Wobble

Apologies for dropping off the radar. Truth is, we went through a wobble.

When we first started talking about opening our marriage, I asked for a list of what we would get out of it. There was was item on that list that I didn't understand - "The Journey". Now, I love travelling, and I'm very aware that it's often better to travel hopefully than to arrive, but I think I now appreciate what he meant by it. I rather naively thoughts that once we'd crossed the line, and allowed others into our lives, that would be the journey complete. How wrong I was.

Anyway - the good news: It's been choppy, but safe harbour has been reached. We've have had some deep conversations, discovered some more about ourselves, each other, and our marriage, and it's all worked out quite nicely. So nicely, in fact, that I'm getting back in the saddle, and going on another date. Soon.

So, if you're still there, don't go away. I'll be back with all the gory details, past, present and future.

Fantasy is fantasy, yes?

Like most couples, we have always fantasised in bed. We each have our own "portfolio", of which more another time, and over the years we settled on about half a dozen we both seemed to get off onto.

Half of Rob's involved me with other men.

There are many different scenarios. Me being picked up in a bar while he went to the gents. Me going out to dinner with a man while Rob was away on business. Even Rob and an unnamed stranger, pleasuring me together. We even had a few porn tapes showing what two or more men could do to a girl (and yes, watching them sure did it to me).

So should I have been surprised when he he waited until we were out of bed to ask if I would consider taking a lover?

Well, I was. I considered our fantasy life just that: fantasy. I certainly didn't expect him to act out my fantasies in real life (especially that one with the, er, oh never mind), and I didn't think he seriously wanted to make his reality. But here he was, sitting opposite a restaurant take (we'd gone out for an early dinner and a show on our anniversary), actually asking me if I wanted to go to bed with another man, and if I did, well, he'd be OK with it.

I must confess, I didn't believe him. I laughed. I tried to change the subject, and when he notice how uncomfortable I was, he just said, "OK, well, just think about it and let me know what you feel". And left it at that. So think about it I did. I tried to come up with reasons for him to want this. Did he not love me, did he want me to find another and leave him, had he found another woman, was he trying to tell me something? And after a couple of weeks, I put all my questions to him, and he answered.

Yes, he loved me. No, he didn't want to sleep with other women. No, he definitely didn't want me to leave. He was giving me permission to enjoy myself, if I wanted, and add another dimension to our marriage. Other couples did it, he said, and it increased intimacy. Look, he could show me.

And show me he did. Websites, blogs, bulletin boards, chat rooms. He'd done his research, I gave him that, and I let him give me a guided tour. And then left me to it again. I read, and I asked a few questions under assumed names, and gradually, I was reassured. I thought some of the behaviour rather extreme - men wanting their wives to father children with black men seemed a rather popular theme - but there did seem to be an area where mutual respect, intimacy and, yes, sanity could prevail.

And so, eventually, after many weeks, I said, yes, OK, let's see what we can do. Did you think that was the end of the matter? Oh, no. Rob is a details man. And there were a lot of details.

How do we feel about details? Should I continue?

Smooth

"It's only lunch."

"Yes", said my husband. "But wouldn't it be better to see him feeling sexy and confident, even if it's 'only lunch'?"

He had a point. And so, about two weeks ago, I spent my Saturday morning first getting my hair done (cut into a rather racy bob, and some highlights - daring, for me), and then off to get my nails done (all twenty of them), and my legs waxed. I told myself that it was summer now, and I should want to go bare legged without worrying about people thinking I was some sort of werewolf.

Bethany - "Call me Beth" - usually does my nails, and usually just my hands, so she picked up that this was a special occasion. I made up something about it being our anniversary, that Rob was taking me out somewhere to celebrate, and I thought it was worth taking a bit of trouble. We talked about the pain we put ourselves through for our men as she ripped hair from my legs, by the roots. I was glad I'd taken a pain killer beforehand.

"Can I make a suggestion?", she asked as she moved up my thighs with the warm spatula. "If you want, I'll be happy to do your bikini line. In fact, we're doing a special offer on that area."

I looked down. I'd come out in a light cotton summer skirt, which I'd gradually hiked up ahead of Beth and her hot wax. It was now up around my hips, showing my plain light blue cotton knickers, and the hair peeping out of the sides.

"What's the 'Special Offer'"?

"30% off Bikini, G-String, Brazilian and Hollywood waxes."

Yes, I asked for the translation. From memory, Bikini tidies up the sides so you can't see any hair with a normal swimsuit. G-String is a but more radical, taking a bit more off the sides. Brazilian removes any hair 'down below', but leaves a 'landing strip' on top, and Hollywood is, well, everything. The lot.

She went thought this, and the stopped. I realised she was waiting for an answer. Now, I've always been fairly laissez-faire about that area, just letting it grow wild, although Rob had dropped hints thoughout the years that he'd be happy to help out if I fancied a change of style. However, I remember a chat I'd had with my future lunch partner, months ago, where he'd asked about that, and he'd said he liked either lots of hair or no hair. At the time, I'd dismissed that as another example of male weirdness - I mean, who wants a woman that looks like a girl? - but at that moment, in that cubicle, with Beth, I had a wicked thought.

"Hollywood, please."

