

I hope all is well with you, my friends and readers.

UPDATE: This post was written about 1.5 hours ago. This is an open invitation to all, and I actively encourage anyone remotely interested to take part, either alone or with a partner.

If you would like to take part, I ask that you either comment here, or post on your own blog stating your intention. And, naturally, you have to confirm your participation after the specified time (or at, if you’re feeling adventuresome). A simple post on your blog will suffice. Or get creative. A link would be appreciated as well, but is not necessary.

Think of it like telecommuting for group sex.

——————————————————————————————————-

For some reason, whilst receiving a blowjob, I thought of you.

As I type this post, there is a brown head of hair in my lap, and a warm mouth wrapped around my cock.  I told her that I needed to write something for work before we fuck, but to continue what she’s doing. So, she is sitting under the desk, sucking playfully and skillfully. I must keep this short because I want little more than to be inside her.

She began blowing me, and I found myself wondering if you were doing something similar. The thought made me shiver.

I pursued that line of thought and came to this conclusion:

I want to cum when you do.

So I offer the following.

Saturday night, July 12, at 9:15 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, I will be fucking someone.

Care to join me?

So, let’s examine the other side of the coin from my last post.

It’s no secret to Tina that my sex life with Ashley has historically been less than satisfying.  In fact, the details of our sexual relationship were one of the first things Tina and I discussed after finally admitting our shared interest in each other: the rarity with which I fuck my wife, her general lack of interest in sexual exploration, and so on.  Tina couldn’t fathom how Ashley could feel that way around me, because she had wanted me for years.  (I can be quite oblivious at times.)  So, she offered to help me relieve some of that tension.  Fast forward to a cold winter’s day reunion, when Tina and I fucked like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.  Our affair was born out of mutual respect, physical attraction, and an acknowledgement that neither of us were even close to living the sexual lifestyle we truly wanted.

When Tina started fucking her new lover, they established that they would tell each other any time they had sex with another person.  This affects him more than her, as he frequently fucks new and random people, and she wants to make informed decisions about her sexual health.  This is an entirely pragmatic arrangement in my mind, and she and I agreed we would be similarly open with one another.  It’s not been much of an issue because I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a while–just her, and Ashley–and she has only slept with him while she’s been away from me.  I understand that she sleeps with him on a regular basis, and I don’t expect her to tell me every time they fuck, but I do expect her to tell me if he sleeps with someone else because I, too, want to be informed about the risks to my sexual health as much as possible.

That’s our arrangement, in a nutshell.  We tell each other if we fuck someone else, share anything that could change our exposure to risk of STIs, and understand that we could be fucking our significant others at any time.

At least, I thought that’s what it was.

It came as a real surprise to me when Ashley suddenly became more sexually active.  For the longest time, literally years, she wasn’t at all interested in sex, and we would go weeks, if not months, at a time without being intimate.  Hence the topic of this blog.  Neither she nor I know what flipped the switch for her, but we now fuck much more regularly than we once did, and she has begun exploring new fantasies and activities with me, including BDSM, pornography, mutual masturbation, female dominance, and other fun and exciting things.  (This is likely the reason I haven’t had any new sexual partners in a long while.  I just haven’t needed them!)  I didn’t share this with Tina because I don’t ask her for similar details of her sexual escapades, and my understanding, as stated above, was that we know the other could be fucking their local partner at any time.

Boy, was that a mistake on my part.

Tina recently asked me who all I had fucked this year.  My answer: just her, and Ashley.  The anger and resentment that followed was truly astounding.

How could you possibly think I wouldn’t want to know if you had sex with Ashley.

What if my lover didn’t tell me he slept with someone else, you would be livid.

I can’t believe you would be so dishonest with me.

I reminded her that I don’t expect her to tell me when she fucks her other lover, and I assumed she felt similarly.  She argued that it was different because she shares a house with him, and she fucks him so regularly it just makes sense that she probably fucked him on any given day.  I countered with, I live in the same house with my wife, and married people fuck sometimes, which I took as a given.  She responded with a bitter comment about the “sanctity of marriage”.

