A Love Story

When my husband left me I let myself go - in every sense. The bastard was a two-timing waste of space, but he did keep me in shape. Or rather, I felt I had to stay in shape in order to keep him, which I suppose amounts to the same thing. Not that it helped, of course, since he ran off with another woman anyway.

Of course, I knew something was going on. At least, that's what I told myself. It was probably more like the benefit of hindsight. Even if I did notice a change in him I didn't do anything about it. I was perfectly happy to accept his excuses: working late at the office; a business trip to Amsterdam, Berlin, New York, Timbuktu; company's doing so well it's just work, work, work. I never questioned it, not even when I noticed the odd trace of perfume on him. 'It's only some new soap they've put in the office washroom.' Right.

He seemed to go off sex too. Or at least insist on it less frequently. That should have set the alarm bells ringing. But I remember thinking at the time, well, that's a relief. Now perhaps I can get some sleep and stop drinking so much. I always needed a couple of glasses inside me before we fucked or I never came. That used to really piss him off. Not the drink, but my not coming. It was like an insult to his manhood or something. He needed to know he was a wonderful lover who could always get his wife to orgasm. Not that he was particularly hopeless in bed. I married him, after all, and the sex was OK. Volcanoes never erupted but something moved.

I'm not sure why I'm going on about sex. It was never a huge part of our relationship, on my side, at least. I don't know what he felt about it, because he never told me. When he was standing looking at the floor, having just told me he was leaving me, he said, 'It's not the sex.'

Which came as a surprise because that wasn't what I'd been thinking. But it immediately made me think it was the problem. 'So I'm not good enough in bed, is that it?' I said, trying to think of a nastier way of saying the same thing. 'I'm not a hot enough fuck.' The language even shocked me. But I was angry, so I had an excuse.

'I told you,' he said, 'that's not it.'

'So what is it? My cooking? My dress sense? My personality?' My voice was rising but I let it, even though I knew it never worked on him. 'What the fuck is it about me you no longer like?'

He sighed, as if confronting a child having a tantrum. It was a habit that always made me angrier than I already was. 'Don't just stand there sighing,' I almost screamed. 'Tell me what's wrong with me.'

'There's nothing wrong with you,' he muttered.

'If you say "it's not you, it's me", I'm going to start breaking things.'

I don't know why I wanted an argument with him. It's not as if I wanted to change his mind. As far as I was concerned as soon as he said he was leaving that was it. Once I knew he'd chosen a better model, I wouldn't have taken him back if he'd crawled on his belly. I only wished I'd said it first, then at least he'd have been the one feeling like shit instead of me.

'So who is this Barbie doll?' I asked, more because I thought that was what one was supposed to ask than because I wanted to know.

'She's not a Barbie doll,' he said, 'and you don't know her.'

I thought, I bet I do. Our circle of friends was not so huge. But I couldn't be bothered to argue the point. He was weak, but like all weak men, he was stubborn and I knew I'd never get her name out of him. What the hell, I suspected I'd know soon enough.

Actually, I never did find out. The truth was I couldn't be bothered, like I felt about nearly everything once he'd fucked off out of it. Looking back on our life together, I realised he'd been a bit of a dead weight, suffocating any ambition I'd once had, turning me into his wife, his other half, the woman who accompanied him to work dos, to the theatre, to dinner parties. I had my own friends, of course, but once we'd become a couple that's how we socialised: as a couple. It was like I no longer had a life of my own. I was just part of his.

For the first few weeks I tried to carry on as if nothing had happened, even though I felt like something someone had trodden in. I managed a garden centre with about 30 staff, so I had to go to work and pretend to be doing my job. A few of the girls I regarded as friends, but I didn't feel like confiding in them. It's difficult talking about anything with people who work for you when you might burst into tears any minute. The next thing they'd be talking about their own problems and asking for a pay rise.

In the evenings I drank, ate comfort food and watched TV, feeling more and more wretched. I couldn't get over the fact that even someone as hopeless as my husband had found someone better. What did that make me? Not one man of my acquaintance contacted me after he left. I realised they were all friends of his, especially the single ones. The few men at work were either too old, too married or teenagers. I half-heartedly thought of joining the local tennis club, until I reminded myself I hated ball games. Was no man ever going to want me again?

