I had started chatting with him maybe an hour prior on Tinder, but I wanted sex. I needed sex. Just sex. And maybe some physical affection. “Radio Gaga” by Queen is playing on the radio. On repeat. Not my favorite song in the world. But a good one. A great energy.
The stranger appears cute in his photos, seems sweet, a little nervous, just like me. I think maybe he will change his mind when he sees me. He isn’t a super-hot Instagram model like many of the guys I initially swiped left on. He is do-able. I have to get this feeling off my chest. Now. I have to see what it feels like.
How did I, a seemingly happily married woman, get to this point?
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I am 40 years old.
Rob and I have been together over 23 years, and we are getting ready to celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary in a month. I was a high school senior when we met. He had already been out of school for a few years. My teenaged body was tight and sexy from an adolescence of sports and cheerleading. Of course, I didn’t realize it though at that time. I thought I was too fat, although I was a size 5. My 34C boobs were too small. At 5’2”, I was far shorter than the other girls who got all the attention. I was a little shy, too goofy, and awkward. At least that is how I felt. I wish I would have realized that I was perfect the way I was.
They say that youth is wasted on the young and I spent most of my young life despising my own body. I wished it were different, better.
I met Rob at a park near his house in the suburban neighborhood we both grew up in. He lived less than a mile from me. At that time, I was in the midst of an obsession with a cute boy I went to school with, who was a drummer in the marching band. He didn’t notice me. Looking back, he probably did but I was unaware. I didn’t know how to flirt. I couldn’t read his body language. I didn’t have the courage to suggest we hang out, or casually brush my fingers on his arm while laughing at a stupid joke like the tall blonde girls at my school did.
On that crisp November evening, I wanted to go to a football game to see this boy play in the field show at halftime, and maybe try to flirt with him. That’s the kind of person I was…a girl who would attend a football game, not to check out football players, but to gawk at boys in the marching band. However, my best friend Carissa had other plans. She and I had been friends since the age of 7, the same age both of our sons are now. She wanted to go see a boy she liked named Rudy, who was basically living at Rob’s. Rob had super permissive parents, which made his house the perfect crash pad for drinking, fucking, and getting stoned.
It was that night Carissa and I ended up with Rob and Rudy, and a slew of other teenagers and young adults chilling on the basketball courts at the Park, a few blocks from Rob’s house. A few were playing basketball. Some were smoking cigarettes or weed. Others were drinking beer. One guy was kicking around beer bottles. Several were talking loudly and being obnoxious. Couples were pairing off. There were a fairly even amount of boys and girls. Some of the people I already knew, and many I was introduced to that night, including Rob and Rudy.
One of the people I recognized was Rick, a tall, macho boy I hooked up with at a party a year earlier. I was a virgin and had just basically broken up with a boyfriend named Donny, who I wasn’t that into anyways. Rick had a girlfriend who tried to keep the reigns tight around him, but she was unsuccessful. I was famous in my teenage years, and well into my adulthood for being a straight edge. Didn’t drink too much. Didn’t do drugs. But I wasn’t uptight about it either.
There was plenty of alcohol and weed flowing, and I was caught up in the ambience.
Rick and I were dancing, swaying to “Hotel California”, and he started kissing my neck, my face, and my chest. We got caught up in the moment, and the next thing I knew, we were naked on a bathroom floor doing everything, but the main thing. The plaid top and pink suede miniskirt I so carefully picked out were strewn across the floor. Rick’s fingers were deep inside me. His tongue probed me between my legs. He was the first boy to do that to me, and I almost lost myself. When he brought his throbbing cock up to my mouth, I figured at that moment I had to decide whether I was going to be the type of girl who spit or the type who swallowed.
I managed to leave that bathroom that night with my virginity and dignity intact. I was never THAT girl as a teenager, the kid who wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. I never felt that I had to be in love with the person to whom I lost my virginity. I was very open about my sexual desires, and even had considered having casual encounters with boys I hung around with. But I knew, that with Rick in the bathroom, while we were having fun and enjoying ourselves, this was not how I was going to lose my virginity.
“You’re gonna give me blue balls!” Rick whined, after I shook my head when he tried to enter me. He finished himself off and came on my stomach. I enjoyed what we did, but proud of what we didn’t do.
Other than his girlfriend’s empty threats to beat the shit out of me, I never really saw Rick around. He was the one dude in Rob’s group who actually went to the same high school as me, but I don’t think he ever actually went to school. He was a troubled kid, as was Rudy, and many of the other lost souls who wound up at Rob’s house.
