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I was asked why all my sluts are single and swingers, what about the sluts that are cheating? Well, here it is.

I wouldn’t say I was in a downward spiral. It didn’t feel that dramatic. I was in a trough. I thought the very sound of it was perfect. “Trough.” I woke up, I sent the kids off. I pretended to work. The family would come home eventually. It was hot and we would sit around watching television until it was late enough to go to bed. I would lay in bed beside my husband. I didn’t want to hit on him. He never said no but there is really nothing worse than trying to sex someone who would rather just go to sleep.

I surfed the internet for porn that was artistic enough that I didn’t feel gross looking at it. I read erotica online because its free and it’s not as embarrassing as having a bunch of porn show up on my kindle. Did I mention it was hot? It was August and it was just miserable. I wanted to get away but I didn’t want to go to the effort of leaving.

I masturbated daily. I would lie on my belly with my hand tucked up under me. I would move my hips to simulate actually fucking but it was just my finger that was getting laid. It was awful doing the grocery shopping. I would walk the aisles with my husband. He would scowl at my selections, too unhealthy, and watch the other men in the store to see if they noticed me. I stopped wearing a bra. My tits weren’t what they once were but they were still large. The store would be cool enough that my nipples would be evident. I watched for them to notice. Some did, staring in that dead way that men stare at you. Just smile, goddamnit.

It was late on a Saturday night when his request came in. He wanted to be my friend on my social media page, you know the one. I hadn’t heard from him in ten years. I couldn’t sleep. How did he find me? Why did he find me? Was he looking for me?

I didn’t particularly like Brent. He was kind of an asshole. He was the type of guy who began every conversation with a double entendre. He dropped a hint at his last workout into every interaction. He wasn’t particularly good looking. I don’t know how you can be attracted to someone you don’t like. I hated that I was attracted to him. Fuck.

I will admit it. I am a shitty wife. I like to think I am not shitty, we just aren’t a good match. I like to think that if T had found the right woman he would probably be a great husband to her. T likes to fuck. It takes about eight minutes and he wants to do it twice a week. One is really all he needs but he will go for it a second time if he is in a decent mood. He is a shitty husband because he is as foreign to “intimacy” as he is to Mandarin Chinese. It leaves me awake at night desperate for attention. This isn’t anything new, is it. Women like me have been bitching about this since the first caveman rolled over and let his new discovery of fire burn out leaving his cavewoman cold and alone wrapped escort sincan in an elk pelt. I don’t think wanting to be kissed more makes me a shitty wife. I am a shitty wife because I do more than complain about it. I accept a friend request from an asshole I can barely tolerate, take a two hour bath shaving every square millimeter of my nether regions, and head out to meet him.

I had no intention of sleeping with him but had let it play out in my head over and over with that exact result. I don’t think that makes any sense but that’s exactly what was going through my head as I drove to meet him.

I guess it’s fair to say he was older. He shaved his hair down to stubble to hide the fact there wasn’t much of it. He was softer around the middle. He was still an ass. He ordered a grilled chicken breast sandwich but then pestered the waitress about how it was prepared as if he were training for the Olympics. He insisted there was no mayo because it had too much fat but guzzled down three IPA’s and smelled of beer when we were done. I had a burger and three glasses of acceptable house red.

One wall of the restaurant was a ceiling high mirror. It was there solely so that I would have to look myself in the eye as I contemplated cheating on my husband. I couldn’t help but think my lipstick was too pink, my hair to poufy, and my eyes were desperately in need of some sort of collagen therapy. I looked good in the little white sundress. I again had skipped the bra. I would have had to wear a strapless one and they never looked right. They didn’t prevent the droop enough to be worth it so I skipped it. I could see him staring at my nipples. It was up to him now. All he had to do was ask.

In my mind I imagined a hotel room. It didn’t have to be a nice one. I had imagined him undressing me. I imagined being on top. I don’t know why I wanted to be on top, I can get off in any position, from what I hear from my friends that’s a gift. I did not imagine the parking garage, the back door of my minivan slid open as he fingered me. Sweat was pouring off of me. The front of the white dress was soaked through and was transparent. He didn’t say anything when he swapped out his finger for his cock. He didn’t use a condom. He just stuck it in and went to work.

I came before he did, thank god because when he was done, he was done. He kissed me. He was a good kisser. He waited for me to move to the driver’s seat and drive away. It wasn’t the worst.

My dress was a mess when I got home. The front was sweat stained and the back, well, it was stained too from where he dripped out of me as I drove home. It wasn’t an expensive dress so I had no reason to try to save it. I used a fresh garbage bag and took it all the way out to the can before anyone was home. Brent texted me that afternoon. He thanked me for the best lunch he had had all week. I figured that was his version of a complement. I asked ankara escort him where he at last week that was better. He sent me an LOL. Does anyone even say LOL anymore?

