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THE SEX DIARIES: My date Victor the master flute player proposed sex in John Lewis for my first adventure post-divorce...
When I started dating again after my marriage of 13 years ended, I wasn’t sure what sexual landscape awaited. Had everything changed? I certainly had.
I was now a 47-year-old mother of three children and one recalcitrant dog. If I was going to get naked again, did I need to change my body shape? Last time around, thin was what was required for successful pulling, but now it was curvier, or what millennials call ‘thick’. Luckily I have always erred towards the thick, even more so nowadays, with my snack drawer stuffed full of baked goods (for the kids), so that was some comfort.
Certainly a gym membership was on the cards, new underwear was a necessity. I had the underwear of the long married: comfortable pants inscribed with dog hair, slack-mouthed bras, and a thong with Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here printed on the front, given by a friend as a joke.
But my first sexual encounter happened before I had even thought about Googlemapping my way to Agent Provocateur. I wasn’t looking to meet anyone. My husband and I were still in the middle of a long and brutal untangling, and learning slowly and painfully not to rely on each other.
But that was before I went to a party in east London, a grown-up affair: lots of food, very little music. I was slightly bored, flushed with the awkwardness of attending a party alone, when across the room I spotted Victor.
Annabel Bond (a pseudonym), a 47-year-old mother of three, met Victor at a party
Victor’s suit was made of silk, his waistcoat strained over his ample chest. He was in the middle of a gaggle of laughing women; when he caught me looking at him, he smiled.
Later on, after a few more wines, he held my stare again. A pulse of electricity throbbed between us. I was amazed, astonished. Could such a flamboyant and popular man be interested in me? I was just a mum; I hadn’t been hit on so blatantly for years. The flirtations I did have were short-lived. But now I was single again, I realised with excitement, and also trepidation, anything could happen.
When Victor came over he seemed just as astounded as me. ‘You like me, don’t you?’ he said. I smiled tipsily, too shy to affirm. ‘Don’t you?’ he insisted.
A couple of vodka tonics in hand, Victor inveigled me into a corner of the sofa. He told me he was a famous flute player. He sometimes played at the Albert Hall, he’d get me a ticket if I liked. I did like. He was upbeat, hilarious. Every cheesy line was underscored by a self-deprecating tone.
We weren’t more than a few drinks in when Victor moved on to where and how we could have sex. Perhaps, he suggested, he could take me up to the bathroom right now? He was sure he could give me pleasure beyond my wildest dreams.
Victor saw my shocked face and laughed. ‘I think a queue might build up outside,’ I said primly, thinking of the walk of shame past my rather uptight host. Anyway, he was joking, wasn’t he, unless things had changed a lot since I was last single?
Victor leant forward and let his lips tickle my ear. He smelt of lemons.
Victor said he was a famous flautist who sometimes played at the Royal Albert Hall (stock image)
Victor and Annabel's flirtation involved talk of going into a John Lewis changing room together
‘What about... we go shopping in John Lewis, and afterwards I take you to the changing rooms and give you a good seeing to.’ He blew softly into my ear. ‘I could...’ and here he described in graphic detail exactly what he could do. In many different ways, and at many different angles, my pleasure was to be assured.
I flushed, laughed again. Victor drew back, also laughing: ‘They’re very roomy!’
The idea that my first sexual encounter post-husband should be in the hallowed halls of John Lewis, where I had been only last week to choose my elder daughter’s first bra, was hilarious. But the sexy talk... I have to admit, it was quite hot. Talk like this had long since dried up in my marriage. Nowadays my husband and I only spoke to each other through lawyers or angry notes left on the fridge. Was this the tonic I needed?
Victor was loquacious and inventive. And flattering too: to him I wasn’t a mother of three going through a painful divorce, I was someone he could not keep his hands off. And so, as he walked me to the train station, I decided: why not go for an adventure ride with this master of the flute?
I arranged to meet him the following week when his landlady was away. I turned up at the Tube station as arranged, in the middle of a week day afternoon.
I was shy, but Victor was business-like and took hold of my elbow. In the flat, he pinned me to the corner of the sofa again, this time with greater intention. I was still trying to tell myself that we were on a date, that undressing in front of a virtual stranger was not actually going to happen.
I was waiting for a return of the exciting talk to get me in the mood, but instead he kissed me, and you cannot kiss and talk at the same time. It was nice, though, if strange. My husband did not kiss like this, these were a whole different set of lips. After a while he suggested we go to the bedroom, and I apprehensively agreed.
When Victor unwrapped himself, his body was so extremely different to my husband’s it discombobulated me, but he set to work enthusiastically, as promised, without thinking of himself.
It was all very goal-orientated, which should have been good, after all, how many men prioritise women before themselves?
But it seemed a bit too business-like. After all that talk, now we were actually doing it, there was too much pressure on me to live up to my side of the deal, which appeared to be to climax spectacularly.
Pressure is not sexy, and I was too new at this to calm things down. Eventually I managed a mediocre orgasm, by letting my mind drift to another scenario, and — thank God — it was time to move on to him.
But in spite of Victor labouring away for many long minutes, he couldn’t seem to get there. In fact, things definitely seemed to be deflating. Perhaps it was me? Again, I didn’t know him well enough to ask. But at last mercifully, it was over. Victor may have faked it, but I was past caring.
I put my clothes back on, but Victor was in no rush. Naked, he served me a drink, then he went to get his flute from the living room and sat on a chair with his legs apart and began to play, fixing his eyes on me. I tried hard to stare back... into his eyes.
The hilarity returned, only this time it was mine alone — any connection we had was gone. There was no doubt Victor was gifted and talented — on the flute. But for me, there would be no repeat performance.
Annabel Bond is a pseudonym.