The red lipstick in my hand feels heavy, almost like I’m holding an entire world between my fingers. Or a whole newborn person.

I cringe as I look at myself in the mirror. I’m ashamed. A little. Black dress, not too tight, not too loose, just enough cleavage. The kind that whispers your secrets as you walk, telling everyone in the room what you came here for. I am Forty-two since last month and I look good! Maybe the best I’ve ever looked. My blond hair, still thick, makes a great contrast to my large, hazel doe eyes. I take a deep breath, confessing to myself that yes, I am nervous, and yes that is alright.

I am allowed to be nervous; he is waiting for me just outside this door.
I think of him and shiver, I can’t tell exactly why. Excitement, perhaps, and a bit of fear too.

My mind is a whirlwind as I stand here, one hand reaching for the golden doorknob, the other tugging at my dress, feeling the tension in my muscles as I remember the first time I saw him: his much younger olive skin glowing in the summer sun, calling out to me like a beacon. His dark eyes locked with mine from across the swimming pool.

I remember being reluctant to attend this work party. Social gatherings outside of working hours always seem forced to me, fake. But I went anyway, encouraged by my husband, who said that the children were more independent now and that I had the right, if not the duty, to enjoy this new freedom.

So I went, reluctantly at first, smiling amiably at colleagues, getting caught up in banal, mundane conversations about subjects that didn’t interest me, cursing every dollar I spent on a new swimsuit, and that’s when I noticed him. I’d seen him before, he was from the IT department, where the young people are trying to take my generation on a journey of no return through the technological world.

Of course, he was in my line of sight, in the airy corridors of the building where my office was. But that was it. A handsome, athletic young man. And here he was at the party, oozing charm, showing off his toned chest, making no effort to hide his interest in me. I froze, a cloud of guilty excitement enveloped me, and I felt myself sweating, and not from the heat of the day. It took me a few minutes to realize that my sex was throbbing, a desire coming from my body and not my mind or soul. I gulped, took another drink and from that day on I couldn’t think of anything else but those big hands roaming my body, long fingers finding their way through my underwear, finding my wet cavern, penetrating it

When I grasped just how horny I was, it was inevitable that I would also understand just how dissatisfied I was. It wasn’t enough to be married to a man I loved and wanted? For days I felt dirty for wanting to ride that boy. Until one day I confessed my desire and was surprised by the positive way it was received. Squeezing my nipple and nibbling my ear, he asked me to describe the young man… in a hoarse voice I did so and received his rock hard cock, wild as rarely in recent years. Feeling his excitement, I told him about my fantasies with my young colleague, how I’d like him to do me and where. We hadn’t had such a savage evening in a long time.

It wasn’t easy for me to accept that my husband was turned on by the idea of me being with other men. In the early days I fell into a depressive state, certain that he might not love me anymore, and it took many honest conversations to dispel my fear and accept our love as something unconventional. Then one evening, nervous after exchanging numbers with my admirer, I called him.

With my hand on the doorknob, I took one last breath, raised my head, and walked out of the bathroom to meet my new toy.