Point is, it was a very, very unpleasant exchange.  She and I are still recovering from the events of that day.  It was a bit of a turning point for us, frankly, and our relationship hasn’t been the same since.  There is an underlying hostility and resentment in her words at times, roiling just under the surface, that she acknowledges because she “is slow to forgive, and never forgets”.  (Her words.)

I wonder, who is at fault here?  Was it unfair of me to assume that we had a mutual understanding?  Or was her response an overreaction to the obvious realities of being in a clandestine relationship?  Admittedly, I could have told her that my sex life with Ashley had been improving, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me that two people in a relationship will occasionally have sex.  I would have told her if I fucked a new person, or if Ashley had fucked someone else and thus exposed me to a new risk (not that that would ever happen, Ashley is depressingly monogamous)… but fucking Ashley is nothing new to me, and doesn’t change my risk exposure.  So I never shared it, because I often didn’t think to, and when I did, I simply didn’t want to chance hurting Tina.

Or, is assigning fault a useless exercise?  Emotions rarely adhere to strict reasonable guidelines.  Tina freely admits that she loves how receptive I am to her being promiscuous, and simultaneously admits that, though she wants me to have that freedom as well, she would probably be terribly hurt by me sleeping with someone else, because she wants me to be hers and hers alone.  So it is entirely plausible that her reaction was born from that jealousy, and thus assigning blame is simply a juvenile response to a natural human inclination.

Really, what it makes me wonder is whether Tina and I are truly compatible.  She is a phenomenal lover, and sex with her is arguably the best I have ever experienced.  She is a gifted professional and a remarkable woman, and I care much more deeply for her than I should.  I wonder whether that depth of feeling and our inability to act on it, and the exposure and vulnerability it brings to our emotional lives, makes us hypersensitive to things that would normally not bother us were we to be together regularly and in a committed fashion.  I’ve no way of knowing, obviously, and there are so many questions and unknowns that I can’t shake this sense of unease I’ve felt for so many weeks.

Perhaps I should just let it go, let the relationship end, but the thought of not having her in my life is extraordinarily painful.  So ever onward do I trudge through discontent and melodrama.

Perhaps I just need a vacation.

Taking a few minutes out of my day to continue the story from yesterday. Sure, I could be working up a manuscript or cranking on a new analysis, but this is more exciting right now.

You may gather from reading this that I was rather unimpressed by Hank’s fucking, and you would be right. He really takes the jack rabbit approach to fucking–get in, hump fast and hard, and get out. I find that terribly boring. But, he had great abs, a tight butt, and a not unimpressive package, so I can’t really complain.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Hanks climbs onto the bed and shuffles toward us on his knees. Kelly watches him eagerly, her body quivering and jerking in rhythm with each slow thrust of the toy. I lean back a bit, opening Kelly’s body to him. He lies beside her, cozying up against her comfortably, grinding his semi-erect cock into her hip. I hear her whimper, and watch as she turns her head, kissing Hank with parted lips.

It’s an interesting thing, watching two people kiss with the passion of new lovers. There is an awkwardness there, as she is obviously unsure how best to kiss someone other than me, but Hank is oblivious to it. He places his hand on the back of her head and kisses her deeply and fully, but with a degree of… ineptitude, maybe? Clumsiness? I can’t place it. But it seems very forceful, lacking in tact. I can see his tongue in her mouth, and she clearly enjoys it, but I don’t see how, given the sloppy, slobbery noises he produces. I would be turned off by it, but Kelly reaches for his groin and grasps his cock firmly, coaxing it to full attention.

That certainly does it for me. Whatever Hank may lack in kissing ability, at least he has a nice package.

I lean in and kiss, then bite at, Kelly’s collarbone. “How about I get out of the way for a minute?”

