Never Fuck Your Ex - I Did!

Over the years I have heard a few sayings about who a woman should not fuck. In advertising it is said, 'never fuck a client,' in more gentile society it is said never 'fuck an ex.' Odd that you don't hear sayings about who you can fuck. That said, I have ignored the sayings about who I should not fuck as I have fucked both, a client, who became my husband and then my husband when he became my ex. Sound complicated? Don't worry it will all become clear.

I was married for about a hundred and fifty years and was with him in total for even more. We had an intensely sexual relationship. Looking back, I sometimes wondered whether that was all we had, but I didn't think so most of the time. In our ways we loved each other; it's just that those ways were different and were not sufficient for the relationship to survive. Then, c'est la vie, it happens to all sorts.

I never really thought about sex much whilst I was with him. It was just something that was there on tap all day, every day, just like foof, wine and money. I can hardly remember a time in our marriage when we were getting on ok, that either party turned down the other's advances and I never had to feign an orgasm. I did not even learn how to do that until after the break up! We were both always up for it.

So, I drifted through marriage and motherhood in a daze of sexual satisfaction without really querying anything. Well not until I caught him having an affair, then another one. It was then that I had my affair, more a revenge than anything. Alternatively, it was, in a way, an effort to save my marriage.

I was terrified of being alone and having to bring up my daughter without the husband and father I had always assumed would be there. I had become terribly depressed and had lost nearly twenty pounds, great for the figure but havoc with your bra sizes.

The third time I caught him out he was fucking a twenty one year old secretary at the business we had built together and jointly owned. That was, I felt, rubbing my face in it just a little too much. Play away, if you have to but don't piss on your own doorstep.

So we parted. A year later we divorced.

Since the divorce, I have hardly stopped thinking about sex. It's on my mind all the time. I continually have sexual feelings and images constantly flash into my mind. I fantasise about different forms of sex, with different combinations of people and I look at both men and women with lust in my mind.

In that period between parting and the divorce, I did not date and did not have sex with anyone. I did not feel that it would be right for Emily. The only good thing that was emerging from the sham of a marriage we were ending, was how we were both totally intent on shielding her from the influences of the divorce, as much as was possible. That even meant me attending school events and other functions with my ex.

In that year, though, I did find chat rooms. At first, I went into straight ones for divorced women, but of course, it was not long before I was in romance and adult rooms. It wasn't that much longer before I was losing my inhibitions and chatting quite openly and easily about sex with numerous men. Soon that extended to exchanging e-mails and to developing role-plays, some of which were acted out in the chat rooms, with the inevitable outcome.

I suppose from the first time I said, "Yellow" to one of the pervy guys in chat who asked, "What colour are you wearing?" I was on the slippery slope. Probably from when I told a guy about my sex life I was on my way and certainly once I started messing around with role-plays there was no escape.

The first time I masturbated as I chatted to a guy was amazing when it was happening, but very guilt ridden afterwards. I got used to it, however, the guilt that is and stopped worrying about it! There was a period in that year I waited for my divorce when masturbating, as I exchanged written messages and later voice, became my prime sexual outlet. I can't say I was pleased with myself though. I mean to find myself sprawled back in my big leather chair, my tee shirt pulled up and my boobs out of my bra with my trackie trousers and panties round my knees as a guy told me what to do, is rather on the sordid side isn't it? Equally, having my mobile on loudspeaker as I listened to strangers telling me that they were wanking over my selfie photo, wasn't exactly that subtle was it? It equally wasn't that modest to hear a guy I may have chatted to a few times telling me that he was shoving his big, hard cock right up my cunt and fucking me hard. Similarly I wasn't that inhibited anymore and it wasn't really that lady-like to be saying to a guy that I was imagining having his cock in my mouth and sucking it. Or it wasn't that refined really that as he told he was cumming to say. "Cum on my tits or cum on my face." No it wasn't any of those things, but they were massively arousing and incredibly stimulating things all the same. And they did help with the terrible withdrawal symptoms I had from not getting the fix of what had become, unknowingly to me, my drug, sex.

