Becoming Anabelle Part I – Black Pants Man

The man I consider to be my first client doesn’t actually know he was a client. He hadn’t booked an escort, he hadn’t visited “Adultworks”, or stumbled across Anabelle. He was on “MarriedAffair.com” the day that I, out of curiosity, had Googled, “What’s an NSA?” 

 

I had always been highly sexual, but 15 or so years ago I was also incredibly ignorant of anything sexual outside of the confines of a monogamous relationship. I had been married for 13 years, monogamous and completely faithful to the man I had married for nearly 20 years. I didn’t particularly believe in monogamy. I just didn’t, at the time, know of any alternatives.

 

I do believe in honesty. Being as truthful and honest as you can be, to yourself, and to others. And part of honesty is accepting the things that you are not. I think these were the kinds of thoughts that were swirling through my head on the day I Googled, “What’s an NSA?” 

 

Google did what Google does and didn’t just reply with the answer, “NSA, meaning ‘no strings attached’, are websites where people meet for casual sex.” 

 

Google offered me a list of NSA sites.

 

For a woman who didn’t believe in monogamy but had always been religiously monogamous and completely honest, I was intrigued about who uses an NSA site. What kind of people lurked out in this underbelly of society? My insatiable curiosity got the better of me and I clicked on the top link.

 

Of course, how naive of me, they don’t let you nose around without having some skin in the game, I needed to create a profile. I chose the name “Bonny” after my pretty pony who had been a frisky and, at times, challenging ride – it seemed apt and made me smile. I needed to write a few words, without much thought I quickly typed, “I’m married, have a boyfriend but need more sex, can you help out?” Enter.

 

It was unbelievably thrilling. I skipped downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee, hugging myself in delight at the audacity of my behaviour. Could I really just meet random men for completely casual sex? I didn’t know if I was brave enough, but I did know that I really, really wanted to. My body, my cunt in particular, was fizzing with excitement as I tamped my ground coffee into my stove top coffee pot.

 

Coffee in hand I returned to the laptop in my bedroom, wiggled the mouse to open up the screen and was greeted with the reality of being a sexually available woman in a society starved of sex. In the short time it had taken me to make my coffee I had been inundated with messages on the site. I hadn’t even uploaded a picture. How could so many men want to fuck me when they knew nothing about me other than the fact that I wanted sex? Could it really be this easy?!

 

The Boyfriend had told me to find a hobby to keep myself busy during the weeks we were apart, and on the weekends we were together but he chose to leave me on my own to do DIY or play sports. Had I found my hobby? My cunt throbbed her answer – an emphatic “YES!!”

 

I decided I would be fair and respond in order of time received, then, diary, permitting, I would meet them all. They had made the effort to message me after all – the least I could do was find a slot in my “mummy diary” for them. I did decide on one caveat though, there was a limit as to how far I would travel to meet them. Due to our personal circumstances, I did all the driving to meet The Boyfriend, I wasn’t going to spend any more on petrol for this new hobby. They would have to come to me.

 

I clicked on the first message. It opened to reveal a middle aged male torso cut off at the neck and knees wearing, yes, you’ve guessed it, a pair of black pants. It made me giggle. It was an awful photo to attract a woman. No mystery, no style, nothing erotic or poetic, just a slightly flabby body in a pair of M&S pants. But he lived very locally, so not much travel. He wondered if we could meet today? I looked at the clock, I had time before I needed to be at the school gates, I replied, “Yes, I have time, where do you suggest we meet?” 

 

I heard Jenny, our cleaner arrive with her usual bright, “Hello” and rushed downstairs with my favourite, but very crumpled, summer dress in hand. “Jenny – please, please, please could you iron this for me while I have a quick shower? I’ve found my new hobby…..I’m starting it today…..I’m off to meet this guy I have just met online – for SEX!!”

 

She stared at me, started laughing and stared some more, then said, “What?!” Jenny is AMAZING and had, by this point, watched a seriously depressed woman pull herself out of the darkness  (by amongst other things, my first round of spiritual training), then fall in love with The Boyfriend and persuade The Husband to let me have him in my life, but this was, shall we say, an unexpected step.

