The Joy of Getting Properly Fucked

After months of monogamy, Seth gave it to me really good

Photo by IgorVetushko on Deposit Photos

It had been months since I’d been adequately fucked by anyone other than Hubby. I love sexual variety, I dare say, I need it, and I wasn’t getting it. I’d been on dates with long-time partners that didn’t work out, and I’d tried out a new partner or two who weren’t up to the task.

After taking a few months off, I decided to re-download Tinder and start swiping. One evening I was lounging in an epsom-salt-laden bathtub, and I swiped right on a man I’ll call, Seth, a 40-year-old man looking for an on going situation. His profile indicated that he was in an open relationship and not interested in a one-time hookup. Score! Sex with a man in a similar situation interested in the fireworks that come with knowing someone for a bit instead of a hit it and quit it.

Seth and I didn’t chat long before I pitched a date. I’ve been doing the dating app thing long enough to have a series of questions designed to rule out bullshit and dishonesty. (I dislike bullshit more than blatant lying, but that’s a different article).

Seth seemed to fit the bill, and I had a rare free evening, so we agreed to meet at my favorite restaurant. There’s a place near me where I write for hours on weekday afternoons either at a corner table or the bar. I know the owners, all the servers, and feel comfortable bringing a random Tinder date there.

I gathered Seth’s personal information (name, address, picture of his ID) and passed it along to Hubby. A note to all people using dating apps: if you’re meeting a Tinder rando for a date, get their info and pass it along to someone who loves you. It may not prevent a crime from occurring but can help solve one.

I dressed for the evening in my favorite dress, a wrap dress with bright geometric splashes. It was cold for late summer, so I added a pink knee-length jacket.

When I visit this restaurant, I sit alone and order the hummus plate without pita and extra veggies. I’m often there so long that I make it through the first pile of veggies, and the servers bring me a second. Occasionally I’ll order a glass of hard cider or wine, but generally, I sip water without ice while I write.

The restaurant had a 30-minute wait, and the hostess, Lexi, offered to call me when something opened up because she knows I hate standing around and waiting. There is a tunnel leading from the Main Street district to the riverfront in town, with a picturesque walk along the boardwalk so, when Seth arrived, I pitched a walk along the promenade to take up time. I also have an easier time getting to know someone if I’m in motion.

We walked and chatted with each other about our families and our journey to non-monogamy. I find that men who are also in open relationships understand. They don’t ask stupid questions such as: “What’s wrong with your relationship that you need to sleep with other people?” or “Is your husband unable to satisfy you?”

In the course of our conversation, I let Seth know about my struggle with Lyme disease, and he mentioned that his wife had suffered from a severe form of the illness as well. The undiagnosed illness landed her in the hospital during a terrifying episode where she turned blue. Doctors scrambled to find a cause and eventually settled on Lyme disease saving her from a pacemaker.

I didn’t drag Seth to a hotel room that night because his wife had Lyme disease, but it certainly didn’t hurt. When you have a chronic illness that many people don’t understand, it is incredible when you find someone who does.

Lexi called to let me know there was a table ready, and I let her know we were a five-minute walk away. At dinner, Seth and I shared the hummus plate appetizer. The hummus at this place is homemade every day, so I know I’m talking about it a lot, but it’s usually good enough to warrant mention. That evening it was lemon thyme, which wasn’t the best flavor the chef makes but was a delightful lead into dinner anyway.

Seth and I discussed the menu and, when I announced that I’d be getting the burrata, arugula salad with shrimp, Seth sighed in relief.

“I get to order a salad, too then.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be dainty around me, order whatever you like. If I were in the mood for a burger, that’s what I’d be getting,” I follow a strict eating regimen most of the time for health reasons, so when I do manage to get out to a restaurant, I order whatever I please.

“I didn’t want to seem weird, but I really like salads,” he smiled across the table.

During dinner, we chatted about our families, our adventures in nonmonogamy, and our careers. Seth is in the military, and, though he’s eligible for retirement soon, he plans to stay on for a while. He enjoys the work and has no reason to leave.

Once we’d finished dinner, the question of where and how to continue the date came up. Neither of us was ready for it to end, and, thankfully, Seth is about as shy as I am (not at all). He pitched, moving somewhere more private, and I accepted instantly. We settled on a Marriot in the next town over and left the restaurant.

Seth followed the proper dating rule of not invading my personal space until I invaded his. So, when he kissed me, I wasn’t surprised. I made it clear I wanted it.

I love first kisses. They might be one of my favorite parts of nonmonogamy. I don’t’ ever have to give up first kisses. That first brush of lips, with a hand in my hair and fingers tracing along my jawline, tells me a lot about the sort of lover a man or woman will be. Seth didn’t disappoint.

We arrived at the hotel, checked in, and were inside the room in moments. Getting into a hotel room with a new partner can be an awkward dance. Who makes the first move? Do you sit and chat for a while or just get naked?

After a brief (delicious) kiss, Seth excused himself to the restroom, and I took a seat on the sofa in the room, kicked off my shoes, and took a deep breath. At this point, I was both excited and hopeful (the kissing was really outstanding). Of course, I’ve met people who knew what to do with their lips, but wound up lost somewhere between my clit and my perineum.

I shot a quick text to Hubby, At the hotel, excited, safe. ;)

The typing bubbles popped up instantly. Have fun. xoxo

Seth came out of the bathroom, and I rose to meet him, wrapping my arms around his neck for another kiss. Within moments we were naked and rolling around on the bed. Seth slid down and settled between my legs.

I love getting my pussy licked. It’s relaxing and tingly and lights me up. However, it rarely results in an orgasm for me without a finger added to the mix. The exception is when a man eats my pussy like it is the most delicious thing he’s tasted in a month.