She offered my a paper thong to wear, but it seemed daft to give her an obstacle to work around - after all, she sees dozens of women like this every week, apparently (a fact that got me thinking about if I knew any of her other clients, and would I guess who they might be). So, skirt and knickers discarded, she started with some clippers, buzzing away the worst of the grown and leaving it looking like a skinhead just before the monthly visit to the barbers. Not a bad comparison, as it happens.

Next, she briefed my on the wax itself. I'd feel warmth, she said, then it would sting as she pulled it off. It would help if I pulled the skin really tight when she gave the signal that she was about to pull. Oh, and it didn't matter if I make a noise. The cubicles were soundproofed.

With that, I felt the first warmth on the top part of the remaining patch of fuzz, was told to pull the skin, and then there was a ripping sound, and an explosion of pain in my head. I'd just about got used to it on my legs, but there must be more nerve endings down there (you think?), because it was about ten times worse. Beth, though, complimented my on my stoicism, spread some more warmth, and yanked again. This time it was easier.

She worked quickly, I suspect so as not to give me time to abort the procedure. She'd apply the wax, press a strip onto it, position my hand to pull and then she would pull in the opposite direction. I'd catch a glimpse of the strip being disposed of, all covered in hair - my hair, as was - and then on to the next.

She had me with my legs spread wide enough to put her in good company (husband, doctor), and worked down between my legs, both sides. I thought she'd finished, but when I looked down, she'd left a small patch just above where the slit starts.

"I leave that for last, because it hurts the most", she told me. Which was comforting. And she was right, for some reason it was about twice as much sting as the rest.

"Do you want the back done too?"

Once she'd explained what she meant, I figured it would be daft to leave the job incomplete, and found myself on all fours feeling even more self conscious as the wax was applied to an even more intimate area. She then laid me back, found a few strays with a pair of tweezers, and then, just like the hairdressers, gave me a mirror to take a look.

I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn't seen myself like that since I was a little girl. My cesaerian scar wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was, having been hidden for all these years, and, apart from the redness, the rest looked and felt rather sexy.

And then, it was off to Costas, sans underwear (Beth's suggestion) to meet up with Husband. Who was, after all, who I'd gone through all that pain for. Yes?

Dilemma, negotiated

The past twenty four hours have just brought home to me how my marriage has changed.

It started with a text, my "personal" phone giving a gentle buzz, not enough to draw widespread attention but enough for me to feel it, in the pocket of the bag at my feet. The meeting was dull, nothing much more than someone reading out his large stack of carefully written Powerpoint slides - something I could have done for myself, frankly - so I took a chance and surreptitiously slid it out to take a look.

"I can get away tomorrow. How do you fancy a sleepover?"

It's been a week since we met, our first meeting, my first meeting even, and I'm still floating slightly from the experience. But that was an afternoon, an interlude from my real life and then back to a husband who'd been occupied with work and children. We've talked about me staying away for a night, but we both saw it as "sometime, maybe" thing. Now I was being asked to decide now.

Two texts in succession. To The Lover: "Sounds divine, but hold your horses until I've checked". To Rob: "How would you feel if I spent tomorrow night away?". Within minutes, I get "OK", and "I don't know, how would you feel?".

Good question.

Meeting over, and it's back to my office, and quick "I need five minutes" to Cheryl, and with the door shut I call Rob.

"How would you feel, left alone all night?"

"Not sure. Lonely. But that's not the point. What's he suggesting, and are you comfortable with it?"

"I haven't spoken to him, but I would imagine he'd get a room somewhere, we'd have dinner and then do whatever took our fancy until morning. I just think it's too fast, though."

"So do I. You've been good at taking your own pace over this, and your instincts have been good so far. It might be better for you to play a bit hard to get over this."

"Thing is ...", and I'm biting my lip here, "I would quite like to see him. I'm just not sure I could wake up in the morning and go straight to work from his bed."

And so Rob goes into his practical mode, going through the options and just letting me know what the possibilities are. A quick call to The Lover, and it's decided. I'll see him from work tomorrow (that is, today), and then go home around midnight. Rob would rather pick me up from the hotel - a nice one quite near where I work - so I can drink and not worry, and also take me to work in the morning so I don't have to leave the car.

How many women, especially my age, have two men working out such detailed logistics just for my pleasure. Oh yes, and theirs also.

And that's how I found myself this morning packing a bag with things for an evening out and a night in. It's sitting in the corner of my office, and Cheryl has already asked if I'm off somewhere on holiday. I can't risk someone seeing me picking me up from here, so a five minute taxi to the hotel (where I'm told the room is already waiting), and I'll be in another world for a few hours.

Half an hour to go. I'm already damp. Do you want to know how this all came about?

Changing

"La Donna e Mobile", Verdi wrote (well, his librettist did, Verdi just came up with the kick-ass tune). He meant that women are fickle, they change their minds and play manipulative games with their menfolk. I don't need to do that, but I do feel changeable right now.

I've been with my man for over twenty years. We've had careers (not over yet, I hope), moved houses, raised children - all the normal things that couples do. Our marriage was taking the common trajectory to dotage. And then, one day, we had a Conversation. And it turned out that he had some ideas.

I took a lot of convincing. And I took the plunge. A lot has changed, and a lot is still changing. It's quite a story so far, and it's only just started.

Want to hear?