Once a week, Daily Intel takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the Woman in a Sexless Marriage Addicted to Phone Sex With Strangers: Female, 58, Los Angeles, fund-raiser, straight with some same-sex experience, married.
7:15 a.m.: Ride bike; streets are so quiet on Sunday mornings. Endorphins. Love to sweat, feel my heart pounding. I smooth out my T-shirt. I don’t care who sees me touch my breasts.
5:30 p.m.: Squeezed between parents in back seat with Husband driving to family dinner. Text from a number I don’t recognize: “Hope new year is good so far!!!” Three messages later, I realize it’s L.A. Phone-Sex Guy. Charming. Into role-play. Okay, I had broken one of my phone-sex rules: no phone numbers. I blush as I explain text messaging to parents. Then I clear the entire conversation from my phone, just in case anyone sees it. How the phone-sex line works is you call in and record a greeting that “stimulates the senses,” as the system says, and then you connect with whomever sounds hot at the moment. Men pay for the service; women don’t. Some men are horny and just want to get off; some are actually looking for relationships, and are okay with no strings attached. I started doing it because it seemed safe. Physical intimacy with Husband started seeming like a chore after three miscarriages, but I still have a libido, and this is how I stimulate it.
8:50 a.m.: Husband is home from work. A good reason not to have phone sex.
9:30 a.m.: Text from Longtime Lover–Neighbor–Former Boyfriend From 30 Years Ago: “Sorry about last time. I’ll finish job.” Him: a blowjob. Me: almost an orgasm. Text back: “Miss yr cock, but Husband is home. Sorry.” I pay medical bills.
11:30 a.m.: Ride bike, but today streets aren’t so quiet. Muscles feel tighter and stronger. Adrenalin rush when dodging cars. Fuckers.
8:45 p.m.: After dinner and two glasses of wine, ask Husband if he thinks my three-year-old sheer black silk blouse is too sexy. Push up my boobs. He’s watching taped old episodes of Rawhide. Really. “New blouse?” he asks. I think that means, “yes, too sexy.” Keeping the blouse. My boobs do look good. Back to the closet for my annual purge. Donating the “mom” stuff.
6:35 a.m.: Husband goes back to work. I never know whom I’ll find on the chat line or who likes my profile. That’s part of the fun. I connect on the phone-sex line to NYC Phone-Sex Guy. He describes his hot après-Sunday brunch threesome with girlfriend and picked-up guy from Brooklyn bar: Drunk from mimosas, they kiss and share and suck Brooklyn Guy’s thick seven-and-a-half-inch penis. Memories of lust with bisexual ex-lover never fade away.
6:50 a.m.: With vibrator, it doesn’t take much to get off. I disconnect before NYC Phone-Sex Guy comes.
8:15 a.m.: Text from L.A. Phone-Sex Guy: “Good morning. What are you are up to?” I don’t tell him about the early morning phone sex I had with someone else, but say I’ll be in the area where I know he sells luxury cars. I break another phone-sex rule: I agree to meet. Likely I’ll “engage in risky sexual activity” as my new sex addiction therapist calls it.
10:30 a.m.: Arrive at showroom, and he’s in front. Geez. His real self is exquisite compared to the Top Salesman snapshot on the dealership website. Perfectly immaculate in a navy pinstripe suit and color-coordinated everything else.
10:45 a.m.: He picks a black 2011 C350 Sports Sedan to “test-drive.” Cutting to the chase after car talk, L.A. Phone-Sex Guy puts smooth hand to my mouth. “Take it.” His tone turns demanding. Now he’s rubbing himself through his pants; no way he’s going to come on his suit or the leather interior. Sucking fingers is a precursor to a blowjob. Then he touches my clit, before putting his fingers inside me, making me twist and moan. Eyes closed, I’m certain other drivers are watching us. He bites my hand. Pulls my hair. Lightly puts his hand around my neck. What have I gotten myself into? Time out. We need a safe word. “Flowers,” he says. “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” song title flashes across satellite radio display. He cruises now with both hands on the wheel.
11 a.m.: He pulls into a parking garage. His condo complex. He parks, but we stay in the car and make out. Rough and hard kisses. He yanks his penis out of the pinstriped suit. “It’s okay. Suck it.” I do. He comes. I swallow. Instead of the anonymity of the phone line, this is real. Way beyond my comfort zone. Maybe.
11:10 a.m.: I drive back to the lot like nothing has happened beyond the pitch about performance and mileage.
11:20 a.m.: Reward for blowjob plus light domination: He sends me to his regular manicurist. His treat. Excellent customer service! Cute Female Manicurist cuts, buffs. and polishes. L.A. Phone-Sex Guy is one of her best friends. She has wonderful breasts.
