I have had it badly recently. It creates a knot in the stomach, dryness in the throat and tightness at the base of the penis, under the scrotum. Now and then mini fantasies flash across my brain. On the way to the office this morning, I was walking behind a young woman. For a moment, I could smell and taste her juices - not in reality, but vividly in my imagination, as I licked my fingers, after they had been inside her.
Standing at the coffee machine a few minutes ago, was another young woman, 25 or so years old. She wore a black jumper and white skirt. I said, 'Hello,' but in my imagination, my penis stretched long and hard underneath the hem of her skirt at the back, which it lifted high enough for me to penetrate her from behind.
Only sex gets rid of my frustration. Masturbation takes it away only for a matter of an hour at the most. Norma has been ill and I have not had opportunity to be with any of my lovers for ten days. All the sex I have ever had, with more than seventy women, cannot remove the frustration I feel now. I am like a hungry man who has eaten well all his life, but hasn't has a good meal for days. No thought of gourmet dishes that I once consumed can take away the hunger.
However, I am planning a long drive tomorrow night to meet a new 'potential' lover. I say 'potential' because until it happens, I can not be sure.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Monday, 8 March 2010
Searching for an Old Lover
When I was 30, I met a 47 year-old woman in ‘normal’ surroundings and fancied her to the point of sexual frustration. She was a bit flirty, though she was wearing a wedding ring. She had shoulder-length dark hair, pretty face, and the figure of a much younger woman. I do not want to tell you where we met. It would give too much away, but her name was Megan.
When I met her, there were other people around, but I managed find out where she lived. She didn’t tell anyone her address, but she mentioned that her house was next door to a certain place that many of us knew. We also discovered, in the course of polite conversation, that her husband worked for a well-known organisation and that she was a ‘housewife’ with no paid job. Soon after meeting, I went to the library and looked up electoral register records for that year and previous years. They had lived there for six years and the people in the house before them were May and Charles Weston. I stored this information. Moreover, I planned one day to be her lover.
She sprang to mind now and then and, in moments of sexual frustration, became a fantasy for masturbation. Two years later, when I was 32 and she was 49, I happened to be driving past her house on a week day. I stopped, looked in my Filofax for the name of the previous occupants, and rang on her door bell. She answered and looked simply gorgeous. ‘Is Charlie in,’ I asked.
‘Sorry. You have the wrong address,’ she said.
‘No, I’m sure. I’ve been here lots, but not for six or seven years. Charlie and May Weston.’
‘They’ve moved.’
‘Any idea where?’ I asked, while mentally undressing her from her scarlet skirt and pink blouse.
‘No idea.’
I asked her if she could give me any clues, such as the estate agent’s name or the name of the conveyancing solicitor. I told her it was important and urgent. Now let me add that I have a good spoken voice and dress well. I asked her if she could have a look while I waited. She asked me who I was, and obviously didn’t remember meeting me two years earlier. I told her that they were family old friends. To my delight and surprise, she invited me in. She took me in the lounge, offered me a cup of coffee, which I accepted and then left the room to search through her papers.
A couple of minutes later, she came back with the information. I had deliberately not drunk any of the coffee. I wanted to make it last. I now decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Megan, I owe you an apology. You will want to throw me out when I tell you, but I have no interest in the Westons. I wanted to see you. I’m married, but I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since I met you a couple of years ago. I fancy you. I had to see you again.’
In the space of a few seconds, she became flushed with a rash around her neck. I knew that I was on to a winner. I can’t remember what she said, but it was non-committal. I walked over to her, sat on the arm of the arm chair, stroked the back of her neck. She leaned into me. We kissed. I touched her and after a further minute, touched her breasts. Within fifteen minutes, her knickers and pantyhose were off and I was deep inside her on the lounge carpet. We were both part clothed.
We were occasional lovers over perhaps six years, not meeting often but the sex was FABULOUS. I discovered that her husband was 11 years older than her and was a hopeless lover. He always insisted she got on top and jumped up and down – almost a sort of, ‘I can’t be bothered. Help yourself.’ He would do it at no time other than around 11 am on Sunday morning when he was still in bed.
Over the past few months, I have become very turned on at the thought of making love to her again. I may have second thoughts if and when I meet her – she will be 77 this year, but if she has aged as well as in the years I knew her, she will look like a woman in her fifties. I want her badly.