 

She didn’t tell me not to, she just asked me to be safe. I told her I would tell her where we were meeting and promised to text her on my way to school afterwards. I assured her I’d be fine. I had a very strong feeling that Bonny knew how to handle herself. 

 

I ran upstairs to check his reply before I jumped in the shower. I wiggled the mouse, nothing. My screen opened but the page I was talking to him on had vanished. There was no getting it back, this was 2014, years before our village got super fast broadband, and our internet was down – again. It was a good thing. It stopped me from making a mistake. In all my excitement about making choices and taking actions that pleased me, I had forgotten to think about The Boyfriend. I owed him, as well as myself, complete honesty and it was better to tell him of my intentions before I met Black Pants Man rather than afterwards. 

 

The first opportunity we had to talk was the following afternoon, a hot Saturday. I remember vividly sitting under the tree in the garden quietly explaining my genius plan as the children played in the sun around me. You may not be surprised to hear that he was a little bit less enthusiastic! He clothed his “NO” in concern for my safety, which, as a grown woman I was confident in brushing aside. We then spent the entire weekend haggling. 

 

I was very surprised to face this much push back. It was him after all who had told me to find a hobby. It was him that left our love making for his hobbies, who was he to judge how I then chose to use my time? I was learning that under patriarchy even really nice men believe that they own their women (ironic, because he was, after all, The Boyfriend, not The Husband.)

 

During the haggling I had checked the website, Black Pants Man and I had settled on a time and a place – Bluebell Woods, meeting in the car park on Monday morning at 9.30am conveniently after school drop off. I was on the phone for 2 hours with the Boyfriend that morning from 5am until the kids woke up at 7am with him begging me not to go ahead with the meet. But I have a funny thing about following through on commitments – to myself and other people. 

 

I had been honest and kept him informed, how he felt in response to my choices was for him to deal with, if it meant ending our relationship, I knew I’d be sad, but I also knew that I had to live my future life differently to my past life. I had, after all, repeatedly asked him to spend our weekends with me instead of filling them with sporting fixtures, I wasn’t doing this to punish him, just to please me, like his sport pleased him.

 

I followed Black Pants Man’s instructions and found Bluebell Wood’s car park easily. I parked my battered hatchback alongside a black Range Rover with personalised number plates. Easily big enough to transport a body, I noted, so it was with relief that the man inside emerged in a pair of shorts, deck shoes and a tennis shirt. Very middle class, very middle England, no chain saw in sight. 

 

I opened my boot and removed the basket with a picnic blanket, condoms, wipes and a bottle of water. Packing for sex with a stranger was not that different to packing for a day out with the kids – just swap the apples and fruisli bars for condoms! Typical man, he hadn’t considered condoms (why is this always so irritating?) or wipes or a picnic blanket. I guess he doesn’t do practicalities in his fantasies. Luckily he was meeting a very practical woman. 

 

We greeted each other with an awkward kiss on the cheeks then walked off together with the, not so easy as it turns out, task of finding a suitable spot. If you don’t want to be seen, outside sex is tricky to pull off. I had no desire to be watched or arrested, so it mattered to me that we find somewhere secluded but not prickly (obviously). Eventually we found a good enough spot and, mindful of the time, I efficiently laid out the picnic blanket and removed my dress.

 

In a new and rather nice set of red bra and panties, I stepped into his space and started kissing him. I had never been so forward before and it utterly thrilled me. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know what a sensible, practical, capable mother I am. How I bake an awesome fruit cake for every village and school event. How I walk the dogs every morning at 6am so that they’re “done” by the time the kids wake up for school. He didn’t know me as a teacher, PTA member, neighbour, friend. All he knew was he was about to have sex with this confident, self assured and incredibly sexy woman. I liked that. I really enjoyed playing the role. So much more fun than apron wearing mother in the kitchen!

 

The actual sex, from what I remember was very mediocre and quite dull. Neither of us were particularly experienced and beyond the thrill of meeting a stranger, there was nothing else to pull us together. We both wanted sex, had both been available on the same day and open to having it. That was it. It was very functional. Of the actual sex, only two moments remain in my memory. 

