The bank teller smiled at me again today, which sent shivers of longing throughout my body and straight to my pussy, which hasn't been used in so long I am sure cobwebs would have to be blown away. He was being polite I know, but when he smiled at me warmly, I had the sudden image in my mind of us fucking in the bank vault, in a romp that was dirty and ferocious, leaving us both sweaty. 

Fucking. Now there's a word that hasn't been used in a while. Darrin used to fuck me all the time, but since turning fifty he seems so disinterested in sex. All he cares about is work. Work, work, work. He goes out and makes money, he has a life, while I stay at home and watch from the sidelines, wondering what my real purpose is here. I'm certainly not a play thing to him, as I once was. The days of being his dirty bedroom whore are over. Long gone. Dead and in the past. 

Darrin seems perfectly content with his morning masturbation sessions in the shower. He thinks I don't know, but I do. I was in the laundry one morning sorting out the washing and I heard a low moan over the sound of the shower in the next room, and then I heard him say the name of his secretary. I should have been angry, but I wasn't. I'm at the stage now where I am so indifferent to everything. Maybe that's it? Maybe Darrin won't touch me because of my constant and general apathetic attitude towards life? 

I find it funny that Darrin has a thing for his secretary. Little Sally Jones with her baby face, smooth voice and pretty blue eyes. You would never know that she was soon to hit thirty-seven. In any case, Darrin is hardly her type. She likes the younger men. Scandalously younger, some may say, at least according to Anita Browne who says that she saw Sally with a college age kid. According to her, this boy was barely twenty.

If Sally and Darrin are doing it, good luck to her I say, having to put up with Darrin's mood swings and mean attitude. Just the thought of his sweaty, hairy, middle-aged body on top of her lithe and graceful frame is enough to bring a smile to my face. Such an odd pair Darrin and Sally would make. And it's not like we have money as an incentive for the younger woman with home-wrecking on her mind. If he is having an affair, I praise the woman brave enough to put up with him. Good luck to her, I say. 

Sometimes I think about having an affair. Well actually, it would be more of a casual, one-night stand type thing. An affair implies that there may be feelings and longevity to the situation, which there wouldn't be. I just need a good fucking. Something to make me feel like a woman again, something to put life back into my body. Something to put life back into my life. I could do it. I could pull a man. Unlike Darrin, I have taken care of myself over the years. I mean sure, I could stand to lose a little weight here and there, a few pounds at the most but other than the slight middle-aged spread, I've still got it. 

Sometimes I lose myself in this daydream of having an affair. This fantasy of going to a bar, dressed in my best black dress, silk stockings underneath and my nice red heels. My light hair would be piled on top of my head, in a messy but controlled fashion that would look as if I had spent ten minutes on my hair when really it would have taken an hour or so. Everything about my outfit would scream "I need to fuck." 

I would find a good looking gent at the bar, dressed in a clean-cut suit. Whether or not he's older or younger than me is irrelevant. So long as he has a penis that can do the job, then I am all for his attentions. He would order me a drink, we would talk for a little while and then he would take me outside, to the cool air of the late night. The fantasy here goes one of two ways. Either we fuck behind the building, in the dark alleyway, where all the trash cans are and most likely, discarded needles from drug users, or we get a taxi and fumble around in the back of vehicle until we get to his house. 

I prefer the alleyway option. It seems more appropriate to my fantasy of being fucked hard and fast. No romanticism about it. Put it in me and let's go. Fuck me with all you've got. Thrust and fill. In my head I imagine that alleyway and the feeling of the brick wall underneath my skin, as the man fumbles with my dress and panties, pushing me up against the back wall of the club, hastily unzipping his pants and then doing me. That wall and the man fucking me roughly against it is what I think about when I masturbate silently next to my snoring husband. 

Now my children are home, here to ruin my peace and quiet. Very soon I will hear whiny, shrill sounds of their bitching and moaning and calling my name, asking for food and money. 

Author's Note: The 'Confessions of a house wife series' will be set out as diary entries of a housewife who is bored with her life and existence. Sometimes each 'chapter' will be more explicitly sexual, other times sex will be mentioned in passing.