It’s like when you’re hungry and you find yourself standing at the fridge with a mouthful of cake, but don’t remember getting there. I’m behind the tree again.
It is lunch time, prime time, and it isn’t dark. This is a ‘dogging hotspot’, I know that now, I read it online.
A car passes but doesn’t stop. I see a little movement behind a bush on the other side of the clearing and I tell myself I am safe, even though maybe I am not. Is that part of the thrill? I’m still trying to work that out. People would hear me if I screamed.
The rustle moves a little closer. Maybe it’s the couple?
Another car drives past. It doesn’t stop. Then a man appears from behind a tree opposite me. He is wearing a mask. It should be terrifying, but the mask only covers half of his face and it is a kid’s mask, some kind of animal. Maybe a fox? Yes, a fox. If I wasn’t so horny I’d think he was stupid. But I read that a lot of people wear masks. It’s an anonymity thing, and I think that is fair enough. I try not to pay it too much attention.
The man stands in the clearing and holds his hand out, as if asking me to join him. I shake my head. I’m not here for that. I see there are other people behind the trees. He puts his hand out again. This time I wonder if I should. I was led here by my sexual desire, I am craving something new. I deserve to have my libido acknowledged and appreciated. It weirdly feels like a safer space than my own bedroom. I don’t want the complexities of emotion; I want the satisfaction of sex. I come out from behind the tree and walk over to the man.
He takes my hand and leads me to a tree stump. There are definitely people watching us. He smiles at me. I wish I could see his eyes. He is tall, slim. He could be very handsome, I wish I could see. But then he could be very ugly. So maybe it is best that I can’t.
I now can’t imagine him any other way than ugly.
He begins to undo his jeans. Another rustle behind a tree. Tommy appears in my mind. My baby. Michael too. Still my husband. Reality strikes.
‘I can’t, I’m sorry,’ I say. The man is getting closer to me with his hard penis in his hand. He stays still, and puts up no resistance, but he continues to masturbate himself, as if that will change my mind.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, shaking my head. ‘This isn’t who I am.’ I walk away slowly, wondering if he will jump on me and make me go through with it. But he doesn’t. I pick up the pace and I run as fast as I can towards Lauren’s house. It’s the only destination I know, but obviously I can’t just pop in so I go into a local pub and order myself a drink.
‘Gin and tonic, please.’ Just the one is OK, I’m craving it. Tommy’s next feed will be a bottle anyway. And I need a moment. I have things I need to think about. These feelings are not right. Do I have post-natal depression? Is that why I suddenly hate my husband and want to have sex with strangers?
But I don’t feel sad. I just feel out of control of myself. Part of the responsibility of being a parent is keeping yourself safe. To think what could have happened. How horrible would it be for Tommy to live his life knowing that his mother was bludgeoned to death in a park whilst being raped by a tall man with a fox mask on. I can’t go back there. That is not the answer.
I can’t believe this is me. I was always a sexual woman. Some might say, too sexual. I lost my virginity at fifteen; not too early, not too late. Boys were never scary to me. They liked me, I liked them. I was a good flirt, a good shag. I didn’t expect relationships from sex and was happy to have the fun. My parents loved me, my influences were good, my friends were not wild. It was all good fun until I got to university and had a boyfriend with a strange quirk. He used to leave money on my bedside table after sex. I’d tell him I didn’t want it. I’d insist he took it back. But he made sure that one way or another I took it. By either hiding it in my bag or throwing it at me then running away.
‘You’re my little whore,’ he would say, as if the whole notion of paying for sex really turned him on. We spent most of our time high and in bed, so there wasn’t much outside of that to judge him by. The sex was good, not too rough. He occasionally said things like, ‘You are so worth the money,’ or, ‘You could charge double.’ But he wasn’t mean to me and he didn’t force me into anything emotional or physical that I didn’t want to do. He just insisted on paying me, that was his fantasy. And I was a broke student, so in the end just gave up fighting it and took the cash. I even held off on dumping him before Christmas because I had to pay to get home for the holiday.
It wasn’t until I was about twenty-six that I realised that made me a prostitute.
