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Chapter One

I should be ashamed of my own actions, but I am not.

The old saying that it is different when the shoe is on the other foot- and the other equally tried and true saying that their are no rules in love and war- applied to my situation. Although I had divorced my first husband fifteen years ago due to his love of sleeping with waitresses on the road, nonetheless here I am a decade into my second marriage and doing the same thing that my first husband was doing.

Granted, my extra curricular activities did not involve waitresses- as pretty as other women may be, I am not into them sexually, and the furthest I have ever gone was not past the standard female behavior of noticing another woman’s physical qualities. No, I am a firm lover of men- and their cocks- and the pleasure that I derived from violating the rules of marriage was at the end of a hard penis, not on the lips or tongue of another female.

I have not always been this way- I was raised in a conservative Southern church, a religious relic almost that fit better into the society of the nineteenth century than into modern day Virginia (let alone America as a whole)- and while I did not agree with my pastor on everything, I still was the one whom got the children (and my reluctant husband) up every Sunday morning to make our way to services. I still believe in the basic moral teachings of religion, even if my own actions violate the finer points of theology.

Even when I was turning from a girl into a woman, I soon realized that I have a strong desire for sex. Not just the actual act itself, but everything around it- the foreplay, of course, and even more so, the ways that men use to get me into bed. Being seduced is more than simply the result of these actions- I enjoy everything, from the first cheesy come on line at the bar, to the final conclusion that results in me taking a man into my mouth, or my pussy or ass.

Religion, especially Southern religion, does not condemn sex per se. My mother had eight children, my grandmother fifteen and my other grandmother nine, so it was no secret that having sex was something that women were expected to do. While the clergy in our church do not get into the finer details about sex, they never condemned it. Our current pastor is only thirty, and he himself is already expecting his seventh child.

What the church does condemn is having sex in any but a morally acceptable way (or what they consider morally acceptable to be).

Fornication (sex before marriage) and homosexual sex were often the topics of his two hour long sermons- when he talked about the first, the pastor stared directly at the young men in the church (as if men were always the ones to blame for having sex before marriage!), and when he talked about the second, his eyes seemingly settled on the handful of people in their thirties or older that had never been married. A conservative Southern preacher must have his fair amount of fire and brimstone, of dramatic acting that would put a California drag queen to shame, and a sin in particular that he focused on.

The sin that he especially hated was adultery.

Adultery was the one valid reason for divorce according to my denomination, the only reason why a man or a woman could seek to end a marriage. Yes, there were of course plenty of people in our congregation that were divorced- morals often fall short of practice- but almost all said that the other person was the cheater. This had to be said, not just to keep their standing within our group and small town society, but also for them to justify to themselves their own actions. Rumor had it that the pastor himself had been married before his current wife, a Filipino import that said little and smiled a lot from the front pew, to a woman from up North whom he had caught cheating.

When I sat in church faithfully next to my husband and our three children whom still lived at home- my oldest son, Kenneth, the only child by my first husband had joined the Army a year ago- I did feel guilty. Nobody in church knew, especially not the man I sat next to, that adultery was my “sin of choice.” Yes, I am not perfect in other aspects of my life either, but every time that the pastor got into a sermon about the subject, I had to struggle not to somehow give myself away.

My sin of choice- as if I had a true choice in the matter!

People are all ultimately responsible for their own actions, and are the ones whom will have to pay the price for these actions in the long run. Whatever happened after we died, the results of doing things that we knew we shouldn’t be doing in our lives sometimes did cost us. In the year that I had been stepping out of marital bounds, so far I had been very fortunate not to get caught. I knew that each time I did commit adultery that I was taking the risk again, but I simply cannot help myself.

Why is that?

I don’t do drugs, I don’t drink, and I don’t even smoke, yet I can’t stop having these affairs.

When I married John, he seemed like the perfect husband (as if such a thing existed).

Yes, even then, he was not the most physically attractive of men- though he is only three years older than me, he was already essentially bald at thirty six. He was starting to develop the middle aged spread- not quite fat, and not obese, but when I met him, his gut was developing. He was missing two teeth, and he wore terrible clothes. No, the first time I met him, I was definitely not impressed by the way that he looked. He was a jolly man, a man who smiled, but John then- and John now- will never win any appearance contests.

I had married my first husband, Kenneth’s father, for two reasons.

Number one, he was tall, and he had dark hair- midnight black. I love men with black hair.

Number two, I was eighteen, and I wanted so bad to have sex. Though my parents realized I was an adult- that’s why I worked at a grocery store, in addition to going to college part time- I was still expected to follow their strict rules of discipline as long as I lived in their home. As a female, I was not allowed to be out past ten PM, I was not allowed to go to the bars, and if I wanted to go to something like a concert, I was expected to go with my sisters or my mother. This had kept me “pure” in my father’s words, but in reality, it had made me so ready to get fucked that as soon as I met Anthony, I knew I was going to marry him.