One evening after a couple of drinks I decided to find out. I squeezed into my best frock, slapped on some makeup and took a taxi to a hotel in town. It had been years since I'd been 'available' and I hadn't the faintest idea what I was going to do. I had the naïve idea that if I sat on my own for long enough some halfway decent single man would be sure to try and chat me up.

For an hour I sat nursing a cocktail and making a show of looking at my watch as if I was expecting someone instead of being on the pull, until finally I decided I'd had enough of being stared at suspiciously by the bar staff.

'Have you been stood up?'

He wasn't bad looking and roughly my age, so that was a good start.

'Looks like it,' I said, pretending to gather my things.

'He's a fool, then.' He gave a bit of a nervous smile and hid it behind his drink. I guessed he wasn't used to chatting up strangers in a bar either, which made him a bit more attractive.

'Have you got time for another drink before you go?' His expression told me that he didn't expect me to say yes.

I made a show of having a thoughtful discussion with myself about the suggestion, when actually I was desperate for another drink. 'Yes, why not?'

The conversation was heavy going, as might have been expected. I couldn't tell who was more nervous, him or me. But after a couple more cocktails I began to relax. I even started leaning forward occasionally so that he could get a good look down my cleavage. I didn't know what I wanted, exactly. I wasn't thinking about having sex. I was just trying to get used to being in the company of another man. But when we'd finished our third drink and he asked me if I was staying in the hotel, I lied and said, 'Yes.'

'Would you like me to escort you to your room?' he said in a jokey voice.

At the lifts I put my arm through his. When the lift arrived he asked me which floor. I leant against him as we stepped in and said, 'Why don't we go to your room and raid the minibar?'

There was no one else in the lift when the doors closed but he looked round as if he was worried we might be overheard. 'OK. If you're sure.'

He didn't say anything more until we were in his room and I guessed this was the first time he'd picked up a woman like this.

I said, 'I'll just use the bathroom.'

After I'd had the pee I'd been desperate for since the second drink, I checked myself in the mirror. I was a bit rosy-cheeked but didn't look too bad. I lowered my cleavage another inch and put a dab of hotel perfume behind my ears.

He was sitting on the bed pouring a miniature into a plastic cup. 'What would you like? They only have plastic cups I'm afraid.'

I sat beside him on the bed and looked him straight in the face. 'Actually, I don't want anything to drink.'

The kiss wasn't exactly passion untamed, but it was interesting to kiss a man other than my husband full on the lips after God knew how many years. I could feel my heart speeding up a little.

'Are you sure about this?' he said.

It almost made me change my mind and run out of the room. Of course I wasn't sure. But I'd come this far and I needed to know if I was attractive enough for him to want me. Of course, if I'd been looking at him properly, I'd have realised that his question was probably directed at himself. With the benefit of hindsight, I suspect the poor guy was probably thinking of his wife and kids tucked up at home.

'Let's undress.' I had no idea what the usual form was in one-night stands, but I guessed that being naked would probably help.

He stood up and went to the side of the bed. He took off his shoes and put them side-by-side under a chair. I wanted to watch him, but he turned his back as he took off his jacket and put it round the back of the chair. He unzipped his trousers, slid them down, carefully folded them and laid them over the chair. Plainly he was well trained, either by years of business travel or by his wife. I went to the other side of the bed, pulled my dress over my head and chucked it over the end of the bed. I decided to leave my bra and knickers for him to take off. When he was down to his boxer shorts I walked over and put my arms round him. He still had his back to me.

He turned in my arms, embraced me and kissed me. There I was practically naked in his arms, but he still seemed tentative. I wondered if I'd have to do all the running or if he'd finally find me irresistible and tear my underwear off. I wasn't sure what else to do. I was so used to my husband being the demanding one, I'd never known how to take on that role. I pressed my pelvis against him and thought I detected the faint signs of a growing erection. But before I could go any further he said, 'Let's get into bed.'

I'd have preferred it if he'd thrown me down on it and kissed me all over, but instead he turned back the bedcovers his side and slid in. Then he turned back the covers my side, so I had no choice but to walk round the bed. I realised he wasn't going to undress me until we were under the covers, which wasn't part of the plan. I wanted him to see me naked and for me to see his reaction, so I stood facing him as I unhooked my bra and slid my knickers off. I posed briefly and gave him an attempt at a sexy look but suddenly felt embarrassed. I dived under the sheet.