That night at the Park, Rob was kind of shy and a little drunk. He was trying to flirt with me, but really ratcheted it up a notch when he realized he had competition. Much to Carissa’s dismay, Rudy was into me. How I enjoyed taking the attention away from her. Not because I was a horrible person, but because Carissa really hurt me earlier that year, when I found out that she fucked my boyfriend, Aaron. I wasn’t actively seeking revenge, but Rudy just fell in my lap, so to speak.
Aaron was the boy I surrendered my virginity to 6 months prior to meeting Rob.
Carissa had just been dumped, and was high on coke, and she swore that the only thing keeping her from true love with Aaron was me. So, they had a coked-up fuck fest on the campus of the high school they were both attending. And I only found out because a mutual friend was looking out for me and thought I should know.
Carissa and I remained friends, although much more distant, after that incident, but I wasn’t able to fully trust her again until many years later when she got clean from drugs, got married and had a son a few months before I did.
After a few days of Rob and I flirting, and some innocent check peck kisses good-bye, things stepped up another notch. Rob, Rudy, and Carissa and I had been spending a lot of time together. Rudy was aggressively pursuing me, and although I was not interested, I flirted with him because it simultaneously got Rob’s competitive juices flowing and pissed off Carissa. It may seem petty, but I still harbored deep resentment towards her, and we shared a circle of friends making it difficult to avoid her. Rudy wasn’t hers, however, toying with him made me feel better.
The four of us were walking to a convenience store to get some unhealthy snacks. Carissa whispered to me, “If you don’t go for him, I will.” And that was all I needed. When Rob grabbed his Pepsi out of the refrigerator case, I brushed up behind him. When he turned around, he wrapped both his arms around my neck, and pulled my face to his. I don’t know how long we had been kissing, but eventually the store owner had to tell us that he was closing, and Carissa and Rudy were long gone.
Within about a week, Rob and I were in love. We were all over each other all the time. I would ditch school to go see him. He would come with me to Friday night dinners at Grandma’s.
By that time, I was no longer a virgin. I had sex with Aaron when we were dating, and also fucked two other guys just for fun after my relationship with Aaron blew up. About three weeks after Rob and I met, and several close encounters in malls, parking lots, and the park, we consummated our relationship in his bedroom at his parent’s house. We were fast and furious. Young and horny. And wildly in love.
However, I felt that our love had an expiration date. It was now Spring, and high school graduation was fast approaching. I didn’t know where I would be attending yet, but I knew I was going, and it was going to be somewhere far away from home.
I thought it was going to be good-bye. Forever. I would go away, we would forget about each other and we’d both move on. He’d hook up with one of the skanks that hung around the crowd at the Park, and I would spend college hooking up with random guys, going on bad dates, and drinking too much at parties. But that wasn’t to be.
“I’ll go with you.” Rob said, “Wherever you decide to go, I’ll go with you.”
“I am going to be living in a dorm the first year,” I reminded him.
“I’ll save money. When the first year is over, we’ll get an apartment together.”
“Ok.” I muttered, disbelieving that any of this would actually come to fruition.
“I want to marry you, Alexia. I want to wake up next to you every morning and see your face. That would make me so happy.”
And that’s exactly what did happen. The college I picked was in San Diego, 2.5 hours away by car. The first year of college, I would come home every three weeks or so to see him, and occasionally when he could, he would come to see me. Rob didn’t have the financial means that I did. I was in no way from a rich family, but I did have a car. I knew that I needed a college education to have a good future. Rob never graduated high school, never went to college, was chronically underemployed, hardly ever had a working vehicle for more than two weeks, and his family didn’t have the means to help him out of rough spots.
On that day in May, at the end of my freshman year, when we packed up the stuff from my parents’ house, and a few of his things, into a moving truck, and pulled out of the driveway, no one thought he would be able to do it. No one thought he would have the money, no one thought he could get a job, nor did they think we would still be together a year and a half later.
We lived in a lovely apartment during the last three years of college in San Diego, and we managed to scrape together enough money to pay for it all and leave college with minimal credit debt. But problems were already starting to pile up. Rob is a truly kind-hearted person, a do-er, and a people-pleaser, but he was guilty of over promising things he could not deliver and letting me down. He made some friends while we were living there, mostly co-workers, and sometimes he would spend long drunken nights with them, leaving me alone in the apartment. I never worried about him cheating, but he was very impressionable and often wound up doing what his friends wanted him to do, even if it was not in his, or our best interest. I was always worried that something bad was going to happen to him, or that I would have to come to his rescue. Thankfully, nothing that bad ever happened, but the heavy drinking never let up, even when he was not with his friends. Naively, I felt that if he loved me, he would quit, or at least cut down. He made some half-hearted attempts over the years, but that was it.