Anthony was crude, he was experienced, and he was from New York- but he was a soldier, so he had a good paying job. As he was Catholic, our religious views clashed, but once he agreed to join (or at least pretend to join) our church, then my father was ready to allow me to marry him. I had married him three months after I met him, in a simple ceremony, and as soon as we had closed the door to our cheap honeymoon suite at the Motel Eight, I was the one whom had jumped on him!

Sexual attraction makes two people physically compatible- it had with me and Anthony, and even now sometimes I idly remembered the way that man had managed to make me cum- but it cannot overcome all other difficulties. Anthony liked pasta, and he liked heavy metal. I like country music, and barbecue. These were relatively minor things, sure, but they still resulted in arguments all of the time. This was bad enough, but when we discussed anything else, then my claws really came out. His culture, the urban northeast Italianesque culture, clashed with my Virginia upbringing, and always did. He may have had the black hair and the build that I find appealing, but that was about the extent of where we saw eye to eye.

Our marriage lasted as long as it did simply because Anthony was sent overseas for four of our five years together- when he left the Army, we were divorced within six months. I had not cheated on him the whole time he was gone (even though I longed for a man’s touch), but he must have been doing something behind my back. When he returned from the middle east, I soon learned that he was putting it to one of my high school friends, and the marriage was over.

John, my current husband, is not my physical type, but he is nice enough as a person to make up for that. He worked, he had never been married, and he went to the same church I did. We didn’t even kiss before we were married, which was within a month of us beginning to actually date, and after the wedding, I learned that John was as boring in bed as he was in life in general. Not a bad man in the least- but not a very exciting one. I was the one whom tried to turn him on, doing everything from wearing lingerie to attempting to give him head in his truck- all with little success. To John, sex was a weekly event, no more special than doing the laundry.

I am not the first woman to be married to a man whom is not very sexual, and at first, I dealt with it by trying to simply ignore my own needs. Having three children within our first five years did a lot to help this- being pregnant made me want sex even more, but it also gave me other concerns. Once I had our youngest, that’s when my desires really began to kick in.

Society, or at least women’s magazines, say that a woman’s sex drive really kicks in around forty. They are not lying- at thirty nine, I suddenly wanted sex almost all of the time. When I woke up in the morning, to when I went to bed at night, it was like I constantly needed it. What these magazines don’t really say is what you can do when your husband is the one whom seems to be drying up, while you are the one whom is wetter than you have ever been!

True, they do recommend different tactics- from wearing lingerie, to self pleasure with vibrators and other dildos- but again, even these articles written by so-called “sexperts” fall short. I have no desire to stick anything other than a hard cock inside of my body, and the lingerie trick simply did not work with John. It wasn’t a matter of him having difficulty in getting hard. He simply saw sex as just another regular part of life, nothing more exotic than eating at a chain restaurant every Friday for “date night.”

Choosing to cheat was not the first solution that I had sought. After all, it does take a woman- especially a woman like me, whom does go to church and believe in most of what is taught- a lot to go from being completely chaste, to violating one of the ten commandments.

The real problem with not having satisfying sex did not really begin until our youngest started attending school. Before that, I had kept myself distracted by taking care of the many duties that come with raising young children. Cleaning the house until it was immaculate, mending clothes, and even doing most of the yard work- John has a good salary as a Department of Defense employee, so it isn’t like we were hurting for money. Though his pay would not allow us to live in luxury, my choice to be a virtual housewife allowed us to have far nicer possessions than even the average mid-level government employees’ household.

After the house was empty during the day, I found that there was only so many times that I could vacuum the living room, or even wash the dishes. So, with no relief in sight to my mounting sexual frustration- and a whole new amount of empty hours during the day- I decided to attempt to find a new hobby to keep myself occupied.

Politics is almost like an American sport, and northern Virginia is the home of more politicians than any other area in the world. True, all of the many congressmen and senators called different cities and states home, but they still spent most of their time either here in Fairfax County, or across the Potomac in Maryland.

My husband is non-political- this has not only ensured that he retains his position, no matter who the president at the time is- it also keeps him out of the various cliques at his job. I myself would have called myself a Democrat- my parents still used that label, even though the Democratic Party they had been raised around was now essentially non existent- until I started developing a greater interest in such matters.

Politics, and especially modern politics, can be a great source of distraction. Worrying about who is doing what is a way to keep one’s mind off of almost anything, including sex, and since the creation of social media, this distraction can easily consume one’s free time. This was probably the reason that what had not really been something I cared about, soon turned into both my source of distraction from my own sexual needs, and a job.