We got into a clinch. It was good to feel another man's body against my own, strange and exciting. He didn't have much excess fat on him, so his flesh felt hard and male. We kissed a lot and eventually his hands found my tits. He was a gentle lover, not rough. I liked that. Within only a few seconds my nipples were hard. I ran my hand down his stomach. He still had his boxers on so I slid my fingers under the waistband.

'Let me,' he murmured, sliding down the bed and kissing my tits as he went.

At last, I thought, a man who wants to go down on me first. My husband wasn't keen on cunnilingus once we'd got married. I think he found my pussy a bit of a turn-off. I only hoped this guy knew how to do it properly. He felt around a bit. I opened my legs to give him access and hoped he wouldn't try sticking his fingers straight in. Fortunately he knew what he was doing. He was gentle exploring my lips, even wetting his fingers first. Then he went further down the bed, pushing the bedclothes off me. Pretty soon I was completely exposed with my legs wide apart and his head going down between them. I almost wanted to laugh at how good I felt. You wanton hussy, I thought gleefully. Just look at you.

He proved to be no slouch at kissing pussy. He knew just how to tease me with his tongue and lips. Pretty soon I began to have the feeling that I knew I would come - not then, but some time soon, definitely. I put my hands round his ears and lifted his head. 'Fuck me, or you'll make me come.'

'Are you sure?' he said. 'I don't mind you coming.'

'I want you to fuck me,' I said.

He came up the bed between my legs. I put my hands down to his boxers and pushed them down. It was all a bit awkward because he didn't seem to want to lift himself off me. I squeezed a hand between our bodies expecting to find a nice hard cock I could angle into my pussy, but there was nothing there. Or rather what was there wouldn't have filled an eggcup, let alone my gaping pussy.

'Sorry,' he muttered, blushing like a beetroot. 'I don't know what's the matter.'

'Let me.' I put my hand round the little snail and tried to manipulate a bit of life into it. But it was no good. In the end I thought, I'm going to have to go down on him. But as soon as I made a move down the bed, he stopped me.

'Don't,' he muttered. 'It's not going to happen.'

'What's wrong?' I was already going off the whole thing.

'I don't know.' He rolled off me, lay on his back and turned his head away. 'I'm sorry.'

I lay there for a minute or so. At first I felt sorry for the guy. Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe he'd had an injury or some psychological trauma. Then I started feeling sorry for myself. I was ready for it; why wasn't he? I tried not to come to the obvious conclusion, but it came anyway. He obviously didn't fancy me. I was naked. I was willing. But it obviously wasn't enough. I didn't turn him on. I got out of the bed and started searching for my clothes.

'What are you doing? Don't go.'

I didn't want him looking at me naked. He obviously didn't find me attractive. I found my knickers and pulled them on. I was too angry and full of self-pity to bring myself to answer. I hooked my bra, pulled it round to the front and pushed my tits in. I felt less ashamed when I was more or less decent.

'Can't we just talk?' he said.

I almost burst out laughing at the cliché. 'I thought I'd made it clear I wasn't here for your conversation.' I didn't care if I hurt him. 'But maybe that's your strong point. It certainly isn't sex.'

'I'm married,' he said, as if it was a big revelation that would explain everything.

'You don't say. I'd never have guessed.'

'I've never done this before.' The pathetic guy looked as if he was about to cry.

'Don't worry.' I pulled my dress over my head and scrabbled round for my shoes. 'You haven't done it at all so far.'

I went out the door and didn't look back. In the corridor I pulled out my mobile. By the time I'd made it back to the lobby my taxi was waiting.

As can be expected, my abortive attempt at casual sex did nothing to raise my self-esteem. When I got home I had a long shower. I didn't need one, but somehow I felt unclean from the evening encounter. He hadn't done anything - other than suck my pussy and make me frustrated - but I wanted to wash away all traces of him and the hotel bed. Afterwards I couldn't look at myself in the full-length mirror. I felt too ugly.