After college, we returned to our hometown so we could be closer to our respective families. I started teaching high school. He continued to be chronically underemployed for many years. The drinking continued. Nights, Weekends. Days that end in Y. Five years later, he got a stable union job as a bus driver for the same school district that employed me. We moved into a bigger, nicer house that I bought.
One day in February, after a long day of work and nearly 10 years together-most of them living in sin, he blurted out. “Let’s get married.” And by July of the same year, we tied the knot in a beautiful beachside wedding with about 100 close friends and family members. Aside from the continual binge drinking, Rob made a great husband. Doting and loving, he cooked and cleaned, and fixed things around the house. While he drank quite frequently, which both annoyed and worried me, and also caused money problems, he was never abusive, violent, or unfaithful.
There was one thing we were holding out on, having children. I was excruciatingly fearful of bringing a child into a relationship where alcohol was a third party. I wasn’t desperate to have a child, but I was past 30, and knew I would want at least one child someday.
I went to a therapist specializing in substance abuse treatment. I didn’t have a substance abuse problem, but I did, if you know what I mean. Rob’s problem was my problem. I was suffering but he didn’t get it
I had a few therapy sessions, where I was basically encouraged to leave the relationship. Rob did not want any help with his drinking, nor did he think his drinking was a problem although, we fought about it constantly, and he never was able to save any money. I made 3 times as much money as he did. I never gave him money for drinking, but he always managed to have money for drinking, but not anything else. I tried to trick him into attending a therapy session with me intended as sort of an intervention. He thought that there was something wrong with me emotionally because I was so constantly angry about his drinking, and I had become the stereotypical nagging wife. The therapy session didn’t work. He felt attacked, embarrassed, and did not agree to make any changes.
Why don’t you just leave him? Gigi would ask me when I routinely complained about his drinking. The truth is that Rob is a very good person and a very supportive husband. Even though he would never be able to support us financially, he fed me, he kept up the house, and always kept my car sparkling. Rob has never been the jealous type, checking my phone, snooping through my things, or constantly asking of my whereabouts. And because Rob was such a homebody, it was natural for me to spend time away from home. He supported me running around town to various workouts because it kept me happy. He was fine with me spending really long days with Gigi in Santa Monica because it left him alone to drink. It was customary for me to attend family events without him. Occasionally, I would travel for educational conferences, or cheerleading expos. Being apart was built into our relationship, as least as it evolved after we returned from college.
Despite our problems, we still had an ample sex life. I had my first orgasms with Rob as a teenager, and in the years that followed I continued to learn more about my body and what works, as well as what does not. He, and I, discovered my G-spot. I became multi orgasmic. We would sometimes climax simultaneously. Our sex live was pretty vanilla, but it was satisfying, frequent, and passionate to me. It was enough.
As time went on, I had begun to forget about my previous teenage dalliances, and what it felt like to have raging hormones, to the desire to have someone right then and there. I only understood my adult body in a sexual context being connected to Rob.
Two years later, our son was born. While I was pregnant, we joked around about how once we became parents our sex life would be over (I really thought that it would be). During the pregnancy we had sex frequently, although I had trouble climaxing. Not because I couldn’t, but I was pretty aggressive sexually, and I was afraid that I was going to mess something up by having rough sex. It was during that time that I bought my first vibrator. We were having sex, but I needed to cum and didn’t want to risk any damage to my unborn child.
To my surprise after the baby came, our sex life did not deteriorate. In fact, we had sex (against any good obstetrician’s orders) two weeks after I delivered my son by C-section. The first time we had sex after childbirth, I didn’t climax. I just wanted to see what it would feel like. The second time we had sex (still less than three weeks after the birth), I surprised myself by having an orgasm. I wasn’t even trying. I squirted breast milk all over him and we had a laugh. After our Elijah was born, Rob even quit drinking, went to a couple of counseling sessions and group sessions. That lasted about 7 months until his mother passed away. He had a few beers after her memorial service, and I couldn’t say shit about it. He had a very warm relationship with his mother, and he was hurting.
