Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

Rest in peace.

Originally written and published several years ago. Republished today just because.

It’s been over a year since Henry and I broke up, and I’ve said very little about the relationship that was, since that happened.

This is not me breaking my silence. Not exactly. But i feel moved to write, which happens less and less frequently these days, as I feel my world slowly crumble before my eyes — so I let the muse speak from within me, and I lay myself bare before you.

The nature of the connection between Henry and myself was incredibly real and intense, and the break-up shook me to my core. Having now — finally — achieved closure, due in no small part to him, I believe I can start moving on emotionally, and mentally.

Physically was never really an issue. Which is odd, and yet unsurprising. The physical aspects of sex, while utterly fabulous while they last, have a habit of being short-lived and fading to the level of distant if fond memory, causing a mysterious smile to play about the lips of the one remembering, and a knowing glint to sparkle in their eye. It’s the mental shit that screws you over. Yes, indeed.

Henry was my muse. My soul mate. He understood what I was thinking before I’d had the chance to articulate it to him. He knew how I worked, how I ticked, how I’d react to any given situation. He cared for me very much, in a manner that I was both unused to and blown away by… he loved me so much! He wanted to protect me from any and all harm, which, of course, he couldn’t do, but it was his wish that I should be happy. More than anything else, he wanted that.

At one point there were nasty horrible people who wanted to harm me. Henry wanted to banish them and all memories of them from my life. He was the Walter Raleigh to my Queen Elizabeth, as he gallantly, if metaphorically, laid his cloak over the shit-strewn puddles of the blogosphere so that I might walk without soiling my dainty feet. (And considering the size and heft of my ass, my feet are comparatively pretty damn dainty.)

He was the John to my Yoko. We were constantly together, always thinking each of the other, living only until we could be together again when separated. He would be with me at work, in the bottom corner of my screen and I frankly wonder how it was that I ever managed to achieve anything at work, since talking to him was infinitely preferable.

I missed him. Over the last year I used my experimentation to block out the searing pain of missing him. I met others, some who may even one day take his place in my heart. But no one replaced him because he’d not gone anywhere. I was angrier with him than I think I’d ever been at anyone before in my life — besides myself, against whom I had an ongoing viciously rude dialogue for many years, until therapy helped me work out that particular kink in my system. He had betrayed me in the worst way precisely because I relied on him more than I’d ever allowed myself to rely on another.

He hurt me more deeply than anyone else ever has — because he loved me more than anyone else ever has. As I loved him. As clichéd a qualification as it is, I loved him. Truly. Madly. Deeply. With all my heart and soul… with every creamy-skinned centimeter of my body and mind.

I loved him but I had to let him go. The reality was too much for him, the fantasy not enough. It took me a good year to get over him, and now, thanks to him and the honesty that always prevails with him (if occasionally somewhat tardily), he stepped up and took responsibility for what he had done, thus quieting my rage and soothing my deep hurt.

I miss him. I always will. I was June to his Henry Miller — yes, that is the source of our names. And in some way, the love I had for him will never be extinguished entirely. I owe him so much; were it not for him and his fabulously perverted mind I would never have been able to melt down the final barriers of my repressed upbringing; nor conduct such a carefully constructed sexual experiment.

I thank him publicly for everything, and acknowledge equally publicly that he will always own a corner of my bruised and battered heart.

Goodbye, my darling. I will only ever wish you well.

Suzanne Portnoy recently acquired a Kindle and rather fell in love with the format. She’s asked a few of her favorite sex bloggers to contribute to a new erotic magazine she edits, available on only by subscription on Kindle. I’m honored to be among the contributors, who include some really fine smutmongers. Here are the details:

SexBlogyssey is a Kindle-only compilation of the best erotic blogging, bringing together smart, smutty writing from both sides of the Atlantic. Our contributors write about real experiences and their real lives, with a little fantasy/fiction thrown into the mix. We regularly publish new material, drawing on both new writing and the archives of our contributing bloggers.

SexBlogyssey was created by Suzanne Portnoy, author of a popular but now-retired blog describing her double life as a middle-aged single mother and entertainment publicist with a lively swinging lifestyle on the side. Other contributors include Jefferson, Bad Influence Girl, Joanne Cake, Todger Talk, Kitty Stryker, Mon Mouth, Elegant Slut, among others.

You can purchase a subscription here.

(With apologies to Jefferson for completely pilfering his intro. It’s been a tough week. Thanks, dude.)

Updated: Voted Reader’s Top Pick on Sugasm 57.

Updated 2: Fleshbotted by the very lovely Jefferson. Thank you, you sexy thang!