Hank breaks away from Kelly’s lips and grins. Kelly, eyes half-lidded, her jaw slack, nods and whispers, “Yeah…”

I pull the toy back, careful not to move too quickly. There is a feint *pop* as it withdraws from her, and her hips buck slightly. I  roll off the bed and stand, turning to face them and deftly removing my shirt. I tug at my belt and watch Hank rise to his knees again and grab Kelly under her knees, easily maneuvering her into position. She squeals and laughs at the sudden movement, and says something I can’t distinguish, as I’m already splitting my focus between the show at hand, and getting my pants off (this goddamned belt….). I manage to open my jeans and give them a push down and off my hips just as Kelly grabs Hank’s length again, guiding him toward her. My body tingles with excitement as Hank, still on his knees, pulls her toward him.

I think we both gasp as he enters her.

I am suddenly keenly aware of a number of things, watching Hank begin to fuck my beloved Kelly. I find myself comparing his fucking to his kissing; he drives into her with abandon, like most porn stars I’ve ever seen, slapping his groin into hers at a fast and steady pace. As before, it seems to lack tact, or any consideration for his partner. It’s a decidedly different style from mine–whereas I try to be simultaneously gentle and intense, rarely ever banging away at my partner in favor of taking my time, Hank fucks Kelly as though his only goal is to get off as fast as possible.

Kelly doesn’t seem to mind, though. Her head is pressed back into the pillow, her back arched, her eyes tightly closed. She is pulling at the sheets, her knuckles white, her skin flushed. She makes no sound but for the occasional gasp, and I can tell she is having a fairly intense orgasm.

There is a slight pang of jealousy, perhaps, but it is overwhelmed by the incredibly licentious nature of the entire affair. And I admit, I thoroughly enjoy watching his cock slide in and out of her.

Kelly finally catches her breath, and her eyes snap open. She puts her hands on Hank’s chest and pushes, laughing drunkenly, and says, “Oooookay, okay, slow down there. I need you to last.” Hank looks at her rather stupidly, I think, but he shrugs and slows his pace accordingly. She turns her head to me and smiles broadly.

“I love you,” she says to me.

I smile back. “I love you too.”

Hank laughs. “What, no love for me?”

Kelly practically purrs, and rocks her hips against him, taking his cock a bit deeper into her than before. “You’ll get plenty of love.” He grunts and grasps her hips, hoisting them slightly off the bed, presumably to improve his angle. Kelly looks back to me, and stares pointedly at my cock. I’m slowly jerking off, watching them.

…when did I start doing that?

“Would you like something?” I ask, intentionally coy.

Kelly nods and points to my groin. “That. In my mouth. Right now.”

Yeah, I guess this one will turn out to be three-parter after all! I am currently away from home for research, and I suspect this will pretty much be the norm for me for the next several years of my life, if not all of them. But I have arranged my schedule such that I have an hour or so free every night to write and respond to messages and things.

If you want to be successful at this whole blogging business, you have to be diligent about updating.

The final part of this memory will be coming soon. Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————————-

The kiss lingers for several long moments. There is nothing overtly sexual about it–no biting, no teasing, no tongue, just a gentle, sweet moment. I finally pull back, my hands still cupping her cheeks. Our eyes open at the same time. We look at each other. Her lips are parted, surprise and desire mingling in her expression. She is breathing deeply, slowly, but heavily. She smiles.

“…oh my.”

My thumb strokes her cheek. “Sorry. I’ve just wanted to do that for so long.”

She bites her lower lip. “Me too…”

And she presses against me, wrapping her arms around my waist as she kisses me again. A faint whimper echoes in her throat, and that’s all I need. Gone is the anxiety, replaced by overwhelming desire. I embrace her tightly, squeezing her body as closely to me as before. My tongue traces the line of her lower lip, and she responds similarly, our tongues dancing against one another. My heart pounds, and my body throbs in anticipation. I grab her waist and guide her back, toward my desk, and she leans against it, half sitting, half standing. I drop to my knees, my eyes level with the lower hem of the red dress. I lean in and kiss her thigh, over the stockings. I can smell her arousal, and it as close to intoxicating as anything can be.

I need you.