I battled with the repercussions of that for some time. Feeling dirty and ashamed. Like I should have just broken up with him, like I should never have spent the money, and posted it through his letter box instead. I always said to myself that if I ever had the money I would give it all back to him. It was such a small amount, really. About £300 in total, I only went out with him for a couple of months. But at that age, it felt like a lifetime and £300 to a skint student was a lot. I could pay him back tomorrow if I wanted to. But I have no idea where he lives, and I certainly don’t want to ask people if they know and draw attention to it all. Also, I was so high for most of that time that I actually have no recollection of his surname. Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew it.
I can’t change the past. It’s always quite surprising to me how things feel terrible in retrospect, but at the time they really don’t. A nice guy, fun, non-violent, a weird sex thing, money was exchanged that paid for my family’s Christmas presents. It didn’t feel wrong. But often, when you are living an experience, and things seem OK, you really don’t worry about what is wrong with it. Especially at that age. I didn’t think about my future when I was twenty-one. I didn’t think, ‘If I take that twenty pounds from the side of the bed, it will haunt me for years.’ It didn’t haunt me at the time, surely that is all that matters? So, I always try to put myself back there, when that dark and heavy thump of anxiety and regret tries to keep me awake at night, I tell myself it is OK to have been questionable. I also remind myself that people are out there doing actually terrible things. Rape, murder, fraud, betrayal. My experience was nothing like that, but still, it challenges my self-respect. And that is very annoying.
I’ve always thought my marriage was quite normal, until recently. Maybe I’ll look back on it one day, and not believe I was in it. It’s feeling less and less like where I should be every single day.
I realise I have finished my drink. Whoops. I order another one.
When I met Michael, a safe, sexually unambitious man who didn’t demand anything weird in the bedroom, I felt like maybe he redeemed me. He was vanilla, I was absolved. Most women have had some kind of relationship they are not proud of. A one-night stand, a guy who you stayed with who got you to do kinky stuff you weren’t even into. An affair. The list goes on. Well mine was inoffensive really. No one got hurt. But it left me with shame. Michael took it away. I had my own business, I didn’t rely on him for anything. And he was gentle and I felt relieved that my deviant days were over. The past is the past. Everyone is allowed to have dubious stories that make no sense to anyone like they made sense to you at the time. That’s called living. I was adventurous at that age, I was wild. I have spent most of my adult life trying to justify my actions.
I ended up seeing a therapist for a few years in my late twenties because I felt so disgusted by myself. I never knew if it was a comedown from all the drugs I took at uni, or a reaction to how that relationship made me feel. Either way, therapy helped. My therapist told me it was OK to have done those things. That all I have to do is give myself permission to have acted in that way, give myself permission to have been young and unbothered by the consequences. She said all I was doing was role play, the transaction was not important. I was neutral back then; if it wasn’t hurtful at the time, then why should it be hurtful now? She was right. At the time it was OK. Marrying a man contaminated by innocence also helped. I have to beg the question, would Michael have been the man I chose, if I wasn’t trying to mask my shame?
I don’t know the answer to that. As women, we are raised to believe all men want to screw us. When one doesn’t, especially when it’s the man you love, it’s incredibly confusing. It feels like the problem must be me.
Until now. Michael isn’t making me happy. He isn’t who I thought he was. But then look at me; a middle-aged woman regretting my past and present over a gin and tonic while I avoid work and my child. As if that is going to make anything better. I finish my second drink.
A man heads over and sits next to me at the bar. He orders a beer. He didn’t need to sit in that chair, there are plenty of others to choose from.
‘Waiting for someone?’ he asks me.
‘No,’ I reply. Wishing I’d said yes. I really want some time on my own.
‘Drinking alone in the afternoon? That’s usually a sign of one thing.’
‘That I’m a single woman out gagging for sex and should therefore be approached by men I don’t know and hassled until I give it up?’ I say, accusing him, when actually it’s kind of true. I am gagging for it.
He is around fifty, annoyingly handsome, well dressed in quality casual clothes and he blatantly wasn’t hitting on me. I realise that immediately.
‘I wasn’t going to say that, actually. I was going to say that drinking alone in the afternoon usually means you have something you should be talking about. But sure, I’m a man, so presume the worst.’ He picks up his drink and walks away to a table in the corner. I feel like an idiot.
‘Hey,’ I say, calling him back. He stays where he is, so I go over. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.’ He looks up at me.
‘I have a daughter. You just did what I’ve always told her she should do. So I guess I should just sit over here and shut up.’