In the years that followed, Rob developed a close friendship with our neighbor, a man named Chris. Rob and Chris became drinking buddies, but simultaneously Rob and I started to live very different lives. While we were both gainfully employed for the School District (me as a teacher, him driving buses) and enjoying our summers off, we did not spend so much time together outside of the house. We both reacted to the demands of parenting differently. I threw myself into my work and exercising, and he became a homebody. Even when he would hang out with his buddy Chris, it was usually in the garage drinking beer. While Rob was still a superhero with the household tasks, he came crankier, less patient both with me and our son, and didn’t really have a desire to do things with me like go to weddings and family events or see shows. We started taking separate vacations. I wanted to live my life. He just wanted to exist.
This summer, a few months after my 40th birthday, the shit hit the fan. The school year had just ended, and I was getting ready to leave town for a week to go to an educational conference. It had been at least 2, maybe three weeks, since we had sex, and I was getting restless. Even when we were long distance, during my first year of college, we didn’t go that long without it. Even when I was recovering from a C-section, we didn’t go that long without it.
When I came back from the conference, still nothing. It wasn’t just the lack of sex I was missing. There was no physical intimacy between us at all. No kissing. No snuggling. I even felt that he would recoil when I would touch him or make sexual advances. My breasts, now an ample 34H, didn’t appeal to him anymore.
Was he cheating? No. Was he stressed about work or money? Possibly. Was he bored? Certainly, it has been nearly 24 years. Was he not sexually attracted to me? It was entirely plausible. Even though I am still very active and physical, my body is not the same as it used to be, and I came back from the conference with a few more extra pounds.
He is not the same either. He was once a boney young man, and now he is sporting a beer belly, stinky feet and breath, and a dick that doesn’t always work the way it used to. I clearly wasn’t as mad about him as I used to be, but I still wanted sex. I still wanted intimacy, a human touch. I wanted to be desired, appreciated, and lusted after.
Little hints of my dissatisfaction with my marriage started creeping in. Almost 2 decades ago, a few years after returning home after college, and becoming a teacher, I started chatting very sexually with a man I played online games with. It was the dawn of the internet era. He was the first person who got me to masturbate. I was in my early 20s. I thought about flying out to see him wherever the fuck he lived in Ohio. He told me he was separated from his wife, which was a lie, but I began to fantasize about what it would be like to make love to someone else. My boobs were huge, and not perky. How would I make them look nice? I was too fat. Would anyone even want to fuck me? I even sent my cyber boyfriend pictures of someone else’s body, because I was too ashamed to show him mine. I wasn’t ready.
A few years later, when I was in my mid-20s, I met a 40-year-old man who wanted to take me out to Sushi. I let him. He told me that while he wasn’t into my body type, he still wanted me to sleep with him, because after all, as he so kindly put it, “Sushi for sushi.” I was disgusted, and definitely not ready to give my body to a strange man, especially one who didn’t really want it.
In the last 10 years, I became Facebook friends with my now married ex-boyfriend Aaron who was living a few miles away. We mainly just commented on each other’s photos of our kids and liked each other’s silly memes. He even showed up at my son Elijah’s baby shower to apologize for hurting me when we were together as teenagers. He was in recovery from many years of serious drug use, and one of the steps was to apologize. When Aaron showed up at my 40th birthday earlier in the year, and we talked for hours as everyone in the room seemed to disappear, I was not ready.
But on this June morning, I stared at my husband who was watching the news while our almost 8-year-old son was at day camp, and I thought to myself: If this dude doesn’t fuck me…
Well, he didn’t. And I snapped.
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It was one of those classes about body positivity aimed at giving women self-esteem. I’d heard it all before but something in me clicked that night. Rey De La Guerra is around 50, starting to grey, and super flamboyant. I think he is from Argentina. He used to be a choreographer for stage and screen, and he spent the majority of his time in class getting us to see our flabby, overworked, overtired, child-bearing bodies, as an asset and not liability.
“I wish I had what you had.” He told us in a husky murmur. “I wish I had the power to control a man using my body and get him to do anything I want. I wish the world understood how powerful it is to be female, and that women would claim their power, their sexuality, and their life for the betterment of human society.”
It was cheesy, but it moved something in me. When I did the sensual, hip-swerving moves, I wasn’t worried about how my belly was jiggling, or whether my $50 sports bra over my $100 regular bra working in unison to hold my massive tits up was performing its designated task. I wasn’t worried about whether the one young, fit, cute girl in the room was more sexually desirable than me. I just had fun and I enjoyed myself. I reveled in the power of my femininity, my sexuality, and my desire.
This is my life. This is my body, I thought as sweat dripped down my cleavage.
I was determined to enjoy it. Reclaim it. Indulge it. I ran my hands down my hips and the tops of my thighs.
And the next morning…I downloaded Tinder.
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