My lips glide along her inner thigh, beyond the stocking, moving upward as I draw the dress up and around her waist. True to her word, she wore no undergarments, and my breath catches in my throat at the sight of her. Very recently and expertly waxed, her mound is smooth and lovely. Her labia are swollen and invitingly open, and glistening wet under the fluorescent lighting in my office. She has started to drip down her left inner thigh, and I run my tongue across the wet trail, cleaning and tasting her. She is remarkably sweet with hardly a hint of salt, better than the flavor of any woman I can remember. I follow the trail along her leg toward her pelvis, and lightly press my tongue against her center. Her wetness coats my mouth, and I feel her shudder at my attentions.

I whisper against her, “You were right, clean living makes you taste pretty fucking good.”

She laughs shakily, and begins to say something, but her voice catches and she simply groans as I thrust my tongue as deep into her as I can. I lift her legs at the knees, pulling them up and onto my shoulders to ease access to her. I feel her ankles lock behind me, and I begin stroking her center with my tongue, long, slow movements, from perineum to clitoris, lapping at her wetness, high on the sweetness of her. My hands grasp her hips, shifting her position on my desk, pulling her a bit closer, then move under the hem of her dress and up along her belly, simply exploring the smoothness of her flesh. She squirms a little, suddenly panting, and after no more than two minutes of my attention I can feel her stomach tighten, her hips begin to shake, and she groans louder than before. I feel her tighten under my tongue, convulsing for a brief moment, then I am surprised by the sudden deluge as she cums against me. I groan in my throat, not wanting to pull away for a moment. This flavor is different than before–tart, almost sour, but still not salty, and it drenches my face and chin, my neck, and covers my shirt. She shudders once more, and again, then gasps for air and pushes at the top of my head. I move back obediently and look up at her.

“You didn’t tell me you squirt,” I say with a wry grin.

She laughs again, less anxious than before but still obviously nervous. “Well, it hardly ever happens. I have to be really turned on for it to happen.”

I gesture to my shirt, and the dark patch of moisture that moves from neck to sternum. “I guess you must have been turned on.”

“That sounds like past tense,” she answers. “Presently, I remain turned on.”

I grin up at her, then lean in and lay a gentle kiss on her clit. She shudders and gasps again.

“…me too,” I answer.

This may turn into a multi-part story. Well, probably it will, because there is so much more to tell. But this seemed a really good place to resume my writing after such a long hiatus.

——————————————————————————————————————————–

I sit with my elbow on my desk, tapping my thumbnail against my teeth absently as my eyes move across my computer screen. I don’t know how many times I’ve read the same few sentences because I’m not truly reading. I’m just trying to convince myself that I’m busy, to keep my mind off the cell phone that sits beside my mouse. I turn my head just so, and the reflection of my monitor shining from the tiny glass screen makes my heart leap. I check my notifications. Still empty.

Chill out man. I tap the sleep button and set my phone back down. I hide my face in my hands as I breathe deeply, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. I don’t understand why I’m so anxious. It’s not like any of this is uncharted territory for me. But my racing heart won’t be stilled, and my stomach ties itself into a knot every time I consider my plans for the day, and who they’re with. It’s a strange sensation, not foreign, but forgotten since my days as an undergraduate. I don’t know how I coped with it then, or why I can’t seem to control it now. So I lift my eyes and resume trying to read the journal article on my screen.

Then my phone blinks. Legitimately this time. I can tell the difference even in my periphery. I quickly check the notifications. One new message:

I’m outside.

My stomach forgoes knots for gymnastics.

I rise and step into the hallway. I am the sole occupant of my building because the university is closed for the Christmas holiday. Every step echoes down the empty hall. My clothes brush against my skin, louder than usual. My neck itches for reasons I can’t identify, and rubbing doesn’t help. A shaky hand grasps the handle of the door to the stairwell. I wonder if she’ll notice as I push open the side entrance and step into the crisp afternoon air.

And there she is, standing beside her companion’s vehicle, removing suitcases and boxes from the trunk. A cute red dress that is not nearly warm enough for the weather, and a grey waist coat that certainly is. Black stockings that contrast starkly with the snow and ice and low heels that match her dress. She turns toward me and smiles brightly, blue eyes shining under long blonde bangs swept to the side.