Fetishes are, to those who indulge, fun and arousing — a way of enhancing a sex life, maybe even a way of bringing two lovers closer together. On a more personal note, they can be a part of who a person is; in other words, simply the way they are wired. Which takes much of the issue of choice out of the equation, although not necessarily any of the arousal and/or fun.

As those of you who read here will have noticed, my darling Mr. Henry has a hotwife, or shared wife, cuckold fetish. He thrives on the combined double whammy of the jealousy at the thought of me sharing my body with another man, and the arousal that this creates; knowing that my heart and soul will always be his, that my body will always belong and return to him, and that in part, i do this for the purpose of arousing him.

What lover does not do things for their partner, for the purpose of arousal? Be it wearing sexy lingerie, or attending a public black-tie dinner function sans panties… we all do things to make our lovers glassy-eyed and panting with desire.

Henry has been known to wear a cock ring for me, for example. In public, although not on display.

However, there is another side to fetishdom that isn’t always considered, or acknowledged. Reality. And here, I speak specifically of the hotwife-cuckold fetish, since i am not experienced or equipped to write of any other.

When i say Henry gets jealous, i mean that he really gets jealous. Bang around the house, slamming off the walls, steam escaping pressure-cooker-like from his ears insanely jealous. This goes through several incarnations, and only ever happens when we are separated. The jealousy affects him in a manner that can only be described as full-blown, and the first time it happened, I was quite frightened of the effect of this upon him, and how he appeared to change.

This was, after all, something he had been encouraging me to do for many months. Something that I would never have considered doing if not for him. Not that I haven’t taken to being a hotwife like a duck to water, but the initial suggestion was his. Because of how he is. Because of who he is.

He had not so much subtly hinted as thrown giant boulder-sized clanging comments around about how he would be leaving a pack of twelve condoms in the desk drawer, and when he came back, he would be counting them and wanting to know where the missing condoms had gone, if any were missing.

“And what if none are missing?” I would routinely ask.

“That is entirely your choice,” he would reply, ambiguously. “I will never tell you what to do.”

This is all very different to his behavior in the past when we have shared a male lover. Then, the issue of covert operations, elicit despite his knowing of their occurrence, rarely made it onto the radar.

And yet he kept insisting that this was what he wanted. And so, when the occasion came to pass that Henry was overseas, and i had the opportunity to be with someone whom I had picked up via Craig’s List, I went for it.

And immediately i told him, I could hear the change in his tone. A slightly stunted timbre, a catch I was unfamiliar with. However, he repeatedly denied that anything was wrong, and so, rather obtusely, I must confess, I continued arranging to meet and fuck this young man, and then eventually did just that.

Henry went off the charts. He was fevered at the thought, motivated by his innate jealousy. But it all made him so hot. Since he had been so cavalier about it prior to my ever actually going through with such an event, I had given almost no thought to how it might affect him.

There followed what can only be described as a mandatory period of adjustment. And it was not smooth sailing. Not at all. Bear in mind that he was stuck in the Far East for an extended period of time, which made it all the more difficult for him.

We lurched from one day to the next — skimming the highs of our true love for one another, and the troughs of his jealousy and depression at his perceived inadequacy, since he couldn’t be there, that I would waltz off with the nearest cock that grabbed my attention.

Or, conversely, the nearest cock that i grabbed. Or sucked.

Naturally, his fears were completely ungrounded. I don’t think it helped that Billy was so much younger than he — I’m in my late thirties, and he is a good fifteen years older than I. Billy, being a mere 24 years of age, and single, made him far antsier than he would have felt had I been fucking a married college professor in his early forties, for example.

Eventually we managed to talk it out, once he’d managed to get past the white heat of the initial blast of full-on envy. And we began to return to normal.

He admitted to me:

“There are no guarantees, of course. But, for now, I’m okay with the new dynamic. It was inevitable. A natural progression. I accept it easier now. I know you only intend to cuck me as a means of making me hot and aroused. and it does. I just have to accept that I really, really get off on it in real life … not just as a fantasy that you purr into my ears as you slowly fuck me into delirium. I know i’ve put you through a lot. And i’m sorry for the roller coaster ride … but it’s all been new to me. The fantasy versus the reality, you know.”

I hugged him and held him close.

“Oh, my sweet darling, I know. I’m just so pleased that you’ve come full circle. That we’ve come full circle. It feels so much better now that we’re back on the same page.”

“I appreciate your patience and understanding, my darling Juno. And i love you more than my life.”

You see, Henry had realised that the reality of the situation was what he had wanted all along. That I would stray, but always return to him. He couldn’t believe that the reality would bear out the fantasy… but it truly did.