I swear I never wanted to have an affair.

Truly, I don't think anyone really does, because for most people, having an affair means that something has gone badly wrong in your life plan.

I wanted the fairytale. I wanted to find my Prince Charming; to be swept away by him, and spend the rest of my happily ever after being, well... happy. I wanted us to dance in the kitchen, laugh in the lounge, and make love in the bedroom. Spend the rest of our lives being joyful and hopeful and faithful, our bodies growing older but our love staying as fresh and youthful as it had always been.

But, that's not how it turned out.

Seriously, fuck Disney and their bullshit unrealistic expectations.

The first few years with Bill were incredible. They were everything I wanted and more. He was so kind and attentive, and he could not keep his hands off me. We fucked the way new couples do - always looking for opportunities, both taking the time to make sure the other was satisfied, talking about fantasies and things we were curious about and then exploring them together. True, my libido was always that little bit greater than his, but not so much that it was an issue. He made me feel sexy and beautiful and wanted. If I wanted it every day and he only wanted it every second day then that was fine - the waiting just made me look forward to it even more, and in the times between he would kiss me, and hold me, and tell me how pretty I looked, even when I was wearing simple clothes for doing housework, or first thing in the morning when no one is at their best.

If we could have continued like that there is no way I would be sitting alone on a park bench, feeling guilty and nervous and scared and oh-so-fucking excited as I wait on John arriving.

But, it didn't continue like that at all.

The first few years were amazing, then, gradually, so slowly it was almost imperceptible at first, the decline started.

I want you to know (in fact I think my guilt means that I need you to know) that I do not place the blame for this solely at Bill's feet. Like they say, it takes two to tango, and it also takes two to fuck up a marriage beyond any reasonable hope of repair. Not as catchy as the tango thing, but definitely just as true.

We were never rich. We both worked hard but there never seemed to be quite enough money to pay everything that needed paying. We got into debt, we started arguing about things that we would never have argued about before. We tried to get pregnant but it just didn't happen for us. Sex went from being something that was all about pleasure, to something that was closer to being a chore. We were fucking to make a baby that never came. I don't think he meant to blame me, and I don't think I meant to blame him, but rather than huddle together and face our problems as a team, we each disappeared into ourselves and worked separately on our own defences.

Eight years after we got married, we found ourselves in a childless and (as a direct result) sexless marriage.

Why didn't we split up? Well that's an excellent question, and one that I've asked myself many, many times. I think that when you've tried really hard at life, and life has fucked you, repeatedly and without lube, up the ass... you learn to lie very still and just let it happen, because fighting it might make it hurt even worse, and you know you couldn't possibly bear that.

Also, it wasn't all bad. Bill is a good guy. He tries his hardest, he is respectful and kind, and he almost never raises his voice to me. Our life might sound like some sort of hell, but to be completely honest, most of the time it's actually quite nice. Our money worries are behind us, we're both happy in our careers, we eat together every night, we talk about generic things, we sleep in the same bed. Once sex is properly removed from a relationship, it stops being something that you argue about, and instead just becomes one more thing you don't do together as a couple, like waterskiing or wrestling crocodiles. You get to the point where you don't even notice it as being a missing element from your marriage - it's more like it's a missing element from your life. Not your married life: your life.

And my last answer to that question (although I do accept that by putting it last I'm making you doubt the validity of it) is that I do love Bill. It isn't the love that you get in fairytales, because as we've already established that love is bullshit, but it is love though. A love that lacks passion and intensity and physicality can still be precious, regardless of what books and movies might tell you.

But, despite what I've just said, I'll freely admit I was willing to risk everything I had just to feel that tingle of being sexually desirable again. I didn't want to destroy the security that my undoubtedly mediocre little life gave me. In fact, I was absolutely determined that wasn't going to happen. I'm not a stupid person. I'm not a bad person. But, as I lay in bed each night, quietly masturbating with a single finger on my clit while Bill was snoring beside me, thinking about random men who had glanced at me during the day and fantasising about what it would have felt like if they'd approached me and kissed me and touched me and fucked me, clamping my hand over my mouth to stifle any sounds as I came to thoughts of being licked and fingered and penetrated and oh-my-god just fucking wanted... ultimately I decided that I just could not accept another 30 or 40 years of celibacy.

Ultimately, after weighing everything up and rationalising and feeling guilty and rationalising some more, I decided that what I needed was an affair.

And that's when I met John.

I'd found an online community for people who were living with the dreaded Dead Bedroom. It was somewhere I could go to talk about my situation without needing to worry about feeling judged, because everyone there was in the same place.

There were frequent discussions and rants about what it was like being in love with someone who didn't want to have sex with you anymore. I saw a lot of myself in those posts, but to begin with I was just a lurker, watching and sympathising from the sidelines but rarely engaging. I think initially I felt guilty even admitting that my marriage wasn't perfect. It felt like I was betraying some ancient institution. I mean, how dare anyone (especially a woman!) talk openly about wanting more sex when they were married?! You took vows to stick with it, for better and for worse. It was your duty to suck it up (lol - I wish) and make the best of what you had. But gradually, eventually, I started to comment and add my own thoughts and feelings. The release I got from being open and honest was so cathartic it was almost spiritual.

And then one day there was a post from a man called GuiltyButHornyButGuilty. I immediately liked his username because it almost perfectly encapsulated exactly how I felt.

He was 46 (ten years older than I was), married, no kids, and his wife wasn't interested in sex. He spoke of how he loved her, and I liked how not once did he speak badly of her. He didn't resent the lack of sex like so many others on the forum did, and he didn't try to make out like she was the bad guy. He just said that for reasons he didn't fully understand, their sex life had gradually stuttered and slowed and then stopped entirely. There was so much in what he wrote that I identified with, so I decided to message him and let him know that I understood how he felt.