‘You don’t need to shut up. Again, I’m sorry. I’m not having the best day.’
‘So maybe you do have something you need to talk about?’ He pushes a chair out with his foot. And gestures to the barman to get me another drink. I don’t turn it down. ‘Or we can sit here for a few hours, play backgammon and pretend our real lives aren’t happening?’
‘That sounds like a really nice idea.’
I guess I’ll have to pump and dump.
Coming out of a pub drunk when it’s still light is like walking down a tunnel towards a fleet of trucks, all with their headlights shining right into your face. I’d maybe fall to the ground if the man wasn’t holding me up. I never caught his name. It’s not like you can ask again after an hour of sitting with someone in a pub, is it?
He remembers mine.
‘Beth, I’ll hail you a cab,’ he says. I shout the word ‘Booooooring’ like a thirteen-year-old girl who has just been told to button her top up to cover her cleavage.
‘No?’ he asks me. ‘Then what do you want to do?’
I manage to straighten my legs and hold them still enough to put my face opposite his. My head is like a balloon tied to a stick, it keeps flopping down towards the ground. I haven’t been drunk in over a year. I just chugged four gin and tonics in one hour. That’s a lot for me right now.
‘I want to kiss you,’ I say. ‘I want to kiss you on your mouth.’ I manage to keep my head steady enough to make my first attempt. He pulls away, looks up the street and seems a bit cross.
‘What are you doing?’ he says, like I just tried to hit him.
‘Sorry, I thought we …’ My shame taps me on the shoulder. Another man who thinks I’m a giant sexual oaf.
‘It’s OK. But what about this?’
He holds up my left hand, he’s referring to my wedding ring.
‘Oh that,’ I say, looking at my ring like it’s a scumbag ex-boyfriend. ‘This is what I think to that.’ I take it off and throw it into my bag. ‘Does that bother you, because it doesn’t bother me?’
‘No. I understand that feeling,’ he says.
‘Take me to your house,’ I demand.
He looks both ways and puts his arm under mine to help me. We’re at his front door within a few minutes.
‘Wow, you’re really rich,’ I say, as we walk in. Which is rude. I’m drunk and behaving like a student. It’s a house in Highgate. The entrance is beautiful, ivy growing up the front of the building. The living room he leads me into doesn’t feel like a bachelor pad. ‘You have great taste for a man.’
‘My ex-wife did most of this. She didn’t want the house when we split. She wanted all my money though.’
‘What a bitch,’ I say, smiling. It’s a joke, and thankfully he gets it. This is OK.
He is at a little bar pouring us some drinks. He hands one to me and I drink it quickly before reality dares to remind me who I really am.
‘Look at us, two strangers alone in a house together. I’ve had enough booze to pretend to be someone else for a bit, have you?’ I say, wiggling around flirtatiously.
‘I don’t know if I need to pretend to be someone else, but I’m certainly happy you’re here,’ he says, with all the assurance of a man in his fifties who doesn’t have personal or intimacy issues. I put my drink down and sit on the sofa. He does the same. I channel Risky and throw myself at him.
His hands are stroking me and squeezing me. Touching me more passionately than my husband ever has. It feels unreal, like it’s someone else’s body, but it isn’t, it’s mine. This is what I want and need. It’s what I deserve. It feels good. I feel good.
I take off my jeans and lie on the sofa. He goes down on me. Michael hasn’t gone down on me since before we were married. The last time he did it, he stopped before I came and said he just couldn’t stand the taste. Why am I just realising how cruel that was? I have a gorgeous vagina. This man is reminding me of that. It’s like I’m a bowl of warm chocolate and he’s eating his way out of me. He’s so good at it. I have my hands on his head. I want this to be filthy. I come very quickly. I’m not done.
I bring his head back up to my face and lick and kiss his lips. He starts to undo his jeans. I don’t want a quick fuck on a sofa in the missionary position. If he comes quickly and that’s all that happens, it will have been for nothing. I need more from this. I pull away from him and reach for my bag. I almost fall off the sofa but he catches me. He must think I am getting a condom, but I’m not. I have a little pot of Vaseline lip balm. I tell him to take off his jeans, and I smother his penis with the Vaseline. He tells me I’m ‘so hot, so sexy’. I look him in the eye and ask him if he’s feeling naughty. He tells me he is.
