Today, every day and any day, I can enjoy exciting, adventurous, affirming sex. And meaningful too: you know, when you feel connected to yourself, your body and your lover.
It wasn’t always like this. I couldn’t even look at myself naked in the mirror, never mind let anyone else see me without my clothes on. Health-checks were a nightmare in case I was asked to stand on a scale.
It’s not that I’m overweight or ugly. I have boobs to rival a Playboy centrefold: 36D and standing out firm even without a bra. At 48, you have to admit, that’s impressive. The fact is, I hated my body and I dreaded sex.
This is how it all changed.
After several unsatisfactory relationships, both with men and women, I met an older man who seemed just right: sensitive, intelligent, a good listener. When we first had sex — which was soon, because I didn’t want to lose him — he said, “I think it’s time for us to get naked.” No it wasn’t. It wasn’t great sex, but it was a start, and things got better over the next few months. I had a few orgasms, and sometimes, in the dark, I would pull my top up to let him suck my bare breasts. It was a quick way to make him come. So that was that. I quickly covered myself up.
We got married. Some might accuse me of using sex just to catch a husband, but I think it’s quite a common story. Is there sex after marriage? It happened less and less, until it was reduced to a handjob about once a month while I scrolled through my phone messages with my free hand or left him to finish himself off. I told him sex was just physical, not an important part of marriage or romance, and maybe I believed that, but I was just making excuses. I hated my body more and more as I entered my late 40s.
I was scared he might leave me, or take another woman on the side if he got the chance, or lose interest in me. But he seemed willing to wait. A greater fear possessed me. It was getting to the point where I didn’t just avoid sex, but even physical affection. What was the point? If I touched him, he’d want to make love. In bed, if he got close to touching me anywhere I didn’t like, I rolled away as fast as possible.
So what changed? Sex therapy? Falling in love with another woman? Finding a lover? Getting a full-body makeover (as if I needed one?). No: now comes the good part.
One evening, while James was out, I was watching a movie when I surprised myself getting aroused by a romantic scene between two gorgeous actresses. It wasn’t a sex scene as such: no nudity, just the gradual build-up of sexual tension between the two of them, the light touch of a hand, a look, a gentle kiss. I got more and more absorbed. My body began to yearn for loving in ways I had long forgotten. I revived some old, abandoned techniques and brought myself to climax, my first orgasm for over two years. It felt so good, that I repeated the experiment again, several times, over the next few days. I noticed how my mood improved.
Of course I kept all this secret from my husband. It wasn’t that I felt I was cheating on him, or that I wanted to have sex with a woman. It just felt like a safe place to give rein to the hidden, sexy part of me.
My next step was to look for porn. I didn’t approve of it, being a feminist and all — although I know it’s more complicated than that; it’s part of the new woman’s freedom to pursue her desires and interests the way she chooses. The real reason I feared it was that I hated the idea of men being turned on by the sight of women’s bodies. I wanted to be superior to all that, intellectual rather than physical, in case anyone looked at my body and got turned on. But now I was curious. I didn’t need visual stimulation myself, to get aroused. The pleasure I got from masturbation — what a dreary, unromantic word for something so liberating, so soothing, so satisfying! — was enough, in those early days, to get me hooked. I watched, just to feel I wasn’t alone. This was about me.
After a while I started to introduce my pussy into the handjobs I was giving James. They were more frequent now, much to his delight. He found it overwhelmingly exciting to lie next to me, touching his cock while I stroked myself to climax. Our sex life was improving.
Most of the time I concentrated on my own pleasure and didn’t pay much attention to him, so long as he was having a good time. I noticed, though, that he seemed quite practised at jerking himself off; he could do it for himself better than I could do it for him, except he said it was more intense when my hand was on his dick. Unless he had a super-strong imagination or was looking through my underwear drawer while I was out, he must surely have been watching plenty of porn himself.
So I plucked up courage and asked him, “James, can I suggest something? Suppose we watched some erotic stuff together. Would you like that?”
“You mean porn?”
“Ye-es… I want to see what it’s all about.” I was shy to tell him about my own explorations.
“I thought you objected to it.”
“A girl can change her mind. I’m sure some of my girlfriends watch.”
We were lying down, taking a nap, fully clothed. I made space on my lap for my computer, opened up the browser, and said, “Where do we start?”
“How would I know?”
“Come on, James. You must know all the best sites.”
“You think?” He put his hand on my thigh. “OK, let’s start with…”
Of course, I knew that site already. I didn’t have to ask how to spell it. Up came the home page. “What a lot of naked bodies,” I said. “This feels like overload.”
“Choose a category, my love,” he said, patiently.
“Let’s see now. Boobs? Panties? Masturbation? Threesome? MILF? Girl on girl?”
“Why? Don’t you want to imagine a pretty girl sucking your cock? Wouldn’t that turn you on?”
“It would turn me on if you did it! No — why would I want to watch another guy’s cock getting the treatment?”
“You could imagine it was yours. Look — here you can see it from the guy’s point of view. We can look straight down on his penis (not nearly as nice as yours, I admit) while this blonde does the icecream-licking act. You can look at her tits, too, and stroke yourself while she’s busy, right in front of you; here, with the screen there.”
I pushed my computer onto his thighs. His cock was already erect, I could see.