It took me a while to decide to go ahead and send the message but in the end, I sent it off anyway. I told him next week I wanted a hotel room and I wanted more than three minutes out of him. He replied promising to leave me walking funny.

I knew why I was doting on T the rest of the week. Guilt does that. I made him dinner and bought him a fancy polo like he liked to wear. I wore sexy lingerie rather than a T-shirt to bed and I performed oral sex on him all the way to completion. For his part he seemed to have lost the ability to speak. He let me do things for him but he didn’t say thank you. It was two days before I realized I wasn’t getting an I love you anymore or even the required closed mouth kiss as he left. The weekend passed without a word. I suspected he knew but assumed he didn’t. He would have said something.

Brent sent me the name of the hotel. It was plain and inexpensive. I arrived in one of my sexier maxi dresses. The dress showed off my tits and nicely draped over my ass. You can’t tell there is cellulite under a rayon Maxi dress. I always worried my belly showed. I had a pretty decent pooch going. I woke up every morning say I was going to do something about it and went to bed every night having done shit. Brent met me at the bar in the parking lot of the hotel. It was one of those awful chain places. I had a beer. We went to the room.

It was much better this time. He was far more attentive and I wasn’t outside in a 110-degree heat. He kissed me and we rolled around naked playing grab ass. His ass was pretty good. He went down on me and did a nice job. I went down on him. He held my head and although I hate that I let him. I didn’t really deserve to complain. I got to be on top. He was far gentler than I remembered. We weren’t out of there in an hour like I expected. He recovered pretty quickly, especially after I sucked him a little. He took me from behind on the floor and when I went to clean up he surprised me in the bathroom. He bent me over the countertop and fucked me hard enough I had a bruise on my thigh the next day I would explain happened when I dropped a box of books. He asked me to promise I would see him again. I told him it would be a couple of weeks, if he knew what I meant. I didn’t promise anything. I showered and stopped by the mall on the way home. I had new clothes for the kids when I walked in late. The kids were excited. T didn’t say anything.

T didn’t say anything for two more days. It was Thursday night. He was out late for a work happy hour. I helped the kids with homework and flirted mercilessly with Brent by text message. I sent him nude selfies. I thought only twenty year old sluts do that but I guess forty-four year-old sluts do it too. I was in a good etimesgut escort bayan mood when T got home. I kissed him when he came in the door. He had a couple in him. He actually kissed me back and squeezed my boob. I was worked up. I was happy he was interested because I was going to fuck the shit out of him. He disappeared into the bedroom and I finished study time. I sent the kids for bath-time. I looked in on him and he was just sitting on the bed watching baseball. He wasn’t a baseball fan. I presumed, stupidly, he was just waiting for me to get in there and fuck him dry. I put the kids to bed. I poured two glasses of wine and met T in the bedroom. I handed him his and slipped out of my shorts and T-shirt. He still hadn’t said a word.

I kissed his leg and he pushed me away. I moved my tablet to sit next to him.

“Rene, Do you know, do you remember how I showed you, how the new tablets, the phones, even your laptop; they all talk to each other?”

“Yeah. I remember. It’s cool.” I was still being flirty. “We get all our mail on the computer and the tablet. Even the spreadsheet we do our budget on. I remember, why?” I remembered suddenly moving the tablet and searched the bed to find where I set it. I found it finally on the floor. As I unlocked it, T got his phone off his nightstand and typed something quickly into it. I heard the chime from my phone where his text message alert went off. As the tablet opened, I saw the little red dot on the bottom of the screen. It was the same little picture I use to read text messages on my phone.

“Your text messages all come up on your tablet too, and on the computer. I ignore them for the most part but I thought you should know.” I’m not any better slut than I am a wife.

I read his text message and saw, sitting just below his name was Brent’s name and even his photo from the website. I sat silently reviewing the messages. I read the flirting, some of it vague, some of it blatant. I saw the name of the hotel and the picture of my tits. Our entire conversation went back two weeks.

“I’m sor…”

He cut me off. “No. Don’t say anything.”

We didn’t say anything. I don’t think either of us moved. The game finished, the Braves lost by two. We fucked. It was eight minutes. I know because I looked at the clock.

I’ve tried to be a better wife since. I haven’t fucked Brent again but I have been kind of hitting it off with a guy I knew in high school. He lives about two hours away but we have talked about meeting. I don’t want to be a slut, I just am.

T and I still fuck, Wednesday nights from 9:30 to 9:38 and Sundays, usually in the afternoon. I’m not sure we have kissed in months. My car payments are up to date though and my credit card always works. I don’t just read erotica anymore, I write a lot of it now. I get some nice complements but I don’t ever re-read anything I write and its funny how many people get pissed off when you accidentally leave the word “and” where you should have written the word “an.” I’m not presently fucking anyone but if you are in Easten PA and don’t mind a little cellulite and you are a decent kisser, look me up.

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