I stop dead in my tracks. Somehow I find my voice. “Hey Tina.”

She races to me and throws herself into my arms. She feels so small, but she squeezes me so hard it forces the air from my lungs. I return the embrace just as fiercely. She presses her cheek against my chest and whispers, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

I rest my cheek against the top of her head. “I understand.” I resist the urge to kiss her hair. “I missed you so much.”

We maintain the embrace for a long moment, then she releases me and turns to her companion. I just catch the glint of a tear in her eye, but she hides it well otherwise. She retrieves her luggage and gives her friend a hug. They say something I can’t distinguish, hug a second time, and part ways. She rolls her suitcase behind her as the car pulls away.

I take the suitcase from her and open the door. “How was your day?”

She steps through. “Good.  Awkward, but good.”

I glance at her. “Why awkward?”

“Wearing a short dress with no underwear while having lunch with my family,” she answers.

I node sagely. “That would do it. But I’m glad you remembered.”

She smiles at me, and we engage in idle chit chat as we trudge up the stairs toward my office. She speaks and laughs as easily as she ever has, her awkwardness apparent every moment. But I can hear the nervousness in her voice, the quavering tones, and I see the unsureness of her steps. She is every bit as nervous as I am. I find that reassuring, but also worrisome. I will need to be careful.

In a few moments, I open the door to my office and hold it wide for her. I set her suitcase to the side as she steps through. She looks around idly. “It feels smaller in here than I remember.”

“New furniture,” I respond, watching her from the doorway.  She removes her coat and places it on the standing rack, and begins examining my bookshelves. Her nervousness is still obvious. I don’t know what to do. But there’s only one thing I want to do.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, and I shut the door, “but there is something I have to do.” She blinks in surprise as I close the space between us. I reach out to her and gently cup her face in my hands.

I press my lips to hers for the first time.

And I have never felt happier.

I haven’t written anything recently because, frankly, nothing has happened.  My work has absorbed all of my attention since my last interaction with Pretty Grad Student.  In fact, this is really the first moment of free time I’ve had since then, and I only have it because I wanted to do something other than think about animal movement at different spatial and temporal scales.  I can only keep my mind in movement ecology for so long before I start producing equations for things that don’t need to be solved.  (For example, I once spent two hours writing an algorithm to calculate the most efficient route home, taking into account traffic lights, effort based on landscape characteristics, and my average walking speed.  A fantastic waste of time, to be sure, but I now have the optimized route for my daily commute.)

However, given that nothing has happened recently, and I don’t feel like sharing an old memory at the moment, I checked my e-mail for inspiration.  And it didn’t disappoint.  One reader wrote:

I enjoy reading your blog, and I think your stories are exciting and erotic.  But then I remember the truth of your marriage, and it makes me sad.  I don’t think what you’re doing has to be wrong because everyone has their own reasons for doing what they do, and I can’t judge you any more than anyone can judge me.  But I have to ask, how can you be so comfortable living so dishonestly?

I think this question might have offended me if the sender hadn’t been so polite and/or couched it in what strikes me as genuine concern.  So, firstly, thanks to the reader in question for giving me a certain degree of understanding/sympathy before jumping to conclusions.

Now, as I said, this question might have irritated me, but given the circumstances, it actually gave me pause.  I often consider what I do as a betrayal of trust, and I frequently talk about the guilt that arises from my extramarital activities.  I’ve also talked about being a good conman, on working the long con to make sure you can pursue sex outside of a “monogamous” relationship, and I think I’ve even mentioned that what I do is essentially lie to Ashley to get what I want.  But for some reason, when the question is presented so bluntly—How can you be comfortable living so dishonestly?—it stands out and makes me consider what I do from a perspective not wholly dissimilar from my usual approach, but with enough subtle differences that it changes things.

Am I a dishonest person?

I was prepared to write several paragraphs on this question.  I was going to talk about the continuum of honesty, and how I fall somewhere in the middle, not an honest person but not dishonest either.  But upon consideration, I’ve decided that would be utter bullshit.  There’s no sliding scale.  You’re either honest, or dishonest.  It’s pretty black or white.  I tell the truth here, and to the women I’m seeing, but I lie to Ashley, in words and in practice.  Therefore, yes, I am a dishonest person.