This was the start of the oddness that came about between my married and unmarried years. In the former there was loads of sex, but it didn't seem that important, whereas in the latter, sex was the dominant thought and feeling practically all the time, yet there was no real sex, well with partners that is. I did get to know myself very intimately though!

As I got through the first year waiting for the divorce, celibate I hasten to add, my attention turned to dating. I did not really know what to do. It was quite frightening to be with a guy not knowing the latest form. Did mid-thirties women screw on the first date? Had society moved on so much that what used to be a protocol of kissing on the first, touching boobs on the second, hand up the skirt on the third and then a good old-fashioned shag on the fourth, well sometimes third, was now out of date? Did women really ask men out and suggest that they have sex? Was everything so different? I just didn't know.

So for a couple of years as a divorcee I tried to find out. I dated numerous men. I had flings, affairs and one-night stands. I fucked in cars and in the open air. I did everything, well everything I was asked to do and probably would have done more if requested. I also reacquainted myself with women, something that I had been quite into at uni and had dabbled with a couple of times since. Actually, reading this back it all sounds pretty awful and could make me appear somewhat of a slut. In fact, there were only five or six men in that over two-year period, that's not too bad is it?

Gradually though, the gloss wore off, the madness went away, my need to find out what I had been missing diminished. I found that sex without any emotional involvement was just not worth the trauma, guilt and remorse I went through afterwards. Therefore, I needed to make an emotional commitment, or at least have some involvement other than sex with the guys. But I couldn't. I felt I rather owed it to my daughter not to become involved, entangled or dependent on a guy until she was 'of age' at least. Something had to give. Therefore, I became celibate.

*

Despite all the trials and tribulations of the acrimonious divorce brought about by his continual philandering, we managed to fulfil the vow we made when the divorce became inevitable. We protected our twelve-year-old daughter from it as much as we could.

This meant that he had rather more access than most exes had and that when Emily wanted I would always let them meet more frequently than the court had ruled. It also meant that we saw more of each other than many, or most, divorced couples and that there were many family and other functions that we both attended. In addition, the deChrissy of the private school she attended required considerable parents' involvement and Emily's tennis career, brought him and I into frequent contact.

At first, I found that difficult. Whenever Emily was not around, I did not look at him and tried as much as possible to avoid talking to him. Inevitably, I suppose, things did get easier and after, probably a year or so from the divorce, there was an ease between us and we found our way of relating to each other.

It was then that he started becoming more and more friendly. Then, especially when Emily was with us, that he would hold my elbow or slip his arm round me when we crossed the road or when he stood to one side to open a door. It was then, that for the first time since that night I kicked him out, he kissed me. It was just a light peck on the cheek, almost more of a gesture than an embrace, the sort that even strangers exchange, but it was a kiss.

The second time he went to kiss me, Emily wasn't there and I moved out of the way,

"Sorry," he mumbled.

It started happening each time we met and parted. Most times, I moved away and he missed, as it were. However, that would have been too obvious in front of Emily, so when she was there I couldn't duck or bob out of the way. So then, his lips would graze my cheek, each time it seemed going nearer and nearer to my lips. Then, his hand would rest on my hip or waist or, as time progressed, would slide around my side to my back brushing, unintentionally of course as so many men do, the side of my breast. And it was then that I found to my abject frustration that I was enjoying it.

"It was the most stupid thing I ever did."

"What was?"

"Letting you push the divorce through."

We were at a family party. It was summertime and very warm so the party was in the grounds of his mother's large house. We were standing close together off to one side from most of the guests. We were both slightly drunk.

"You had no choice."

"I should have fought harder, I've regretted that ever since."

"I haven't and no matter how hard you fought I would never have taken you back."

"I guess you're right, but I should still have tried more to stop you."

"You'd been fucking that cow for three months and God knows how many more before her, there was no alternative."

"You know they meant nothing."

