I Love My Husband But I Want to F*ck Another Man.

When I was young and single, my sex life was deader than a graveyard at midnight. The menopause turned me into an insatiable pleasure machine that would make a porn star look amateur.

My husband, bless him, keeps up with the pace, but after decades of f*cking the same person, I know exactly when he’ll moan, which position he’ll switch to, and what excuse he’ll use when he’s tired.

Like any pragmatic American, I feel that insane itch to diversify my sexual portfolio — after all, dying having known only three penises is statistically depressing.

I have a marriage more solid than rock and a sex life more active than a nightclub. But there’s that itch that no vibrator can scratch — the burning curiosity to taste another body before death or osteoporosis prevents me. It’s like that Black Friday promotion: “One-time offer! Wild sex with a hot stranger! Take advantage while your knees can still handle decent oral without locking up!”

My husband already had his moments of ‘external tasting’ in the past, unknowingly gifting me with two f*ck-vouchers stored in my conscience drawer.

I haven’t used them yet. I’ve been a “good wife,” the loyal one. But lately, the idea of fresh lips, unknown hands, and a voice I don’t recognize in the dark has been echoing louder than my husband’s snoring. It’s not about love — I love him with my whole heart. It’s about fantasy. About novelty. About knowing I still can if I want to.

I don’t want a boyfriend. God, no. I don’t want to fall in love again, deal with someone else’s laundry, listen to their opinions about oat milk, or explain why I prefer silence in the morning. I just want one night. One delicious, anonymous night of sin that doesn’t end in guilt or marriage counseling.

Maybe it’s the thrill. The adrenaline of stepping out of the predictable. I’ve never been reckless. Never cheated. Never even flirted too far. But now, at this age, I feel more powerful than I ever did in my 20s. And horny in a way that feels like both a curse and a gift.

I see men in the grocery store and wonder if they’d pin me against the produce aisle. I fantasize about the barista, the yoga instructor, the delivery guy. Not because they’re better than my husband — but because they’re not him. That’s the whole point. The not knowing. The not expecting. The surprise of discovery.

And I’m tired of pretending I’m wrong for feeling this way.

Women aren’t allowed to want more. If a man says he fantasizes, he’s “just being a guy.” But when a woman admits to craving another man’s touch, she’s labeled broken or ungrateful. Screw that. I’m just being honest — something most people are too scared to be.

I haven’t acted on it. Yet. But I might.

Maybe one night, when the stars align and I feel bold enough, I’ll dress up, walk into a bar, and lock eyes with someone who makes my skin tingle. Someone who doesn’t know my favorite pasta shape or how I snore when I’m congested. Someone who’ll just want me for one night — the way I want him.

And if that night ever happens, I won’t tell anyone. I won’t brag. I won’t cry. I won’t ask for forgiveness because I don’t need it.

I’ll come home, kiss my husband on the cheek, and carry that memory like a secret dessert I ate in the middle of the night.

Because sometimes, even the most loyal hearts crave a little chaos. And even the strongest marriages survive a whisper of sin.

I love my husband.

But I’m still alive.

And every now and then, being alive means wanting to be touched like it’s the first — and maybe the last — time.