But, I posit the following: Who the hell isn’t?

Certain among my family are highly religious, conservative people.  (Strike that—most of them are.  Hell, I may be the only non-conservative in the lot.)  They strive to live according to a set of morals and values they identify as Biblically mandated, and admittedly, they’re good people.  They don’t participate in the backbiting so common in the church.  They take leading roles in its direction and organization.  They go on mission trips.  Hell, my family owns and operates a free medical clinic back home, where they treat anyone, with the understanding that they will also minister to the sick.  They’re good people.  Honest people.

But I’ve also seen these people do what I’ve come to call “The Hotel Shuffle”, wherein they rent a single room with a maximum occupancy of two people, then take people inside in shifts to make sure all six can share the room for the night.  Would I consider that being dishonest?  Yeah, I think I have to.  They’re effectively taking coin out of the hotel’s pocket, for their benefit.  They don’t want to rent three rooms, so they break the rules and stuff six into one room.  That’s dishonest, but it’s socially acceptable dishonesty, something that most people are likely guilty of doing.  (And it probably can’t help that they can say something like, “Oh, it’s a silly rule, we should be allowed to sleep in whatever manner we choose.  At least we’re still paying them!”)  That’s the distinguishing characteristic: the ubiquitous nature of the behavior.  Everyone does it, and if it’s saving you a few dollars while still giving some away, what’s the harm?

Now I don’t intend this to be a justification of what I do, nor a condemnation of the more harmless dishonesties.  I present that admittedly clumsy comparison to circle back to my point—everyone is dishonest.  No one is ever completely honest and virtuous.  The difference, then, is the level of dishonesty we’re willing to accept from our own behavior, and whether said dishonesty accomplishes some goal for ourselves.  In my case, I love Ashley immensely.  Her support and simple presence are enough to get me through just about anything.  But I’m weak, and I need sexual gratification to be completely happy.  So, to get the things I need to be completely happy in my life, I perpetuate the necessary untruth, that I am a happily monogamous husband.  It’s a level of dishonesty that I’m comfortable with.

That’s not to say I’m proud of it.  I’m not.  Just comfortable.

Alright, that’s enough moral prattle for one day.  Back to the ever growing mountain of GPS data.  I’ll hopefully be back later this week to divulge my latest shenanigans.

“There you go, that’s the right spot!”

I mumble something in response.  Or, rather, I would, if my face weren’t fully buried between Pretty Grad Student’s legs.  Instead, I produce a sound that I hope she interprets as equal parts affirmation and arousal.  I put a deep, throaty sound in there for good measure, as I’ve come to understand that such sounds, like growling or groaning, produce vibrations up the throat, through the mouth, and across the more sensitive parts of a woman’s lower anatomy.  It seems to work, because she jumps slightly and laughs, then purrs approvingly.

I grab her legs and pull them onto my shoulders, then take hold of her hips to pull her forward to the very edge of the couch, where I sit, kneeling, on the floor.  I sit a bit taller, angling her pelvis upward and giving me better access to her.   My right arm circles around her thigh, my hand on her pelvic mound, applying gentle pressure below her navel, as I run my tongue in counterclockwise circles around her clit.  I position my left hand to cradle her ass, using the tip of my left thumb to tease her inner labia, fully exposed and swollen after half an hour of cunnilingus.  I occasionally slip my thumb past her labia, barely penetrating her, each time eliciting a shiver and a groan of pleasure.

“Quit teasing me…”  She says it plaintively, as though she isn’t enjoying the attention.  But I know better.  I’ve got her patterns figured out, and can read her like a book.  I know counterclockwise tongue movements get her worked up but won’t take her all the way.  I know the pelvic shakes are the first step toward a body-rattling orgasm, but it won’t happen unless I press just right on her pelvis.  I know that fully penetrating her with my finger, while applying that pressure and moving my tongue clockwise, will upgrade her pleasure from body-rattling to back-arching, hair-pulling, and full-on squealing.  It makes no sense to me, but it’s what works for her.

