Mid-life crisis

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they ask themselves, how did I end up like this? Unsurprisingly, it usually occurs around their middle-aged years, when life has lost its excitement and they find themselves living out the same humdrum routine, with each day blending into the next. For me, the question surfaced not long after my forty-eighth birthday. I’d been married for nearly thirty years, my children had grown up, and me and my husband had become like a couple of friends, house sharing.

The trouble with analysing your life, is you begin to compare yourself, and that’s when your problems really begin. You see, no matter who you are, there is always someone who’s circumstances are better. It doesn’t matter that there are lots more whose circumstances are worse; it’s always the better ones that stand out. In my case, the person whose circumstances were better, was my best friend, Jean Barrowman.

Jean was the same age as me. She had been divorced for five years, had two children still living at home and jumped from job to job. So, why was I jealous? Because Jean had a thirtysomething boyfriend and every time we’d meet, jean would insist on describing – in intimate detail – just how great her sex life was. It was torture. I mean, I hadn’t had sex in years, and listening to Jean was like being a victim of a famine watching a morbidly obese woman devour a steak. I became obsessed and used to masturbate thinking about her boyfriend. I’d rub myself fantasising about her young man, who I’d never met, sliding his tongue inside me and holding me down as he pounded me with his powerful cock.

In my desperation I joined a dating site, and while my husband was at work, I’d meet with guys. At first, I set my age filter to men who were around my age, but that didn’t work. Most where either overweight, balding or worse, both, and not one excited me. So, I set my age filter to thirty-somethings. To be honest, the reason I didn’t start with thirty-year-olds, is because I didn’t think they’d be interested. I mean, I wasn’t ugly, or overweight, but I definitely wasn’t in my prime. I had a few wrinkles, a few more pounds, and more than one or two grey hairs, but my figure was still ok, and despite breastfeeding two children, my boobs were holding up well. Still, I was I certain I couldn’t compare to the average thirty-year-old, or so I thought.



It turned out I was wrong. There were plenty of younger guys looking for an older woman. After wading thought a flood of messages, I met a lovely young guy named Matt. Matt was everything I could hope for. He was good looking, masculine and sex with him was great. Best of all, Matt didn’t care that I was married. I honestly thought things couldn’t be better until, Jean convinced me to accompany her on holiday.

Jean had split with her boyfriend and on the spur of the moment, she decided to organise a week long holiday in Magaluf. It was easy to guess what she had in mind. I mean, Magaluf isn’t known for its quite nights. It’s the kind of place frequented by stag and hen parties, and has a reputation for excessive sex. Despite being happy with my new boyfriend, I agreed to go. It wasn’t that I was looking for sex, I just wanted a bit of fun, and after twenty years of holidays where I did nothing but sit by a pool, who could blame me?

Along with Jean, four more of our friends accompanied us. There was Cathy; a fifty-five-year-old nurse, Sandra and Debs; both former school friends, and Angie; a personal trainer who we all knew from the gym. Jean had organised a hotel close to the beach and the nightlife. Her plan was to lie in the sun during the day and then to party all night long. I was well up for it. I mean, I wasn’t over the hill quite yet and so why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?

The first day went exactly as I expected. We sunbathed until the sun was extinguished by the sea, then went back to our hotel for dinner. After throwing on our party gear, we hit the clubs. We started at the closest, where we gathered around the bar. Jean ordered us some drinks, then after checking out the local talent, we strutted on to the dance floor.