I am a sexual woman and he is so lucky to have me on his sofa. But I am getting what I want out of this. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.
I turn myself around, and when he tries to enter me I guide him upwards. I think of Risky. I want to be more Risky. ‘I want you in my arse,’ I tell him over my shoulder. He hesitates, but not for long. He undoes my bra. It’s a nursing bra and it falls to the sofa. My breasts full of milk, my baby at home, Michael. I get those thoughts out of my head. I deserve this. He gently pushes his penis into my bottom at my request. I’ve never had anal sex before, I don’t know what brought me to it in this moment. The need to feel dirty? In control? Desired? Or just that my vagina belongs to someone else? If I do it this way, maybe it isn’t so bad? Or maybe I just need to reclaim my slutty side.
The man is gentle but passionate. He pulls my hair and scratches his nails down my back. As he starts to ramp up, and I know this will end soon, I tell him to go harder. ‘Harder, harder,’ I say, and he slams into me. Air popping from my anus, making fart sounds that I don’t allow to bother me. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t hurt. I thought it might. He is so turned on, and that makes me feel so good. This is as much for my head as my body, I need to be ravished. He pulls out and comes all over my bottom. He falls back onto the sofa and pulls his shirt over his penis. Why did he do that, was there poo on it? I look down on the sofa, there are huge wet patches underneath me from where my breasts have leaked. I’m trying to stay in the moment and keep reality at bay, but it’s hitting me now. What am I doing? This is not OK.
‘Oh God,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what that was about.’
‘What that was about? You being so sexy?’
‘Yes, that. Me asking you to do that, that isn’t who I am.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘It’s not OK. Oh God.’ I realise the milk is pouring from my nipples down my tummy.
‘Wait, are you lactating?’ he says, throwing his t-shirt at me to catch the drips. ‘How old did you say your kid was again?’
I don’t remember what I told him.
‘Oh God. Please, I need to go, I don’t know what I was thinking.’
Another small but audible air pocket pops out of my bum. They are not actual farts, but still. This is not ideal.
‘Here,’ the man says, passing me my soaking wet, heavy nursing bra.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as I turn around and put it on. I get dressed. He politely doesn’t watch me. I suddenly don’t feel sexy. I feel flabby, pale, and like I want to hide.
‘Are you going to be OK?’ he asks me, kindly. ‘I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t asked.’
‘Will I be OK? I don’t know. I just need to go home. I’m sorry for all of this. I have a baby and a husband, and I don’t know what I’m doing.’
He stands up. He puts his hands on my arms. ‘It’s OK. OK? Everyone has the right to act out of character sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’re OK, and this is between us. It doesn’t have to collapse your world.’
He’s a really nice person.
‘My husband and I are having problems,’ I tell him. ‘I have a baby. He is four months old. I work full time. I’m not sure I’m coping with everything as well as I thought I was.’
‘Being a parent is hard. Don’t beat yourself up, OK? We can only do the best we can.’
‘I’m not sure this is me doing my best, do you?’ I look down at my boobs and laugh. He does too.
Thank God this happened with him.
‘Maybe not. But rather than give yourself a hard time for what you did, try and fix the reason you did it.’
‘Your daughter is a lucky girl,’ I say.
‘Yeah, maybe. Maybe not. Here.’ He hands me my trousers and starts straightening the cushions on the couch. I wonder what happened with him and his wife. I know people can’t be judged on one encounter, but right now I feel like if I was married to someone like him, I’d never let him go.
‘Thank you for not making this worse,’ I say, sincerely.
‘Thank you allowing me to fulfil a fantasy I never thought I would.’
‘Really?’
‘Yup, never gone there before. Big box ticked here so please leave feeling charitable.’ He smiles again. ‘Can I get you a car?’
‘No, I’ll be OK. Thank you.’ I kiss him on the cheek and leave.
I’ve done it now. I’ve cheated on my husband. I am that wife.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The image is of Lauren’s left hand, a diamond glistening in the light. It is laid over a man’s hand, presumably Gavin’s.
The caption reads:
Days to go. I love this man. Feeling so so lucky. Commitment, together … bring on forever!! I dedicated my life to you, my love. Is it Saturday yet??? #LOVE
@genedder: You deserve happiness, you bring nothing but light.