"So, what's that got to do with it, you still cheated on me."

"Yes I know, but I still loved you, and still do."

He moved closer and took my hand in his.

"I mean that Chrissy," he whispered, moving his face towards mine, clearly about to kiss me. I was tempted, but my sensible side took over.

"Yeah right and pigs might fly. You don't even know the meaning of love let alone experience it."

Over the next three months or so, we had a number of similar situations where he tried to kiss me and I came close to letting him. We also had a number of similar conversations. He was trying to convince me that he had his own sort of love. The sort that men seem to have specialised in for years. The sort that women also have recently began to enjoy. The sort of love that does not preclude having other partners. Yes the sort where one truly can have one's cake and eat it as well. The sort of love that as one gets older and more experienced does in some ways begin to make more sense.

"So you would have liked us to have continued living together while you had bits of skirt whenever you pleased?" I asked as we sat in his car waiting for Emily to finish a tennis match.

"No, not at all."

"What then?"

"More in a controlled way."

"How?"

"In a way where you knew and approved."

"I would never approve."

"Why not?"

"Because I just wouldn't, it's not right and it's not fair."

"How do you mean not fair?"

"Me sitting at home looking after our daughter while you're out screwing some young bit of stuff."

"Yes that would be unfair if it was all one way."

"What other way is there?"

"Well as I have my fun why couldn't you have yours as well?"

"How? What do you mean?"

"We could both have had fun on the side with other partners, but do it all above board, so that you know who I'm with and I know who you have."

"I couldn't do that."

"Why couldn't you?"

"Because that's not a marriage and I'm faithful."

"Well you weren't totally were you?"

"What do you mean?" I asked panicking a bit.

"Well your fling did go on quite a time didn't he?"

I was so shocked I didn't think straight and instead just blurted out.

"How do you know about that?"

He didn't tell me in detail how he knew about the six month affair I'd had with the man I think was probably the love of my life, but he told me enough to convince me that he really did know about it, something that had not come out during the divorce.

"How long have you known?" I asked effectively owning up to it?

"Since it was going on", was his calm and measured response.

I could not stoop low enough or show him how interested I really was or to ask how he had found out. I listened incredulously, though, when he continued.

"I know a lot more about you than you can ever imagine Chrissy; even where you spent the night you kicked me out."

Things were just going from bad to bloody awful.

"So where was that?" I asked hoping I could front it out.

"Next door with Phillipa."

"So?"

"Well my darling," he said softly turning in his seat and resting his elbow on mine so that his came forward closer to me. "I do know that she has a penchant for other women and you did stay all night with her didn't you?"

My face was burning with embarrassment so I was pleased that it was almost dark. I had spent the night I had told him to leave with our next door neighbour and I had found out pretty quickly about her liking for women, something I found we had in common. And yes, I had spent that night with her, in her arms in her bed.

"So, what's that got to do with me?"

"You know full well luv, after all you did show me how much you were like that didn't you with Jenny."

If things had already got bloody awful they were now becoming fucking terrible as he reminded of the time I had agreed to have sex with another woman while he looked on.

I felt him slide his arm along the back of my seat.

"See what I mean Chrissy, we could have gone on like that. You could fuck who you want, male or female and I could have my little diversions and we could have lived happily ever after."

As he said that, he let his left hand drop onto my shoulder, his fingers sliding a little way inside the collar of my blouse so they rested on my bare skin.

"Don't be daft, those sort of arrangements never work, you know that as well as I do," I retorted, feeling surprisingly tingly at his touch on my shoulder.

He slid his hand up my neck and into my long, blonde hair that as usual was tumbling down over my shoulders. He pulled on the back of my head moving my face nearer to his. He bent forward and whispered.

"We could have done Chrissy and we could now," as his lips found my cheek and he kissed me.

It felt so nice; it was almost as if I had come home, as if I was in a familiar environment. I almost gave in. Part of me wanted to. I leaned my face against his as the turmoil raged inside me.