He messaged back.

I replied, he replied to my reply, and soon we were messaging at least daily.

I found out that he lived quite local to me. It might sound sad, but just knowing that he was geographically close to me gave me a little pulse of pleasure.

Obviously we discussed our situations at home, and what we were missing in our lives. Because I didn't know him and he didn't know me we could both be honest with each other. It's one of the strange little quirks of being human that we find it so much easier to be truthful about who we really are with strangers then we do with those closest to us.

Quite quickly, John became the main fantasy when I masturbated, even though I had no idea what he looked like. And, our conversations started to turn sexual. We both admitted that we needed sex and intimacy, but we both also felt guilty about that. He was funny, intelligent, and -for reasons that I would struggle to put into words- I trusted him. About two weeks after we started talking I jokingly (although actually not joking at all) suggested that if we had an affair maybe all our problems would be solved.

John agreed.

I asked if he was serious, my heart racing as I typed out the words.

He told me that he was, but that we should agree some ground rules first.

I agreed very much that rules would be important if we were actually going to do this, and we settled on the following:

1. This is an affair, and will only ever be an affair. No one is leaving their current relationship.

2. In-person meetings will be a maximum of once a month, and always at a neutral location.

3. If either of us 'disappear' without warning the other will not flood their inbox, because it might be that they've been caught, and all devices are being monitored.

4. Sharing personal information will be kept to a minimum. I don't need to know where you work, where you live, or even what your surname is.

5. During any sex, there will be absolutely zero physical marks. No scratching, no biting, and obviously no hickeys.

Even coming up with those rules with him gave me a thrill like I hadn't felt in years. I know it sounds silly, but I felt like a secret agent, like I was living a double life and had this mission I needed to complete without anyone knowing about it. I'd be doing everyday things like shopping or making dinner, and without warning thoughts of John and what we might do together would pop into my head and I'd get those intense full-body shivers, feel like I was short of breath, and absolutely definitely know that my panties were getting damp.

I know it's a bit of cliché, but for the first time in years I felt like I was alive again, and it was intoxicating.

Our online conversations progressed too. We went from generic talk about what kind of sex we liked, to it being much more specific, much more direct. He told me that he masturbated thinking about me, imagining touching me, how my skin would feel pressed against his as I lay under him, how my pussy would taste and how it would feel wrapped around his cock.

His words made me wet. Whenever I got one of those messages at home I would need to immediately go to the bathroom and read and reread his words while I stroked and flicked my clit, biting down on a towel to keep the orgasm silent.

I never thought I'd be the type of person to send dirty messages to anyone, but John made me want to do it. I told him that I also masturbated thinking about him, and that I lay in bed touching myself while my mind was filled with thoughts of him fucking me and licking me and me sucking his dick and him cumming in me while I wrapped my legs around him and pulled him closer.

I didn't tell him, but it was the thought of making a man orgasm again that turned me on more than anything. I think that in my head that had become the most powerful need for me; to know that a man wanted me so much that he would cum just from the pleasure that my body gave him. I wanted to feel that eruption of masculinity when his entire body tenses and he fucks you in hard, deep spasms as he cums inside you because you turn him on so much that he needs to do it. I needed that back in my life.

I sent him a picture of my breasts.

That was a big deal.

Obviously other men have seen them in the past, but that was the first time I'd taken a photo of them, then sent them away on their own to be viewed by another person. I mean, it was just them, just my breasts, no other part of me was included in the photo, and John was going to look at them and then he was going to tell me what he thought of them.

When you think about it, it's such a bizarre concept.

When you meet a guy in real life and you get to the point where he's going to see you topless, you don't sit him down then stand in front of him and lift your top then wait silently and nervously while he looks at them, hoping that he likes them. In real life there's talking and kissing and touching, and the gradual reveal, and then more kissing and touching and, hopefully, sex. Him seeing your boobs is just one part of a bigger deal. But, when you send a photo online, you're basically saying, "So, here's my boobs. This is what they look like. Hopefully you'll find them aesthetically pleasing. I await your appraisal."

Bizarre, but, I was so happy when he replied, "Your tits are amazing - made me instantly hard just looking at them" that I thought I might burst. And I loved that he used 'tits' rather than 'boobs' or 'breasts' because, to me, it's a much more dirty word. It speaks of pure sexual need and desire and outright lust.

He asked me if I wanted to see his penis, but I politely declined. Dicks can definitely be pretty, but for me they've always been something best enjoyed in the flesh. I like the way one feels in my hand and my mouth and my pussy and how they smell and taste much more than I like the way they look. Most of all though, I like what a rock hard cock represents, and after years of not seeing one, I wanted the next time I saw one to be in person.

It might sound from reading the above that I was fully submerged in a heady rush of excitement and sexual passion, and to an extent I was, but underlying all of it there was still that lingering feeling of guilt, and more than a little bit of shame. Bill was still there, I was still a married woman, and I knew that what I was doing was wrong. On good days the wrongness added something illicit and taboo to the whole thing that I'll admit added an extra element to it, but there were other days where I just felt like the worst person in the entire world, and the butterflies in my stomach would turn instead into thick, heavy, dull slabs of fear and guilt. On more than one occasion (usually after I had masturbated and orgasmed) a sickening rush of shame would wash over me, coating my soul in a dirty, sticky mess of nastiness that felt so horrible that I was determined first thing the following morning I was going to delete my account and never speak to John again.

But, I didn't.

Truthfully, I couldn't.

No matter how low I felt at those times, there was a bigger, deeper, fundamental part of me that needed what was happening. I was so hungry for sexual contact that I was starving, and whatever part of me was fed by sex, it was absolutely determined that it was going to eat.

And so, things progressed...

end of part one