@happyguuuuuu: You help me get through my day. You bring such joy. Keep being you!
@nailedforeveryours: The DREAM
@yellagain: More pictures of Gavin please!!!! Can’t wait to see your dress
@unitednotabit: Excuse me while I vomit into my shoe.
‘What happened to you, you look like you’ve been dragged through a bush backwards,’ Michael says to me as I walk into the house. The word ‘backwards’ rebounds in my head. All I hear is ‘anal, anal, anal’. It’s like he knows.
I feel like I just murdered someone and buried their body. This secret will kill me. I cheated. I never thought I would actually do it, but I did. I am that person.
‘Lauren wouldn’t stop talking so I couldn’t pump. Look, I’m leaking everywhere. I have to go and shower,’ I say, calmly.
Michael looks at my soaking chest when I open my jacket and looks suitably horrified by the mess of it.
‘You’re drenched.’
‘I know. I missed Tommy so much today, I think it sent my milk supply into turbo speed and I had no time to pump.’
‘OK, well go and have a shower and I’ll bring the pump to the bedroom and leave it out for you, OK?’
He is being nice. Which is confusing. I need him to remain horrible now, because of what I just did. I rebelled against a husband who was mean. I need him to stay mean.
In the shower, I let the warm water wash away the milk on my body and the sperm from my back. I have an uncomfortable sensation in my bum. It’s a little sore.
I keep trying to think of the man’s name. Robert? Peter? I wish I could remember.
‘The pump is ready for you, I screwed the bottles on,’ says Michael, opening the door a little but not coming in. He feels like a stranger.
‘Thank you,’ I say, turning the shower off. I could have stayed in it for days, washing away what I did. It’s a shame you can’t shower away your feelings.
In the bedroom, Michael has plugged in the pump and left it all ready for me, along with a glass of water and a biscuit on the bedside table. I tie the towel around my waist and hold the funnels in place. Sitting on the bed, in front of a full-length mirror, I watch the bottles fill with milk. It feels so good to get it out. My boobs decrease in size. I put the full bottles on the bedside table and then lie back, putting my hands over my face as I start to sob.
‘Beth, are you OK?’ Michael says, coming in to check on me. He takes a towel off the back of the bedroom door and lays it over my chest. I’m too tired to rip it off and tell him I have the right to bare my breasts in my own house.
‘I’m just tired. It’s been a big few weeks,’ I say, wanting him to go away. I need to be alone. Why am I never alone?
‘I’m sure you are. Well, the wedding is at the weekend, and then you can take some time off, and be with Tommy. You’re doing great, OK? I’m proud of you.’
What is happening? He was supposed to be cruel to make this easier.
‘You’re proud of me?’ I say, looking at him through my fingers.
‘Yes, I’m proud of you. It takes a lot to have a baby and then get right back to work. But you’ve done it, and Tommy and I are proud of you. And I’m sorry, OK? I’m sorry for what I said, I know how painful that must have been.’
He smiles and lays his hand across my belly. He kisses me on the face. I’m so confused.
‘Kiss me,’ I ask him. I get a peck on the lips. ‘No, kiss me,’ I say again, pulling his face towards mine. He is trying to get away, but I am holding his head so hard he can’t. I keep kissing him, regardless of him not wanting to. Eventually he breaks away from me and stands up.
‘What is wrong with you?’ he says, a look of disgust on his face. ‘I just said sorry. I hoped we could talk and you turned it into that again. It’s like you’re a sex addict, it’s all you think about. And have you been drinking? I can smell it on you.’
There isn’t much point in saying anything. I just lie still, allowing his words to thump down onto me, like I’m a pavement in the rain. I’m a cheating ex-whore, married to a man who finds me repulsive. Craving sex from strangers and demanding sodomy in nice houses. All the while selling the concept of love and matrimony to a woman who, if rumour has it right, is being cheated on. I am the worst.
‘Yes, I’ve been drinking,’ I tell him, rolling my head to the side. He can pour his judgement all over me. I don’t care anymore.
‘It seems like such a waste, but I’ll throw this down the sink,’ says Michael, holding the bottles of breast milk, looking very cross. ‘Drink your water, eat your biscuit and get some sleep.’
He leaves. When the door closes, I throw the glass of water at it and scream.