I pull my head back just enough to speak.  “But I’m having fun here.”  I draw out the vowels and speak in hushed tones that I know produce more warm breath across her exposed labia.

She whines and squirms on the couch.  “Please, sweetheart, don’t make me beg…”

“You’re already begging.”  I rest my cheek against her inner thigh, flick my tongue across her clit.  She squirms again.

“I wasn’t… I just…”  Another whine, and she bucks her hips up.  “Please just make me cum…”

I glide my thumb across her labia, softly caressing the shape of her.  “You’re sure?”

Her hips move in a little circle, trying to draw my finger in.  “Uh-huh…”

I sigh, feigning frustration.  “Fine.”  I turn my head and resume my attentions to her clit, but work my tongue in slow, lazy clockwise circles.  I press down against her pelvis, below her navel.  I slip my thumb into her, pressing upward against her inner wall, and not moving it otherwise.  Instantly, her behavior changes.  She gasps and throws her head back into the couch, between the back cushions, to mute the squeal of delight that escapes her throat.  Her back arches, pressing small, lovely, firm breasts into the air.  Her fingers lace into my hair and pull my face against her, tugging my hair almost painfully.  I feel her muscles contract around my thumb, then loosen, then tighten again, rhythmically squeezing me as her orgasm spreads through her.  And I continue the motion, slow clockwise circles, tracing the shape of her clit but never fully covering it, helping her forward and through the pleasure, until she squeals a second time and pushes my head away.  She begins to laugh maniacally, running her hands up her stomach to her breasts, squeezing them and tugging on her nipples.

“Goddamn,” she says between heavy breaths, “you must’ve gotten your master’s in pussy.”

“I’m more of a self-educated amateur,” I say with a grin.  I wipe my lips and chin with the fingers of my left hand, savoring the smell that lingers on them.  I then rise and move to the kitchen sink, where I wash them and my face.

“What, no time for me to help you out?”  Her voice is plaintive again.

“Not tonight,” I answer politely as I dry my hands and chin.  “I really just wanted to eat you out.”

“Well, any fucking time, baby.”  Pretty Grad Student grins and walks toward me in her short athletic socks, lithe and lean and tanned and muscled, and kisses me.  I return the gesture, and she presses her hips against mine.  My cock throbs, begging for release, but I bite back the groan, stifling it behind her tongue as it darts past my lips.

I smile at her and sigh.  “Night sweetheart.”  I stroke her cheek lightly, then slap her bare ass.  She squeals again.

I show myself out and return to my car.  A few minutes later, I step into the foyer of my house.  Ashley smiles.  “Hi honey.  Late night?”

“Busy as always,” I answer.  “Got another five pages of the manuscript finished, though.”

“Of course you did,” she says brightly.  “You work harder than anyone I’ve ever known.”  She hugs me around the neck.

“You have no idea,” I answer, and I kiss her.  She gasps, then sighs against my lips, and slips her tongue into my mouth.

I remember where my tongue was ten minutes ago.  A pang of guilt stabs at my chest as a shiver of approval runs up my spine.

Pretty Grad Student:  “Enjoy your weekend.  Got any good plans?”

Me:  “Dick all, that’s what.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “That sounds fun.”

Me:  “Except for the chafing.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “Inappropriate workplace humor is a good way to end the week.”

Me:  “It’s only inappropriate if you make it so.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “I guess so.  Well, I have something for the chafing, if you need.”

Me:  “I’m always interested in new weapons in the war on chafing.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “How about industrial strength lube?”

Me:  “I was thinking lotion.  Get your mind out of the gutter, minion.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “But lotion isn’t as much fun.”

Me:  “It is for me.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “But I prefer the lube.  I think you will too.”

Me:  “That might be the most poorly delivered invitation I’ve ever heard.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “But it’s an invitation all the same.  My place?”

Me:  “Nine o’clock.”

Pretty Grad Student:  “Bring the booze.  I’ll take care of the rest.”

I can’t make this shit up, people.