Member-only story
I Love My Husband But I Want to F*ck Another Man.
I’ve Memorized Every Inch of My Husband
When I was young and single, my sex life was deader than a graveyard at midnight. The menopause turned me into an insatiable pleasure machine that would make a porn star look amateur.
My husband, bless him, keeps up with the pace, but after decades of f*cking the same person, I know exactly when he’ll moan, which position he’ll switch to, and what excuse he’ll use when he’s tired.
Like any pragmatic American, I feel that insane itch to diversify my sexual portfolio — after all, dying having known only three penises is statistically depressing.
I have a marriage more solid than rock and a sex life more active than a nightclub. But there’s that itch that no vibrator can scratch — the burning curiosity to taste another body before death or osteoporosis prevents me. It’s like that Black Friday promotion “One-time offer!
Wild sex with a hot stranger!
Take advantage while your knees can still handle decent oral without locking up!”
My husband already had his moments of ‘external tasting’ in the past, unknowingly gifting me with two f*ck-vouchers stored in my conscience drawer.