“Here, let’s get you comfortable,” I said, opening his fly and giving him a feel. “Now, look at her.”
“Okay, okay. But we need something for you, Sally.” That was my name.
“I’m getting turned on just watching you. Go on, start jacking off.”
He laughed. “I’ve often fantasized about this.” I put my arm around his neck, placed my other hand over his and we worked his cock together. It had a very productive outcome.
Afterwards, he held me tight and kept saying, “Thank you, thank you.”
The next evening, after supper, I took his hand and said. “You want a repeat performance?”
This time, he got undressed straight away himself and had the lube ready. I pulled down my neckline for a moment so he could see I was wearing lace. “Girl on girl,” I ordered.
The two women on screen knew how to fuck, but they couldn’t act. Still, we let one of them pretend she didn’t know what the other wanted. They kissed for a bit, quite a long time, actually, which I found arousing and so did he. In fact, he kissed me too, while they were at it.
They started showing an interest in each other’s boobs. I took his hand and held it to my breast. As the scene heated up, he began to fondle me. I didn’t usually like it, but it felt good. The performers gradually got naked. Panties were pulled off, rather uncomfortably it seemed to me, because one of them had forgotten to take her shoes off first. We got to look at their butts, their cracks, their pussies, all of it quite easy on the eye. Sure enough, one of them got down on the other and we had some close-ups of the target area and the tongue and the cheeks and the eyes and the hair.
It’s all so predictable, and yet I found it sexy. He did too, especially since we were doing this together. “You want to come?” I whispered in his ear, wrapping my long cool fingers around his cock.
“Not before you do,” he smiled, and turned to me. He began to stroke me through my jeans. I pushed myself hard against his fingers. Then I made a decision.
“Fuck this,” I cried out. “Don’t look. Put out the light.”
I pushed the computer to one side, pulled off my jeans and yanked off my panties. For the first time in years he lifted himself on to me and I felt that delicious sensation of his cock sliding into me. First he pleasured my labia and the entrance to my vagina with his tip, and then he sunk deep, deep into me. I was wet and warm. Expertly he moved: tiny movements at first, exploring me. Then came the slow thrusts, short to begin with, getting longer and longer. I could feel his excitement. My cunt began to contract and expand as my blood raced to my nerve ends. I held him tight, and moved with him. I could feel my climax building, building. I held on a little longer, and then allowed it to wash all over me. Within a millisecond, it seemed, his penis shuddered and his load was crashing against my womb.
That was the first breakthrough. As I got more used to it, I would briefly uncover my breasts. He couldn’t see them properly, because the lights were off, but he could feel the smooth naked skin — or the lace, if I kept my bra on — and I quite liked it. Enough to give him that treat from time to time.
Then came the day when I let him go down on me. The sensation of his mouth munching my bush, his tongue edging my clit and pressing into my cunt was like an almost forgotten dream. I floated away on the pleasure of it. Why had I denied myself all these years? Why had I deprived him? For what? Was it pride? Vanity? Fear? Were those good reasons to waste the best years of my life pretending that sex didn’t matter?
Still, I wasn’t ready to go naked. Surely it wasn’t necessary? We were getting plenty of sexual satisfaction. When I looked at James, though, how he could lie there naked next to me, how he dressed and undressed in front of me without awkwardness, I envied him. One evening I walked into the bathroom while he was taking a bath: unlike me, he never locked the door and often didn’t even close it.
I sat down on the edge of the bathtub while he soaped himself down.
“This is sexy,” he said. “Look what you’re doing to me.” I did. It was impressive. “I might just have to go for the soapy hand trick.
“What if it’s my soapy hand?”
I dipped my hand into the warm water, soaped it up and gave him a long, delicious handjob. He was kissing me most of the time as I bent over him.
“Sally, do you realize I can see your boobs down your pyjama top?”
“No, you can’t. Say you can’t. Promise me.” His cum was still hot on my hand, but I wanted to be angry. I was certainly alarmed.
“They are so beautiful, Sally. Why can’t you just enjoy them?”
I didn’t want to. I was scared silly, terrified even. He had seen my tits. Feeling like a parachutist before their first jump, I let him walk me to the bedroom mirror. Delicately, lovingly, he peeled off my top and there they were. He stood behind me and we looked into the mirror together. Our eyes met.
“You see? What could be more wonderful?” Lots of things, I suppose. Sunsets. Snowy mountains. Full moon. The Moonlight Sonata. But I could see what he meant. He kissed my neck and put his arms around me, cupping my tits. I felt warm and comforted and safe. For the first time, I looked at my breasts properly, and I fell in love with them. I used to hate them. I would walk with a stoop to hide them away and I bought bras that flattened them out. If only I could afford a boob-reduction job! I wanted to be skinny and androgynous.
Not any more. My sumptuous breasts were magnificent. Are magnificent. Why had I never noticed this before?
“Keep your hands there,” I instructed him, and twisted round to kiss him. “They’re yours. At last.”
He fondled me, he felt the weight of them, tested their curves, teased my nipples. They were standing out proudly.
That night we fucked properly, our naked bodies pressed together, pleasure radiating from me to him, from him to me. When I came, it was seismic. I clung to him, shaking with the intensity and the happiness of it all.
I will never look back.