I’m 43 years old, married for 15 years, and my sex life is terrible. For the sake of the internet, my name will be “Jean.”

My husband, “Casey,” works in finance. I met him at my sister’s engagement party and he happened to be one of the groomsmen. He asked me if I wanted to see the latest Guy Ritchie film with him and I love all Guy Ritchie films, so I said “yes.” We had sex on our second date and it was terrible and he was oblivious. Lots of guys are terrible at sex… I liked being around him and he made me feel good about myself, so I stayed with him, thinking he’d eventually get good at it, even though he definitely wasn’t equipped with the largest package I’d ever seen.

For a while, the sex was ok, but after we were married, Casey became progressively lazy, and now he’s very proud of his “teddy bear bod” which is more or less a shorter hairier Homer Simpson.

Casey used to be an amateur swimmer with a wicked six-pack. He stopped swimming several years ago, reasoning that our sex life was good enough exercise to keep him in shape. He’s fat and bald, we have three kids, and I haven’t experienced a coital orgasm since I was 24 years old, very close to half my life ago. His personality is great, he gets invited to exciting work parties that are always fun, but he always wants to leave early so he can bang me, only he rolls his keg of a belly over me for three minutes and passes out in a sweaty heap. I’ve tried being on top, on my knees, and other things I won’t write about here… nothing works. Sometimes, I’ll be able to bring myself close to climax through my own movements but then he cums and immediately exits me and my evening is ruined.

So I put an ad on craigslist and lied about my age: “Bored 39-year-old wants a one night stand with a 7 inch stallion,” and fairly flattering pictures of my ass and tits. Dudes don’t care a whole lot about perfection when they know they’re going to get laid without repercussions.

My fake email flooded with replies and I eventually found one that was what I was looking for: “I think I understand your situation, and you can count on me to be discreet.”

We met at a coffee shop several miles out of town. For the sake of this hookup, his name was Daryl, but I didn’t believe him and didn’t care. For the sake of the hookup, my name was Carla. He was dreamy and slightly younger than my real age, we had nothing in common, but he assured me that he was 7 inches hard and that he would rock my world.

We went to his clean apartment and I psyched myself up for a good pounding. My heart was racing, my arms were both tingling, and I was all like: “I’m actually going to cum and it’s going to be awesome.” I hadn’t been this wet since my disappointing wedding night.

I love my husband very very much, but you have to understand: he’s really really bad at sex. I’ve never told him that, of course, but I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told him outright: “I need to try something different.” He’s never interested. He actually thinks I get my orgasms from lying on my back for 3 minutes while he pumps his pelvis into me with the gusto of a masturbating teenager.

So “Daryl” led the way to his bedroom and asked if I’d like to first admire his collection of hunting knives. They “really complete him” and anyone who wants to be with him has to “appreciate them for what they are and what they represent.” I was young once and knew some weird dudes, so I wasn’t that phased. I was more impatient to cum than anything: one enjoyable indulgence and then I could go back home, and if it worked out, maybe try it with another guy, or maybe I would learn something here that I could teach to Casey to make him better at sex.

“I got this one from an artisan in Mexico,” said Daryl, who had taken off his shirt. He handed me what looked like a boring knife that I really didn’t care about.

“Fascinating,” I cajoled, and I put in back in it’s case, and I removed my skirt, showing off a cute pair of black lace panties that dare I say, would have rocked my ass when I was 30.

“Turn around,” said Daryl.

Casey never ever told me to turn around. I did as I was told.

“My, what a lovely ass you have,” said Daryl.

Casey never complimented my body.

Daryl had been at least three body lengths away from me, but with silent speed, he had traveled our gap and spanked me savagely on my left cheek. Casey had never spanked me, even when I asked him to.

“Daryl,” I said, nervously, “I have a secretary-boss fantasy, where I get punished for dropping all the pens.”

“Carla, you read my mind,” said Daryl. “Let me just get one thing.”

So I sat impatiently on his bed while he left the room to get the “one thing.”

I’m not a monster: I love my husband and our children. Little voices whispered in my head to stop this infidelity, but there was no way I was leaving without an orgasm. I had been patient for far too long.