I wallowed in self-pity for a few weeks then decided to have another try. Obviously I was a bit mad. I persuaded my friend Nancy to accompany me. I decided hanging round hotel bars on my own was too much of an invitation to sex. Maybe I came across as a slag. We went to a reasonably upmarket bar and got ourselves a drink. I bored her to death with my depression. I even bored myself. When a couple of guys came over and offered to buy us drinks, both of us were relieved.

They weren't bad looking and one of them seemed to fancy me. The other did his best to chat up Nancy but she didn't give him much encouragement. After she'd finished the drink the guys had bought us, she looked at her watch. 'Sorry, I have to go. Are you coming, Sal?'

The two guys didn't want me to go so I decided to stick around for a while. Again, I wasn't thinking of sex. I was just enjoying being in the company of two good-looking men. I figured I'd let them buy me another drink then I'd go.

The next thing I knew I was waking up on my bed and it was morning. I was still in the dress and make-up I'd worn to the bar. The only thing I wasn't wearing was my underwear.

I felt like shit. There was someone trying to drill his way out of my skull and I felt sick. I wobbled to the bathroom and knelt in front of the loo. I retched a couple of times but nothing came out. I rested my head on the cool porcelain and stayed there for a while. When I eventually felt able to stand I got in the shower and just let the water run over me for about ten minutes. Then I realised I was still wearing my dress. I pulled it off me and let it lie in a sodden heap in the corner of the shower.

As the drilling in my head lessened I started to soap myself. It was then I noticed a couple of bruises on my thighs. I ran my hand over them, trying to focus my fuzzy brain on where I could have got them. Had I fallen over or banged into something? Then, as I was absentmindedly washing my pussy I noticed it felt tender to the touch. My hand went round to my bum. It felt sore. No, it felt bloody painful. I looked at my soapy hand. There was blood on it.

Fuck.

What had happened last night? I couldn't remember anything. I had a vague memory of being in the bar with Nancy and a couple of faceless guys, then nothing. Or had I been in the back of a car with one of them at some point, feeling half-asleep? Nothing else came to me.

Of course, it didn't take a genius to work out what had happened. I'd been drugged and raped. Whether by both the guys or only one - or maybe more - I didn't know. Not only had one or more fucked me in the pussy, they'd also fucked me in the arse. Right away I felt sick again, though not physically. I just felt sick with shame.

My sluggish mind raced through all my options. I could hang myself, which in many ways was the most appealing. I could call Nancy, tell her what had happened and cry on her shoulder while she told me that's what comes of letting men pick me up in bars and make me feel stupid and worthless. Alternatively I could do nothing, just have a three-hour bath, scrub myself raw, burn my dress, feel like shit for the next couple of years, shut myself away from men and carry on as best I could. Or I could go to the police and put myself through an unremitting process of shame, humiliation and degradation that would follow me for the rest of my life and almost certainly end in a failure to convict the bastards responsible.

So of course I went to the police.

Actually, they were really nice. In fact they were so sympathetic and understanding that I ended up bawling my eyes out for half an hour while a policewoman held my hand and fed me tissues. Tina was her name and it's no exaggeration to say she saved my life.

She took photos of my bruises and injuries. She held my hand while someone took swabs from my vagina and arse to see if they could find any semen and took blood to see if they could find any traces of a date-rape drug left in me. Then I told her what I could remember of the previous evening, which wasn't much.

She also held my hand when she came round in ordinary clothes a few days later and told me how slim the chances were of finding the guys who did it. 'The DNA of the semen doesn't match anyone we have on file,' she started. 'We didn't find any trace of a date-rape drug either, but that's probably because it left your system not because they didn't use it. We've spoken to your friend Nancy, who's given us a pretty good description of them. But they're both average looking, so basically the descriptions could fit thousands of men. I'm sorry.'

I thought about it. 'Don't be. At least it means I won't have to go through a trial.'

'There is that. Rape trials are awful for the victims. I'm amazed at the strength of the women who choose to go through them.'

'I guess I just have to get on with my life.'

She gave my hand a squeeze, which almost set my tears off again. 'We'll keep it all on file, of course. So if and when they do it again - which they almost certainly will, especially now they think they've got away with it - we'll be able to match them up.' She looked at me. 'I can put you in touch with a rape survivors group if you like.'