When I started dating again after my 13-year marriage ended, I wasn’t sure what sexual landscape awaited me. Had everything changed? I certainly did.
She was now 47 years old, a mother of three children and a recalcitrant dog. If she was going to undress me again, did I need to change my body shape? Last time, skinny was what was required to pull successfully, but now I was curvier, or what millennials call “thick.” Luckily, I’ve always erred on the side of thick, even more so these days with my snack drawer full of baked goods (for the kids), so that was some consolation.
Certainly a gym membership was on the cards, new underwear was a necessity. I had the underwear of long-married people: comfortable pants with dog hair inscribed on them, open-mouth bras, and a thong with Abandon Hope All Who Enter Here printed on the front, which a friend gave me. as a joke.
But my first sexual encounter occurred before I even thought about Googling my way to Agent Provocateur. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone. My husband and I were still in the middle of a long, brutal unraveling, and we were slowly and painfully learning not to depend on each other.
But that was before we went to a party in east London, an adult affair: lots of food, very little music. She was a little bored, blushing from the discomfort of attending a party alone, when across the room I saw Victor.
Annabel Bond (pseudonym), a 47-year-old mother of three, met Victor at a party.
Victor’s suit was made of silk and the vest hugged his broad chest. He was in the middle of a group of women who were laughing; When he caught me looking at him, he smiled.
Later, after a few more wines, he met my gaze again. A pulse of electricity pulsed between us. I was amazed, amazed. Could such a flamboyant and popular man be interested in me? I was just a mother; It had been years since they had attacked me so blatantly. The flirtations I had were short-lived. But now that I was single again, I realized with excitement and also fear that anything could happen.
When Victor approached he seemed as amazed as I was. ‘You like me, don’t you?’ he said. I smiled drunkenly, too shy to affirm. ‘It is not like this?’ he insisted.
With a couple of vodkas and tonics in hand, Victor made me sit in a corner of the sofa. He told me that he was a famous flute player. He would sometimes play at the Albert Hall and if he wanted he would get me a ticket. I liked him. He was upbeat, hilarious. Every cheesy line was underlined by a self-deprecating tone.
We had only had a few drinks when Victor started talking about where and how we could have sex. Maybe, he suggested, he could take me to the bathroom right now? He was sure he could give me pleasure beyond my wildest dreams.
Victor saw my surprised face and laughed. “I think there might be a queue forming outside,” I said primly, thinking about the walk of shame alongside my rather tense host. Anyway, I was joking, right? Unless things had changed a lot since I was last single.
Victor leaned forward and let his lips tickle my ear. He smelled like lemons.
Victor said he was a famous flutist who sometimes played at the Royal Albert Hall (file image)
Victor and Annabel’s flirtation involved talking about going to a John Lewis changing room together.
‘How about… let’s go shopping at John Lewis, and then I’ll take you to the changing rooms and give you a good visit?’ She blew softly into my ear. ‘I could…’ and here he described in graphic detail exactly what he could do. My pleasure was assured in many different ways and from many different angles.
I blushed and laughed again. Victor stepped back, laughing too: ‘They’re very spacious!’
The idea that my first sexual encounter after becoming a husband had to be in the hallowed halls of John Lewis, where I had been last week to choose my eldest daughter’s first bra, was hilarious. But the sexy talk… I have to admit it was pretty hot. Talking like that had long dried up in my marriage. Nowadays my husband and I only talk to each other through lawyers or angry notes left on the refrigerator. Was this the tonic I needed?
Victor was talkative and inventive. And also flattering: to him I wasn’t a mother of three going through a painful divorce, I was someone he couldn’t keep his hands off. And so, as he walked me to the train station, I decided: why not take an adventurous ride with this master of the flute?
I met him the following week when his landlady was away. I arrived at the subway station as agreed, in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday.
I was shy, but Victor looked serious and grabbed my elbow. On the floor, he pinned me against the corner of the couch again, this time with greater intent. He was still trying to tell myself that we were on a date, that undressing in front of a virtual stranger wasn’t going to happen.
I was waiting for the exciting talk to come back to get me in the mood, but instead he kissed me, and you can’t kiss and talk at the same time. It was nice, although strange. My husband didn’t kiss like that, they were completely different lips. After a while, he suggested we go to the bedroom and I apprehensively agreed.
When Victor unwrapped himself, his body was so different from my husband’s that it disconcerted me, but he set to work enthusiastically, as he had promised, without thinking about himself.
It was all very goal-oriented, which should have been good, after all, how many men prioritize women before themselves?
But it seemed too professional. After all that talk, now that we were actually doing it, there was too much pressure on me to keep up my end of the deal, which seemed to be coming to a spectacular climax.
Pressure isn’t sexy and I was too new to this to calm things down. In the end I managed a mediocre orgasm, letting my mind wander to another scenario and, thank God, it was time to move on to it.
But even though Victor worked for many long minutes, he couldn’t seem to get there. In fact, things definitely seemed to be going downhill. Maybe it was me? Once again, he didn’t know him well enough to ask him. But finally, fortunately, it was all over. Victor may have faked it, but I didn’t care anymore.
I dressed again, but Victor was in no hurry. He nakedly served me a drink, then went to get his flute from the living room and sat on a chair with his legs open and began to play, fixing his eyes on me. I tried with all my might to look into his eyes.
The hilarity returned, only this time it was mine alone: any connection we had was gone. There was no doubt that Victor had talent and flair for the flute. But for me, there would be no repetition.
Annabel Bond is a pseudonym.