Daryl returned to the bedroom, wearing rubber gloves. What for, I couldn’t possible have imagined, until he grabbed his Mexican artisan knife and stabbed himself repeatedly in the stomach, yelling: “I hate you, Jean!”, before slashing the glove off his left and tearing off the other with his right hand and dying the floor, blood spilling from more than a dozen slashes and stab holes.

I would loved to have stopped him, but I was frozen shocked and the thought of actually moving my body to save him completely escaped me, so here I was, the only witness to a suicide where the victim had worn gloves while using a weapon that had my fingerprints on them as he yelled my real name. If I had tried to stop him, would he have stabbed me?

I phoned the police immediately. They showed up in ten minutes and asked me what happened.

I was humiliated and filled with shame. I obviously had never intended to get caught cheating, and here I was, explaining to complete strangers that I was cheating on my husband with a stranger I’d met on the internet, while a million emotions swam through my traumatized mind as I cried.

Most of the cops I dealt with were men and they were all wearing wedding rings. They made little effort to hide their judgement of me and I didn’t blame them.

I wanted to go home and snuggle with Casey. I wanted to go back in time and never place that stupid ad in the first place. Despite my sexual unfulfillment, I had never been truly unhappy with my life. I had been so ungrateful.

“Where does your husband think you are right now?” was the only question that resounded within, amidst the dozens of other questions involving a man who had stabbed himself in front of me. Casey was on a business trip, earning money for his family, like a good husband is wont to do.

“Casey’s out of the country and doesn’t know where I am,” I replied.

“And your children?” asked the detective.

My sweet babies… I couldn’t bare the shame they would feel if they ever found out about this. They would never have forgiven me.

“They’re at our house and I told them I was helping a coworker put together boxes to facilitate a move,” I answered.

“Had you ever met this man before?” a detective asked me.

“Not until tonight,” I answered, still wondering how the hell Daryl had known my real name.

“His real name was Ivan Charon,” said the detective, and a wave of shock hit me as my final year of high school flashed before my eyes.

Ivan Charon had had an insane crush on me, but he was 14 while I was 18 and I had zero interest in him.

He was awkward and kept trying to impress me by telling me how hard his life was and how different he was than everyone else. From what he told me, it was more like complaining than anything else. He had a supportive family and equally weird friends who were into the same weird things. I wasn’t a cool kid in school or anything, but I definitely thought I was too cool for Ivan. We had nothing in common and he was always telling me that I would be a better person if I shared his interests in poorly written fantasy novels and atonal soundscapes.

He asked me out more than ten times until I agreed to go out with him, with the intent of being lame on purpose so that he might lose interest in me. On the night of our date, I changed my mind and phoned his house, only he wasn’t there, so I stood him up completely. The next day at school, I told him that I just wasn’t interested and asked him to never talk to me again. It was high school… I’m not proud of it how I treated him…

I had no idea I had affected him this much. Had he been thinking of me while I was in university? Was he hung up on me this whole time I was in a frustrating marriage, living my entire adult life with nothing to do with him? Was it fate that made him reply to that craigslist ad? How could he have known it was me? He had looked so handsome and capable of interesting things. Had we ever crossed paths on the street? Had he ever recognized me? Why did he waste his life thinking of someone who never bothered to think of him?

“Keep your phone on you,” one of the detectives said to me, a few hours later, at a police station where the coffee was terrible and I wasn’t allowed to smoke any cigarettes. They made it clear that I wasn’t under arrest but that I had to stay in the city until told otherwise.

For the next few weeks, I was the only suspect in his death, as my fingerprints were all over the weapon, but they eventually decided I was innocent and ruled Ivan’s death as a suicide.

Casey never found out, but I’ll never forget how I nearly fainted when Casey said casually one morning: “Ivan Charon killed himself. He was in high school with your sister. Did you know him?”

“Not really,” I answered casually, hoping to never speak of the matter again.

A great sex life would be wonderful, but for the moment, I’ll be thankful for what I’ve got. I won’t place another ad anywhere for anything. Casey is wonderful, our kids are wonderful, and I will never do anything again that could jeopardize the life we have together. I just hope Casey gets better at sex, but with my luck, he’ll just go impotent…

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