I have subscribed to a web site that contains all electoral registers in the UK and found where she now lives. I’m sure it’s her because not only does she have an unusual surname, but her husband is shown as being still alive. He must be 91. Now, how do I contact her? Her phone number is ex-directory, but I have her address.
I’d love my readers to give me some ideas. Suggestions to philanderer@live.co.uk
When I met her, there were other people around, but I managed find out where she lived. She didn’t tell anyone her address, but she mentioned that her house was next door to a certain place that many of us knew. We also discovered, in the course of polite conversation, that her husband worked for a well-known organisation and that she was a ‘housewife’ with no paid job. Soon after meeting, I went to the library and looked up electoral register records for that year and previous years. They had lived there for six years and the people in the house before them were May and Charles Weston. I stored this information. Moreover, I planned one day to be her lover.
She sprang to mind now and then and, in moments of sexual frustration, became a fantasy for masturbation. Two years later, when I was 32 and she was 49, I happened to be driving past her house on a week day. I stopped, looked in my Filofax for the name of the previous occupants, and rang on her door bell. She answered and looked simply gorgeous. ‘Is Charlie in,’ I asked.
‘Sorry. You have the wrong address,’ she said.
‘No, I’m sure. I’ve been here lots, but not for six or seven years. Charlie and May Weston.’
‘They’ve moved.’
‘Any idea where?’ I asked, while mentally undressing her from her scarlet skirt and pink blouse.
‘No idea.’
I asked her if she could give me any clues, such as the estate agent’s name or the name of the conveyancing solicitor. I told her it was important and urgent. Now let me add that I have a good spoken voice and dress well. I asked her if she could have a look while I waited. She asked me who I was, and obviously didn’t remember meeting me two years earlier. I told her that they were family old friends. To my delight and surprise, she invited me in. She took me in the lounge, offered me a cup of coffee, which I accepted and then left the room to search through her papers.
A couple of minutes later, she came back with the information. I had deliberately not drunk any of the coffee. I wanted to make it last. I now decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Megan, I owe you an apology. You will want to throw me out when I tell you, but I have no interest in the Westons. I wanted to see you. I’m married, but I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since I met you a couple of years ago. I fancy you. I had to see you again.’
In the space of a few seconds, she became flushed with a rash around her neck. I knew that I was on to a winner. I can’t remember what she said, but it was non-committal. I walked over to her, sat on the arm of the arm chair, stroked the back of her neck. She leaned into me. We kissed. I touched her and after a further minute, touched her breasts. Within fifteen minutes, her knickers and pantyhose were off and I was deep inside her on the lounge carpet. We were both part clothed.
We were occasional lovers over perhaps six years, not meeting often but the sex was FABULOUS. I discovered that her husband was 11 years older than her and was a hopeless lover. He always insisted she got on top and jumped up and down – almost a sort of, ‘I can’t be bothered. Help yourself.’ He would do it at no time other than around 11 am on Sunday morning when he was still in bed.
Over the past few months, I have become very turned on at the thought of making love to her again. I may have second thoughts if and when I meet her – she will be 77 this year, but if she has aged as well as in the years I knew her, she will look like a woman in her fifties. I want her badly.
I have subscribed to a web site that contains all electoral registers in the UK and found where she now lives. I’m sure it’s her because not only does she have an unusual surname, but her husband is shown as being still alive. He must be 91. Now, how do I contact her? Her phone number is ex-directory, but I have her address.
I’d love my readers to give me some ideas. Suggestions to philanderer@live.co.uk
Searching for an Old Lover
When I was 30, I met a 47 year-old woman in ‘normal’ surroundings and fancied her to the point of sexual frustration. She was a bit flirty, though she was wearing a wedding ring. She had shoulder-length dark hair, pretty face, and the figure of a much younger woman. I do not want to tell you where we met. It would give too much away, but her name was Megan.
When I met her, there were other people around, but I managed find out where she lived. She didn’t tell anyone her address, but she mentioned that her house was next door to a certain place that many of us knew. We also discovered, in the course of polite conversation, that her husband worked for a well-known organisation and that she was a ‘housewife’ with no paid job. Soon after meeting, I went to the library and looked up electoral register records for that year and previous years. They had lived there for six years and the people in the house before them were May and Charles Weston. I stored this information. Moreover, I planned one day to be her lover.
