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It’s 1.37 in the morning and I can’t sleep. Conscience probably. So I’ve crept downstairs, avoiding the seventh, eighth and fifteenth steps, which are prone to squeak alarmingly in the quiet of the night (oh, the joys of owning an old house). Fortunately there are still burning coals in the burner, and the large sofa that we’ve pulled up close, is the ideal place to sit and think and commune, while I sip from a not-so-small tumbler of amaretto – just to oil the gears of my memory.

He, having returned from an alcoholic night out with some of his old rugby buddies, is snoring like a mildly drunk bear, dead to the world till noon. Our cats, initially curious about my sudden reappearance, have decided that they don’t really give a damn, and have curled into balls and drifted off to sleep in front of the fire. No conscience about the poor pigeons they slaughtered, gutted, and then didn’t eat yesterday.

As this blog is about my adultery, some might say that the title of this one is an oxymoron. They might also ask, why a committed and mildly repentant cheat is banging on about being honest? And they’d be right. In the court of public opinion, adultery is a dishonest pursuit, and I wouldn’t have the balls to claim otherwise. If indeed I had any in the first place.

The other day I came across an article that seemed to claim that women who became mistresses or adulteresses (in the purely for sex, non-financially advantageous sense) were doing so because of some unresolved “Daddy” complex. Or that they’d been the victims of child abuse, and had issues as a result.

It would be arrogant and wrong of me to say  this is untrue; in some instances this might very well be the case. And those poor women have my complete and un-reserved sympathy.

However, I’m sure that there are some women out there, who, like me can claim to have no such pretensions.

I was not fingered, or in any way molested by my uncle Charley. Although he was fond of giving me sweets and iced creams, and we did go out alone together in his black babe-magnet of a convertible. The closest he ever came to intimacy with me was the occasional kiss on the top of my head, just before he shot off to hunt down some poor, fully grown air-stewardess. You can guess what uncle Charley did.

My father, on the other hand was a veritable kissing machine. He’d kiss me when I got up; kiss me when I went off to school; kiss me when I came home from school and when I was going to bed. I also believe that he often crept into my bedroom at night and kissed me when I was fast asleep. Disgusting!

What was worse, he had a habit of spontaneously hugging me. What was a girl to do? Report him for Child abuse?
Oh, the trials of being a love child.

What I’m trying to say (long-windedly), is that some women fuck-around because they are just horny bitches, who can’t get enough cock or just need variety.

A lady I met, recently told me; “I married Mr. Right-there, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up looking for Mr. Right, even if I do have to suck a lot of cocks in the process.”

I often see men who are just so good-looking, it makes me instantly moist. That sort of reaction is as involuntary as breathing. And no amount of civilizing will ever change that.

Someone out there is saying, “Learn to control yourself, bitch. If we all followed our baser instincts there would be uncontrolled rutting in the streets.”
Agreed.

No one wants to see naked, pimply asses rising and falling unrestricted in the long summer grass. However, 21st century men and women are growing increasingly unrestricted in the way sexual partners are selected. It has become a global market-place, thanks to the far-sighted geezer who invented the internet and the subsequent arrival of Facebook, Twitter, Online Porn and a whole host of ‘Sign up and fuck your brains out’ websites.

As I said, I don’t actively encourage lovers who are married, but it just seems that matrimonially entangled men are more mature, experienced, sophisticated, and knowledgeable in the needs of women. They are not likely to go looking for my clitoris in unlikely places, and they have a better idea how to handle the excitable little button. It doesn’t always pay to treat it too roughly.

Also married men are ultra careful about how they behave, and who they talk to about the woman they fucked the night before. I’m not the only one with a lot to loose.

Some readers will be labelling me a conniving-skulduggerous-tramp, and think that I deserve to be burnt at the stake.Guilty as charged, your honour.

Yet, if I chose to defend myself against such an accusation, I would say that the type of man with whom I have relationships could be described as a conniving-skulduggerous-lying-cheating-scumbag-of-a-male whore.

Wait…. that could be me too; except the male bit, obviously. Can’t win, can I?

Who is to blame? The chaser, or the chasee? The hunter, or the prey? Or is it just that our human sexual imperative is just so strong, and that unless you have a will of iron, you can be susceptible to the insistent call of natural lust.

It is late, or should I say early, heat and the Amaretto are starting to get to me. Added to that, I’m feeling a very horny. I wonder how easy it would be to wake the bear?

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