6:30 p.m.: Text from Lover of Nine Years: “Will be home by 8:00.” I text: “Miss u.” I don’t make plans to play even though Husband is working late. Still shaken from this afternoon, but I can’t tell him. Cheating on top of cheating.
1:30 a.m.: On couch in living room. Can’t sleep. Cry a little. I just want something normal. Call phone-sex line, but only listen to men’s messages and masturbate. Drift off, then wake with a start. The phone service has hung up on me because I was silent.
6:40 a.m.: Husband tells me he’ll see me tonight. Fight urge to call phone-sex line. Besides, son is home from college; he’ll sleep until noon.
8:05 a.m.: Unexpectedly early booty text from Lover. Keeps me off phone-sex line. Brisk walk to his place.
8:20 a.m.: It’s comforting when he answers the door in the worn terrycloth robe. Sash loosely hangs around his 65-year-old teddy-bear belly. A full gut and full beard. We’ve got 40 minutes. I push him against the kitchen counter and flick my tongue around his earlobes. Does the trick. It’s been eleven days, he tells me. I get on top, and am wet enough for him to slide right in. Phone rings; it’s his almost-ex-wife. 40 minutes now down to 30. I still marvel at how our routine, even a quickie, is remarkably not boring after close to nine years. Really need kisses and hugs more than anything anyway. He grabs my hair that I’ve grown long just for him. Half the pleasure is watching myself suck in his full-length mirror. Next time all for you, he promises.
3 p.m.: Continuing saga with new therapist of why-no-sex-in-marriage-for-over-ten-years. Answer: Because it’s just not there and I’m good at keeping secrets. I’m tired of thinking about why.
4 p.m.: Sale at boutique next to shrink’s office. Italian-made silky thongs for $5 each. Get pairs in black, olive green, red, and navy blue. New, sexy lingerie is an obvious sign of having an affair.
6:40 a.m.: Yea! No phone sex! Miraculously focus on work. I do have some work.
4 p.m.: Crushing on Anderson Cooper. I watch show in bed as excuse for afternoon nap and excuse for phone sex. Couldn’t stay away. Today it’s Tucson Phone-Sex Guy; he asks what kind of porn am I watching. None, it’s Anderson. Feeling benevolent, I fake an orgasm. So maybe it’s an addiction.
10:30 p.m.: Text L.A. Phone-Sex Guy. “Still up?” I flirt, but this innuendo is way too obvious.
11:30 p.m.: No response. Wave of that stupid junior high-school girl feeling floods through me.
9:30 a.m.: Text from L.A. Phone-Sex Guy: “DON’T text before 7 or after 9. Girlfriend’s here.” Got it. I kind of want to throw up. Figured. Lesson learned. I don’t need this. I think.
7:35 p.m.: Do a load of laundry. Empty pockets of son’s jeans: two condom packages, a used book of matches, and three crumpled health food store receipts. Happy he’s eating decent food.
7:30 a.m.: Husband leaves to do his Saturday morning husband errands.
9 a.m.: Need pedi badly because Cute Female Manicurist only did mani. Feel like I’ve cheated on my regular ladies. Pick color. Switch from “I’m Not Really a Waitress” red to “Black Onyx.” Lover likes black nails. Makes me feel younger. We both have time this morning to make love. I like that.
10:35 a.m. We role-play husband and promiscuous wife. He says he’s okay with my phone sex, so I tell him how I did it with a Texas Rock ‘n’ Roller Guy with a strap-on. He sticks his penis between my breasts. “You like me just for my breasts,” I say. Cleavage got his attention in the first place when we met some 30 years ago. He fingers me, twisting inside and around, then circles my backdoor. He takes my hand and places it on my clit; I rub hard and fast. I worry that I’m way too used to the vibrator. I swear to him if he answers the fucking phone, I’ll divorce him.
10:55 a.m.: Patience is a virtue. Not going to let this climax get away. The elusive big O. He stands up, and jerks off while I wait for his cue. I watch in the mirror. Now! He pushes my mouth around his penis. Glad we have time to cuddle afterward.
7:30 p.m.: Very nice dinner and movie with husband and best friends. Girlfriend says my nails look nice. I’m positive I blush. I tell her I’m thinking about working at the car dealership. I’m tired.
TOTALS: Two hot, sweaty bike rides; one real phone-sex orgasm; one fake phone-sex orgasm; a Mercedes test drive with one scary, sex-with-stranger blowjob; one girl-girl flirtation; one failed come-on to Husband; one masturbation session to Anderson Cooper; one act of sex with Lover but no orgasm for me; one act of sex with Lover and fabulous orgasm.