She sprang to mind now and then and, in moments of sexual frustration, became a fantasy for masturbation. Two years later, when I was 32 and she was 49, I happened to be driving past her house on a week day. I stopped, looked in my Filofax for the name of the previous occupants, and rang on her door bell. She answered and looked simply gorgeous. ‘Is Charlie in,’ I asked.
‘Sorry. You have the wrong address,’ she said.
‘No, I’m sure. I’ve been here lots, but not for six or seven years. Charlie and May Weston.’
‘They’ve moved.’
‘Any idea where?’ I asked, while mentally undressing her from her scarlet skirt and pink blouse.
‘No idea.’
I asked her if she could give me any clues, such as the estate agent’s name or the name of the conveyancing solicitor. I told her it was important and urgent. Now let me add that I have a good spoken voice and dress well. I asked her if she could have a look while I waited. She asked me who I was, and obviously didn’t remember meeting me two years earlier. I told her that they were family old friends. To my delight and surprise, she invited me in. She took me in the lounge, offered me a cup of coffee, which I accepted and then left the room to search through her papers.
A couple of minutes later, she came back with the information. I had deliberately not drunk any of the coffee. I wanted to make it last. I now decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Margaret, I owe you an apology. You will want to throw me out when I tell you, but I have no interest in the Westons. I wanted to see you. I’m married, but I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since I met you a couple of years ago. I fancy you. I had to see you again.’
In the space of a few seconds, she became flushed with a rash around her neck. I knew that I was on to a winner. I can’t remember what she said, but it was non-committal. I walked over to her, sat on the arm of the arm chair, stroked the back of her neck. She leaned into me. We kissed. I touched her and after a further minute, touched her breasts. Within fifteen minutes, her knickers and pantyhose were off and I was deep inside her on the lounge carpet. We were both part clothed.
We were occasional lovers over perhaps six years, not meeting often but the sex was FABULOUS. I discovered that her husband was 11 years older than her and was a hopeless lover. He always insisted she got on top and jumped up and down – almost a sort of, ‘I can’t be bothered. Help yourself.’ He would do it at no time other than around 11 am on Sunday morning when he was still in bed.
Over the past few months, I have become very turned on at the thought of making love to her again. I may have second thoughts if and when I meet her – she will be 77 this year, but if she has aged as well as in the years I knew her, she will look like a woman in her fifties. I want her badly.
I have subscribed to a web site that contains all electoral registers in the UK and found where she now lives. I’m sure it’s her because not only does she have an unusual surname, but her husband is shown as being still alive. He must be 91. Now, how do I contact her? Her phone number is ex-directory, but I have her address.
I’d love my readers to give me some ideas. Suggestions to philanderer@live.co.uk
When I met her, there were other people around, but I managed find out where she lived. She didn’t tell anyone her address, but she mentioned that her house was next door to a certain place that many of us knew. We also discovered, in the course of polite conversation, that her husband worked for a well-known organisation and that she was a ‘housewife’ with no paid job. Soon after meeting, I went to the library and looked up electoral register records for that year and previous years. They had lived there for six years and the people in the house before them were May and Charles Weston. I stored this information. Moreover, I planned one day to be her lover.
She sprang to mind now and then and, in moments of sexual frustration, became a fantasy for masturbation. Two years later, when I was 32 and she was 49, I happened to be driving past her house on a week day. I stopped, looked in my Filofax for the name of the previous occupants, and rang on her door bell. She answered and looked simply gorgeous. ‘Is Charlie in,’ I asked.
‘Sorry. You have the wrong address,’ she said.
‘No, I’m sure. I’ve been here lots, but not for six or seven years. Charlie and May Weston.’
‘They’ve moved.’
‘Any idea where?’ I asked, while mentally undressing her from her scarlet skirt and pink blouse.
‘No idea.’
I asked her if she could give me any clues, such as the estate agent’s name or the name of the conveyancing solicitor. I told her it was important and urgent. Now let me add that I have a good spoken voice and dress well. I asked her if she could have a look while I waited. She asked me who I was, and obviously didn’t remember meeting me two years earlier. I told her that they were family old friends. To my delight and surprise, she invited me in. She took me in the lounge, offered me a cup of coffee, which I accepted and then left the room to search through her papers.