I was saved by the sight of Emily approaching the car.

"Is it ok if I go to Lucy's to do my homework?" Emily asked as she, my ex and I walked into the apartment a week or so later.

Without hardly thinking, I said. "Of course it is darling, but be back by eight won't you?"

We were in the kitchen.

"Well thanks for the lift," I said, hopefully meaningfully and that he would take the hint and leave.

"Have you thought any more about what I said in the car the other evening?" He asked as I leaned back against the work surface.

"Thought about what?"

"An open relationship."

"Look we haven't got any relationship, let alone and open one. We're divorced, remember?"

He came and stood, too, close to me. He was invading my space; he was almost in my face. I could smell his Polo aftershave, the brand I had first bought for him, it was sort of touching that he still wore it. I looked up into his eyes.

"And we shouldn't be Chrissy."

"But we are and it was all your fault."

"But we could act as if we weren't."

"No we couldn't," I said sharply, my heart pounding.

He beamed that smile that I had always liked and which I was sure had got him into the knickers of countless other women.

"Ok, well we could act as if we were having an affair then."

He rested his hand on the work surface alongside me, his wrist touching my hip. Having come straight from a new business pitch that I had made for one of the agencies that employed me freelance, I was wearing a pinstriped, black trouser suit made from just about as thin a wool material as you can get. The jacket had four buttons and quite wide lapels and I was wearing it without a blouse. I could feel the side of his hand through the wool. I could feel him, smell him and see him so clearly that it was intoxicating. I felt as though I was drunk, I had lost control, lost the direction and focus that I normally kept when with him and I was losing the will to resist.

Just before his face closed the short space between us, I heard him whisper.

"Wouldn't it be fun trying though?" and then his lips were on mine and his arms were round me.

*

Things developed quite rapidly after that or, dependent on your viewpoint, went down the plughole at an increasingly fast rate.

That kiss was deep, passionate, fervid and so bloody frustrating that it was on my mind when Emily, thankfully, returned earlier than expected and when he left. It was on my mind as I undressed and got ready for bed. It was also on my mind as I lay on the bed, not in it, and started rubbing my breasts and stroking my clit. The kiss caused tremendous conflicts and traumas to rage in my mind as I part cried and part masturbated myself to sleep.

The memory of his lips grinding against mine, his tongue plunging deep into my mouth, my breasts crushed against his chest, his arms round me and his erection pressing up the entire length of my tummy were all charging around my mind as I made myself cum so easily and quickly.

I determined to put an end to this crazy behaviour, to stop him before we went too far, to show him that I wasn't his just because he wanted me and made some come on gestures and persuasive arguments.

"We need to talk," I said to him on the phone, one Saturday morning when Emily was getting ready to go off to a hockey match for the school.

"Sure, when and where, like me to pop over?"

"No, no don't do that," I said, feeling a little alarmed at the prospect of being alone with him in my flat.

"Where then?"

"Meet me in the car park by the driving range," I said, mentioning a location that was about mid-way between us."

"What need some advice on your swing?" He joked.

"No we need to talk about us."

Even to this day I don't know how it happened. I have no real recall of the events or words that led up to it, no effective memory of how we went from starting a really quite serious discussion to ending up how we did. And I have no recollection whatsoever of how I got into his arms and how we started kissing.

I remember getting out of my car and into his. I remember him greeting me warmly and asking how I was. I remember saying about how we needed to talk and how things couldn't continue the way they had been going. What I don't remember is how it went from that to him moving across the brake lever, sitting half on my seat and taking me in his arms. How it went to us kissing, deeper and more passionately than that first time and how it went to me kissing him back, hard and enthusiastically as his hands found my breasts.

I do remember that feeling though. That wondrous feeling for a woman as a new lover touches her breasts for the first time. Usually, as it was this time, it's firstly outside the clothing, but even through two or three layers, it is still so wonderful that first time. But hell this wasn't a first time and he wasn't a new lover I realised as his hand slid inside my sweater.