 

One was when a golden retriever sniffed us out in the bushes. Its owner, a woman, was on a walk with another woman and stood yards away from us calling for her dog. We lay, mid fuck, completely still. I think I may have stopped breathing. I dreaded being caught by two furious and self righteous women – I just sensed they wouldn’t laugh (which breed of dog would have owners that would laugh upon discovering a middle aged couple having sex in Bluebell woods at 10am on a Monday morning?!) Fortunately the lure of treats pulled the dog away from Black Pants Man’s balls and as the women walked off we were able to return to good old, honest, fucking.

 

My second memory is that as the fucking dragged on and I got a bit bored, I flipped myself over into the doggy position, both to vary the experience and also in the hope that a different position might bring things to a conclusion. But Black Pants Man surprised me and, I still think, given that I wasn’t yet a professional, it was a bit rude. He pulled out of my vagina and pushed into my anus. No request, no warning or warm up with fingers or tongue, just a direct and very abrupt swap. You’ll know by now that that is never the way to enter another person’s arse, but as I was on my own little adventure, training myself to be a happy whore, I didn’t make a fuss, I pushed back against him and took it all.

 

He came, withdrew and I dealt with the condom. It’s why we bring wipes to casual sex meets boys! We dressed, I rolled up the picnic blanket and we headed back to our cars. This was when we made small talk – after sex – a pattern I continue to this day. He told me he had a personalised number plate so that no-one knew the age of his car. I had never considered that such a thing mattered, but I’m not from these parts. 

 

He also told me that he and his wife never have sex. That they weren’t compatible and had never really loved or fancied each other. 

 

“Why on earth did you marry her then?” I asked.

 

“I did it to please my mother.”

 

“Was she pleased?”

 

“Yes, I think so. She’s dead now.”

 

“I’m sorry…..so why not…..kindly of course…..get divorced and free each other to find a sexy and loving relationship?”

 

“I’ve thought about that, but we have a very nice house.”

 

How very English. How very middle class. How unbelievably predictable. I’ve learned as Anabelle that it’s far from uncommon for British couples to stay together in dead and unhappy marriages not for the children (as in my childhood) but for the house. 

 

Peeps, houses don’t care! They DO NOT love you!! But I must not be judgemental, shelter one above sex and more important than love on Maslov’s Hierarchy of Needs, maybe he’s right to hold onto his house rather than seek deep love (and thrilling sex?) 

 

He asked me what I did, I told him I was a mum and a part-time teacher, that I was separated from my husband and slowly working out how to afford a new life for myself and the kids nearer to my boyfriend. Then, rather audaciously, I voiced my big secret, “You know what, I think what I secretly most want is to become a prostitute.”

 

To my surprise this shocked him and rather unbelievably he became quite judgemental. Meeting a strange man for sex in the woods was apparently absolutely fine, but charging for my time somehow made me untouchable? It was interesting to me that being a very cheap slut (actually completely free) was more socially acceptable to Black Pants Man who-drives-a-black-Range-Rover-with-personalised- number-plates-so-that-you-don’t-know-the-real-age-of-his car than sinking into the gutter completely and becoming, whisper it, “a prostitute.”

 

It was, and is, so obviously ludicrous. On my drive home I pondered at his hypocrisy and noted that his stance was most convenient for him – why pay for something that your sexy profile pic can get for free?! It infuriated me that in his model of the universe somehow paying for sex devalued the sex? Maybe he was suffering under the illusion that he would become a regular lover of mine, that his M&S pants and cheeky fuck up the arse had won me over to the charms of Mr Very Ordinary Middle England?

 

Not a chance!

 

I accepted I needed to do more research and hone my skills a bit. But Black Pants Man had set me on course, whether he approved or not, to create Anabelle. And like it or not mate, you were my first client. After you I knew I could fuck anyone. I learned that it’s not the person, it’s the act I enjoy. 

 

I had created Bonny – Anabelle’s early self – I was on my way. There was no looking back – much to The Boyfriend’s confusion and chagrin. It soon turned out that he was much more similar in outlook to Black Pants Man than to me. 

 

We painfully parted ways but not before my second “happy whore adventure” – the night I met Tinkerbelle.