A couple of minutes later, she came back with the information. I had deliberately not drunk any of the coffee. I wanted to make it last. I now decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘Margaret, I owe you an apology. You will want to throw me out when I tell you, but I have no interest in the Westons. I wanted to see you. I’m married, but I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since I met you a couple of years ago. I fancy you. I had to see you again.’
In the space of a few seconds, she became flushed with a rash around her neck. I knew that I was on to a winner. I can’t remember what she said, but it was non-committal. I walked over to her, sat on the arm of the arm chair, stroked the back of her neck. She leaned into me. We kissed. I touched her and after a further minute, touched her breasts. Within fifteen minutes, her knickers and pantyhose were off and I was deep inside her on the lounge carpet. We were both part clothed.
We were occasional lovers over perhaps six years, not meeting often but the sex was FABULOUS. I discovered that her husband was 11 years older than her and was a hopeless lover. He always insisted she got on top and jumped up and down – almost a sort of, ‘I can’t be bothered. Help yourself.’ He would do it at no time other than around 11 am on Sunday morning when he was still in bed.
Over the past few months, I have become very turned on at the thought of making love to her again. I may have second thoughts if and when I meet her – she will be 77 this year, but if she has aged as well as in the years I knew her, she will look like a woman in her fifties. I want her badly.
I have subscribed to a web site that contains all electoral registers in the UK and found where she now lives. I’m sure it’s her because not only does she have an unusual surname, but her husband is shown as being still alive. He must be 91. Now, how do I contact her? Her phone number is ex-directory, but I have her address.
I’d love my readers to give me some ideas. Suggestions to philanderer@live.co.uk
Thursday, 4 March 2010
I Love Sex With a New Woman
Though Norma and I have a good sex life, I especially like sex with a new women. Some of my very best sexual experiences have been the first time with a woman, and some of those have been the only time.
There was a 38 year old who approached me via the blog in January. She was very specific. She wanted a picture of my penis, erect. (not the kind of picture I'm inclined to take, but I obliged.) She specified no condoms and wanted me to assure her that I could keep going for four hours.
I agreed but asked her not to shave. She told me that she doesn't shave anyway.
Her picture was lovely. She was 5'2" with a beautiful figure. We had a torrid time. She was fantastic and we went all ends up. When she was leaving she thanked me and gave me what I though was a thankyou card. I opened it when she had gone. It contained a card and sixty pounds sterling.
She emailed me saying what a great time she had and said that she had done it to punish her husband. He had had an affair. She went back and told him she had had four hours of the best sex she had ever had with a man old enough to be her father. She told me in her email that he didn't believe her.
Anyway, she doesn't want to see me again, but there are plenty of willing women waiting to take her place, one of whom I'm seeing next Wednesday afternoon. I've never met her before, but she's 48 and married. I am feeling horny at the thought.
Why not e-mail me with your exploits? I'd love to hear, especially from philandering women, anywhere in the world: philanderer@live.co.uk .
There was a 38 year old who approached me via the blog in January. She was very specific. She wanted a picture of my penis, erect. (not the kind of picture I'm inclined to take, but I obliged.) She specified no condoms and wanted me to assure her that I could keep going for four hours.
I agreed but asked her not to shave. She told me that she doesn't shave anyway.
Her picture was lovely. She was 5'2" with a beautiful figure. We had a torrid time. She was fantastic and we went all ends up. When she was leaving she thanked me and gave me what I though was a thankyou card. I opened it when she had gone. It contained a card and sixty pounds sterling.
She emailed me saying what a great time she had and said that she had done it to punish her husband. He had had an affair. She went back and told him she had had four hours of the best sex she had ever had with a man old enough to be her father. She told me in her email that he didn't believe her.
Anyway, she doesn't want to see me again, but there are plenty of willing women waiting to take her place, one of whom I'm seeing next Wednesday afternoon. I've never met her before, but she's 48 and married. I am feeling horny at the thought.
Why not e-mail me with your exploits? I'd love to hear, especially from philandering women, anywhere in the world: philanderer@live.co.uk .
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