29 – After-Sex Cocktails

You know that moment when you come home, your husband greets you with a satisfied smile because his plus-one has just left—and she left you a slice of her latest cake creation?

I adore Chloé. She makes both of us happy: The hubby gets sex—and I get cake. I just hope the whipped cream made it onto the cake before she met the mister.

By now, Chloé has been part of my husband’s “fitness routine” for several months. It felt like time for all those stories (and pastries) to finally have a face. So we arranged to meet for an after-sex cocktail at a beer garden. And what can I say?

We hit it off right away.

Chloé’s one of those people you can’t help but like.

Besides, even though it was technically our first meeting, she didn’t feel like a stranger at all. She’d even picked out a cocktail for me in advance—and nailed my taste perfectly.

I can absolutely see what my husband likes about her—and that’s without having seen her naked or in action. Not even three days after that delightful after-sex cocktail with Chloé, someone else suddenly resurfaced—someone I hadn’t heard from in over three months.

Remember my very first Tinder flirt?

The one with the girl’s name—also part of Chloé’s rotation—whom I’d never actually met in person?

That one. Apparently, a certain well-toned little bird had whispered in his ear that I was “cute and uncomplicated.”Translation: Worth a try. The man had some clear advantages: he lived nearby and was tested—and Chloé-approved. That’s basically the sexual TÜV seal of our times. So I thought, why not?

Even though the circumstances were far from ideal: a 45-minute time slot, an unexpected period that morning, and a hint of hesitation after the whole asparagus spectacle. At least I hadn’t eaten asparagus the night before. To save time, he’d left the door open—and greeted me already in his underwear. We saw each other, kissed, and—good news—liked each other.

Solid conditions for a lunchtime entertainment session. Good thing I focused on the man, not the house—because that place was a total mood killer: mess everywhere—dirt, laundry, kid stuff. Hot. It’s truly fascinating how a man who insists on a dozen lab tests and expects a completely hairless, odor-neutral body can live in a bathroom that would’ve made the public health authorities issue an immediate evacuation notice. For the first time, I really wished I had XXL condoms—not for his dick, but for my feet in the shower.

Now I finally understand why Chloé likes it so much to come to our place for sex.

Obviously just for my sexy husband, of course.

And what can I say?

Sex with the homeowner turned out to be a dirty business—literally.

I bled, I squirted, and the four enemas worked about as well as homeopathy for food poisoning: well-intentioned, utterly useless.

In just forty-five minutes, he managed to get everything out of me—emotionally, physically, and, frankly, existentially. Congratulations, I guess. After that, I needed a cocktail—hold the cock, extra ice—to figure out whether the Chloé seal of approval really guarantees the kind of quality I’m looking for.