So usually it’s the woman who loses her sexual appetite the longer she’s married… but that sure wasn’t the case in my marriage.
In my marriage, it was Emery who had lost the passion for lovemaking.
During college and early in our marriage we’d fucked like bunnies: anytime, anywhere. I mean I’m not a slut, I’ve always been a one man at a time gal, but I’ve always loved kinky sex.
I gave him head in a half-full movie theatre, I gave him head in the back of a taxi, and I gave him head under his desk at work… continuing when his boss walked in to talk to him for a couple of minutes… while I kept quietly sucking him… the risk of getting caught only enhancing the rush.
We had fucked in the bathroom at the airport even as our names were paged to board the plane; we had fucked in the hot tub during a party while others watched (college was pretty wild); we had fucked at my sister’s wedding… in the church.
Now, we only fucked missionary style… on occasion.
I had become rather insecure when he quit wanting me. At first I blamed it on having two high school kids (we were always on the go… well I was, anyway… Emery seemed to just work more and never be at home). I definitely blamed his work as he was always working late hours as he tried to make partner. Then when he did make partner I thought he would be home more… nope… even less.
Now my daughter was in college, although still living at home, and my son was a high school sophomore. So life had calmed down somewhat… as each had their driver’s license and their own car.
I was an elementary school teacher, and when I started getting attention from a younger black teacher, Jake, I was flattered; it made me feel pretty again.
Although he was almost twenty years younger than I, he was constantly flirting with me. It started subtly by his complimenting me almost daily: my hair, my outfit, my shoes.
Of course, since my husband no longer noticed any of these things (or more precisely, my husband had never noticed my shoes), I basked in these compliments.
As the fall went on, he noticed some of my fashion quirks.
“Connie, I have to admit you completely intrigue me,” Jake said, as he glanced down at my legs… something he often did.
“I do, do I?” I slyly flirted back, enjoying this harmless flirting with a man much younger than I… and since I’m from the South, being with a black man would still be considered taboo to most of my family. Although I’d be lying if I denied that I’d occasionally wondered what it would be like to be fucked by him. Jake was a very good looking, well-built black man.
“You’re the only staff member who wears pantyhose every day,” he said.
“I’m happy you’re noticing,” I smiled. My high school boyfriend had loved pantyhose, which I’d worn often with my cheerleading uniform, and eventually began wearing all the time for him. I’d always found I liked the silky sheer look of the suntan hosiery that we wore with our uniforms, and felt they really accentuated my legs.
So even after we broke up, I kept wearing them, treating them as a required accessory, just like I did jewelry.
In college I discovered garter belts and stockings and thigh highs, and often wore those underneath my clothing to feel sexier… and, of course, they provided much easier access for whoever I was dating to slide his dick in me. I loved public sex, and simply flipping up my skirt instead of taking things off was much quicker.
“How couldn’t I notice?” he leered, looking down at my legs again without even feigning he was doing anything else.