I generally identify as conservative, at least socially- no, I am not a die hard whom worships Reagan or thinks that Limbaugh is a god- but I generally believe that traditional society is a good model to follow. Thus, as I got myself into engaging on the different social network sites, I soon found myself arguing with people I don’t know about how modern politicians tend to be more about show than substance. My position enraged both liberals and conservatives alike, but it also drew the attention of a local man whom was considering running for office whom claimed to be seeking to restore dignity to politics.

Yes, a lot of candidates claim the same thing, but as I began talking to Mr. Thompson, I found that I liked him. Not just on his positions, but as a person.

So when Mr. Thompson decided to run for the House Of Burgesses, and he asked me to help in his campaign, I gladly volunteered. During the summer, as the campaign heated up, I dragged my children along when I could in our minivan as I pasted his signs and likenesses across the district. Mr. Thompson, an outside candidate- he was a rare conservative southern Democrat, a “blue dog” they are called- was elected by a narrow margin of only two percent, and as he took the reigns of his office, he asked me if I wanted to become his public affairs secretary.

The position does not pay much- only enough to cover my expenses- but it is something to keep busy with. More important than the few hundred dollars a month I received was the fact that being in this position gave me something to do other than sit around and wait for my children and husband to come home at the end of the day. John is glad that I am getting out of the house- he says that while he still does not care about politics, he sees my involvement as a positive thing.

The most important benefit of my new job is that several days a month, I have to make a business trip- nowhere too far away, as Mr. Thompson is a commonwealth politician, but sometimes far enough that he would spring for a night’s hotel stay. These short trips- usually just to Danville, sometimes to Washington- did not really require staying overnight. John was so supportive that he told me to enjoy having the night away- every one needs a night off from being a parent now and then.

Would he be so supportive if he knew what I do on these nights away?

Chapter Two

The worst part about my adultery was that it was not even that I was having an affair.

An affair, the route that most people whom are married and choose when they decide that they need some stimulation from someone other than their spouse, is almost like a dating relationship. It begins with a mutual attraction, grows usually due to proximity, and in many cases ends one of three ways. Either the two people involved decide to end it on their own, or they are caught; sometimes, they end up being honest with their spouses, and they end up leaving their current relationships for a new relationship with each other.

I have no desire to leave John. Although he is as exciting as yesterday’s oatmeal, he is not a bad man. Once my natural passions wear themselves out, and I experience a decline in sexual desire, than there will no longer be a reason for me to pursue sexual relief outside of our bedroom. Replacing John and finding someone else is neither worth the time, nor am I likely to find someone as steady a man as he is.

The only man that I could even see myself having an affair with is Mr. Thompson. Mr. Thompson, however, is about as boring as my husband, and about as physically attractive- except that he is twenty years older, so there would be no point to it. If John can’t satisfy me with his balding, paunchy forty eight year old body, it is doubtful that a version of him that is close to seventy will be able to do so. Plus, Mr. Thompson is the very rare example of a politician whom lives by his own rules- he has been with his wife for fifty years, and he does not even look twice at other women.

So instead of going the traditional route of an adulteress, I instead have sex with strangers.

With strangers, there isn’t much of a chance that anything will develop after the night we meet. I do not give out my phone number or my real name, and most of the time, I simply tell them my name is Babs. I hated that nickname growing up- even then it seemed out of date, like a Formica counter-top or wicker backed kitchen chairs- so it is the ideal moniker for me to use when I am fucking someone whom I do not ever want to see again. If any of the dozen or so men that I have been with in the last year tried to track me down, it would be nearly impossible- I do not use the same motel twice, and even if they did run into me and asked if I was “Babs,” I would deny it. Fortunately there are thousands of women like me, in bars in the Washington area, women whom work for the different lobbyists and politicians, women in skirts and blouses that buzz like drunken bees around a hive.

That is one of the good things about choosing random men to share my bed with. Men whom are looking to get laid are usually not concerned with whom the woman they are fucking is really- they could care less about my name or my politics, my choice in vehicles or my views on gun control- all they are concerned with is getting me out of whatever clothes I am wearing at the time. When I am on a trip, I almost always have made up my mind to fuck someone new that night- that doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy making them work for it.

The sex is just the conclusion to the dance.

The downside to sex with strangers is that you don’t really know whom you are about to hop into bed with.

So far, I have been lucky- while some of the men I have chosen to share my body with are better than others, and some look much better with their clothes on then off, none have turned out to be violent or otherwise loony. The strangest thing I have encountered is that one man, a much younger guy who claimed he was a White House employee, wanted me to let him pretend he was milking my breasts. A harmless fetish, really- and we all have fetishes- though I did my best not to laugh when he wanted to start using baby talk.

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