Within a few minutes, I felt a climax building, my stomach clenching, my legs shaking. Then, I realized I’d forgotten to tell Seth about my propensity for squirting orgasms. I generally like to tell someone before I squirt all over their five-o’clock shadow in the spirit of informed consent. But it was too late for that. Seth sped up the circular pattern of his tongue, and an orgasm ripped through me.

Seth didn’t flinch. He didn’t run away from my orgasm like some partners have. Seth also wasn’t interested in forcing me to squirt repeatedly (which can result in me getting pretty sore and needing to wrap things up sooner than I would otherwise). He looked up at me and smiled.

“I didn’t know you were a squirter,”

“Sorry, I forgot to mention it, I usually smiled, and went back to work, this time more slowly, mindful of the post-orgasmic sensitivity that many women experience.

Then, I felt him swelling against my leg.

If you’ve read my work before, you know that I’m no stranger to men who have trouble performing. It’s relatively common among men who are transitioning from a monogamous marriage to an open one. Once condoms get introduced, and the pressure to perform mounts, some soldiers take to hiding. I’m always good to go with some digital stimulation and oral instead of penetration, especially if my partner doesn’t freak out.

However, by the time I’d met Seth, it has been MONTHS since I’d met someone who didn’t have performance trouble. So, when his fairly generous erection pressed firmly into my leg, I felt like fist-pumping in celebration. Instead, I went to work with my mouth.

I started slowly, licking up his shaft and around the head of his delightful cock while Seth let his head fall back in pleasure. A moan escaped his lips when I took his length into my mouth and down my throat. I pulled back and repeated the motion slowly, taking all of him with each stroke.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” Seth’s hands moved towards my hair but hesitated.

I reached up, took his hands, and placed them against my head. I appreciate his hesitation — a nod to the fact that not all women enjoy having their head forced onto a cock. However, when the joint pain isn’t flaring up in my jaw, I’m a fan of an aggressive (not necessarily rough) blowjob.

“If you keep that up, I’m going to come. And I don’t want to do that until I have a chance to fuck you,” Seth flipped me onto my back.

Rather than moving ahead to penetration, he settled between my legs for more oral pleasure. He wasn’t in a rush, and he loved eating pussy.

I lost count of my orgasms. That’s not to say I typically count them; however, with Seth between my legs, it was as if one started and rolled right into another until I was begging for him to penetrate me.

“Do you want me to fuck you now?” Seth asked after a deep, come-infused kiss.

“Yes, please,” I breathed.

Seth reached into the backpack he’d brought and pulled out a condom. I stopped him and handed him one of mine.

“Latex allergy,” I said, handing him a latex-free Skyn extra-large.

“Oh, ok,” Seth tossed the condom in his hand to the side and rolled the latex-free one over his shaft.

He lifted my legs, placing them on his shoulders, and lined his cock up with my dripping pussy. He entered me slowly, which was delightful because it allowed me to feel every inch of him as he stretched me open.

When he bottomed out, I reached around his thighs and pressed him against me so he wouldn’t move right away. I tensed and released my pelvic floor a few times, massage his cock, and allow my vagina to get acclimated to the intrusion. Then, I begged him to fuck me.

When a lover takes the time to warm me (and most women) up to the point where she is begging t they are likely to be rewarded with a pulsating, wet, and enthusiastic vagina. This time was no exception. All that time spent with his tongue and finger certainly paid off. Within a few thrusts, I climaxed again, and my orgasmic fluid flowed over Seth’s cock.

I moved my legs to wrap them around Seth’s hips, using my heels to pull him into me. My hips moved in time with his thrusting until I felt him swell and pulsate as he climaxed.

I excused myself to the restroom and, when I returned, Seth was relaxing against the pillows.

“I noticed you gave me the extra-large sized condom. I’ve never used Skyn before. I usually used Durex.”

“Durex probably doesn’t fit you,” I replied, climbing onto the bed next to him.

“No, I’ve never had a condom actually feel like it fit before,” Seth let his hand slid down my waist and over my hip.

“They come in different sizes. A lot of people don’t know that. Some companies will send you custom-sized condoms, but none of them have latex-free ones, so it doesn’t help me out any,” I returned.

For some reason, I launch into sex-writer mode after an orgasm.

Sometimes I worry that my pile of condoms will put a new lover off. I’ve got a section of the bag I carry every day that I use for sex-supplies. It has lube, cleansing wipes, mints, a bullet vibrator, and latex-free condoms in several different sizes organized into labeled Ziploc bags.

What am I worried about that the new person will think I’m promiscuous? I hate that those shame monsters (the ones that tell you women should be chaste or coy, and never overtly sexual) come out to play. The truth is that I don’t carry around shame about my sexual activities, which is why I choose to write about them.

I wouldn’t invite public consumption of my sexy tales if I attached my self-worth to the response I get from the public. However, just because I don’t feel deep levels of shame about sex anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still wrestle with my good-little-midwestern-catholic-girl upbringing.

Like most of the people I’ve slept with, Seth didn’t mind my preparation at all. I’ve heard that it makes them feel relaxed and like I’ve got a solid handle on the safety side of things. Perhaps that’s because, by the time I’m pulling out my labeled bags of condoms, I’m relatively sure that this person isn’t likely to slut-shame me.

Seth and I rolled around for a few more rounds that night, and, when I finally made it home, I crawled into be next to a warm, sleepy Hubby. 

Within moments, his hands found my skin, and his mouth was on mine.

I pulled him on top of me and wrapped my legs around him, inviting him inside.

“Were you slutty tonight?” Hubby breathed into my ear

“Mmm-hmmm,” I bit my lower lip.

“Good girl. Did he do a good job?” Hubby sank into my throbbing opening.

“He really did, I’m a little sore.”

“Then, I’ll be sure to be gentle this time.”

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