Blast from the past

One thing that keeps me sane is a stable of fuck buddies: Old lovers who moved on but are reliable after their fashion, trustworthy, sexy and insatiably horny. One of my more forbidden secrets is that I still have sex once every year or two with my former husband. It's true. We had a very messy break-up, with adultery on both sides. The funny thing is, even during the divorce, we fucked a few times. And after. Maybe it's not so funny: I know a number of women who slept with their exes even after the marriage ended. Even with all the damage, there's still that magnetism that drew you together in the first place, the magic — white and black magic — of shared history. I'd be interested in reader experiences.

So my ex-husband called. He was coming to town and did I want to have dinner? I knew where this would end up (as an insecure boyfriend put it a few years ago, "If you go see him, you'll fuck him). So I just shortcut the process and told him to come over. Come over to my place with my oh-so-experienced bed that has taken so many men and a few women since we were married. Of course, he needed no coaxing. Of the many things we have in common: We're both sluts.

He's still a handsome man, smart as hell with the kind of voice that makes me melt. He still makes me laugh. He reads, unlike so many men now. The affair with his little Rachel led to marriage and that blew up, but not before they had a daughter and he's paying major child support. Do I ever think about the children we could have had? Someday I'll tell you about that. But this is a sex blog, right? "Why would I be doing this?" my so-called healthy girlfriends would say. Because he knows just how to kiss me, when to brush my lips and neck with his mouth, when to pull me forcefully to him and kiss me deeply. Because he knows just how to undress me, and when I want to be fucked dressed hoisted up on the bathroom vanity (as happened this time, panties pulled aside, my skirt up, stockings still on and high heels digging little souvenirs in his back.

His cock is average length, thick, with a big head. It still hurts a little when that big head enters me, a good hurt that will ease very quickly but leave a forbidden memory. He's gotten better as he's aged, and not every man can say that. Before I set aside my own jealousy, I remember once he was fucking me with my legs pulled wide against his elbows, giving me this amazing pounding I'd never experienced before. "You've been practicing!" I moaned. (He claimed the wife hadn't had sex with him for a year, which I actually believe). He appreciates my sluttiness, too. Oh, my god, he can lick me. Of all my lovers, he's the best cunnilinguist. So this time, after he carried me to the bed after the hard, screaming standup fuck in the bathroom, he lovingly undressed me and started, as he always does, at my toes. A major foot-fetish guy, he loves to lick my toes — a major turn-on. Then he started kissing and caressing all the way up one leg. He barely touched my pussy with his mouth and breath before starting again on the other leg, all the way back at the foot. He loves my feet. He loves my legs and spends much time on the inside of my thighs, driving me crazy. Soon he was licking every millimeter of my labia and deep tongue-fucking me, before moving up, ever-so-gently, to my clit. Then doing all this at just the right pressure before I came again so hard I thought I was going to pass out. Later, I rode him and ran my fingers across his so-familiar chest, with its light thatch of dark hair, feeling his warm hands on my hips, then letting him pull me down to suck hard on my nipples. Then, face to face missionary style, a long, long time.

We have new traditions, one of which is when I give him a last blow job before he leaves, I say, "You're really going to miss this." I started that when we had our first strange but irresistible sex after the big blow up and separation. And he always says, as he did this time, "I know."