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THE SEX DIARIES: I had three children (and an ex-husband) at home, making sex impossible. It was time to brave 27-year-old Eliot's flat… and flatmates
It was difficult to find somewhere to have sex with my beautiful lover Eliot. He was 27 and lived with flatmates. I was 48 and lived with my three kids, a Cockerpoo and an angry ex-husband I still had not officially divorced.
Seven months ago Simon had moved back in to the family home to lay claim to it; the only benefit of this arrangement was that I could stay out for the whole night. But the hotels that Eliot and I were forced to go to all added up.
So I was relieved when Eliot suggested I come over to his.
Eliot's flat was carved from the attic of the kind of house many of my generation could have afforded in its entirety at his age
Eliot lived in North London, more than an hour's journey from mine. His room was so tiny, he could barely stand up
He said he'd cook a curry, like an actual boyfriend, even though he wasn't one yet; the terms of our four-month relationship had not been discussed. I was crazy about him, though. All day long he ran under my skin like electricity.
But I reasoned that if Eliot was willing to let me be viewed by his flatmates, who were barely out of university, things must be going well.
Eliot lived in North London, more than an hour's journey from mine. But there he was, handsome as hell, standing at his front door in his shorts and T-shirt, like a prize I'd yet to claim.
Still, it felt strange to be here. Eliot's flat was carved from the attic of the kind of house many of my generation could have afforded in its entirety at his age. I envied my married friends and their one tidy life. I had two lives now, and I didn't know who I was yet in this new one.
My phone buzzed. 'Hello Mama [sad face emoji] when will u come home???' read five-year-old Emi's text.
'I'll see you tmr!' I replied. 'Love you!'
I tried to shake off my guilt. Instead of slaving over a family dinner, I was admiring Eliot as he bent over the oven. The mid-life algorithm on my phone had recently suggested an article titled 'Five ways to fix your stalled sex life'. I only need one, I thought.
Before we could escape to his room, one of his two flatmates arrived. Did Eliot flinch, or was I imagining it? Maya was from Spain, and loud. 'Eliot has told me all about you!' she exclaimed. 'And I didn't know what to expect. But you look great!'
How to respond? Apparently it's ok to be old, but it's still not fine to look old. My face had a time limit.
Eliot said quickly: 'She's gorgeous!' As Eliot and Maya caught up, I did not mention my kids or my actual life. Thankfully, soon Eliot hustled me into his room. It was so tiny, he could barely stand up.
'I haven't done my press-ups,' he said, and dropped down to the floor. 'Will you count them?'
He did press-ups the hard way, his elbows pressed into his ribcage, all 100 of them. I watched his muscles moving under his skin.
'I like the feeling of being tight,' he said when he got up, slapping his muscles. I envied that feeling, which I never had, even when I was young. My body has always been an adversary, and now more so, with its treacherously sagging stomach and its inability to open tightly screwed lids.
'What do you see in me?' I said. Ideally, I wanted him to smother me with kisses before giving me a run down of my most intelligent comments. But he replied in general terms: 'You're funny, you're hot, you're great.'
Before getting into bed Eliot dropped down to the floor and did 100 press-ups
But when we lay down together my worries dropped away. Being so close to him made me dizzy. I needed my glasses to see him clearly, but that wasn't an option now we were in bed, so I inhaled him instead. He was delicious: salt and earth.
When he kissed me I thought I might pass out. I put my hands on his pumped-up pecs; I would never get over the feel of him: hard muscles, soft skin.
As we started to have sex I could hear Maya in the kitchen putting away the washing-up. I didn't want to embarrass him, but I wasn't quiet enough.
Instead of being oppressed as he put his hand gently but firmly over my mouth, it only made it feel hotter. The secrecy of what we were doing behind only a thin wall really turned me on; Eliot might have just felt self-conscious.
My orgasm brought tears to my eyes, which I hid from Eliot by turning my face away.
In the morning we had sex again and then I stumbled out of his flat into the bright greyness of a North London suburb.
I felt like I had 20 years ago, getting out of a boy's bed not knowing where I was, only this time I was going home to three kids and an angry husband and a dog. It was a strangeness that could not be settled — but a good strangeness.
- Names have been changed. Annabel Bond is a pseudonym.