This story is barely worthy of inclusion among the sexual adventures that typically get shared on this page, but it matters to me and I imagine there are plenty of people in the same sort of situation who might resonate with it.
What sort of situation is that?
A complacent marriage.
It’s not in decline, but it’s not ascending to new heights either. He’s not a bad husband, but he is too exhausted by work to be an especially attentive one. I am not a hopeless wife, but I get so little time with him that it is hard to build up the sort of connection that allows one be vulnerable. So instead we are partners, who keep a house and a family running pretty well and who try not to think too much about the existential questions about passion and purpose. We have sex still, but it is perfunctory and predictable.
I don’t know when things changed for me. It might have been when I realised I had not orgasmed with my husband in over a year. It might have just been a threshold of boredom was breached and this suburban housewife started to use lust as an outlet. Regardless, sometime this spring I found myself masturbating more, becoming interested in porn, and then in time fantasising about my yoga teacher.