Zoe’s Modern Life

Hi, I’m Zoe. I’ve just turned forty, quit my job, dyed my hair purple and, quite frankly, reinvented my life.

Or I’m having a midlife crisis. I haven’t quite decided which one yet.

On the surface, I’m your average stay-at-home mum. I do the school runs, plan the meals and make sure everyone is hydrated and eating enough vegetables. I attempt to keep the house clean, support my husband with his business, manage my child’s increasingly demanding social calendar and try to be a supportive friend.

Somewhere in amongst all of that, I maintain a social life of my own and make a reasonable effort to remain a fun wife.

But behind the packed lunches, laundry piles and family calendar, there’s me.

So, what makes my mundane little life interesting enough for anyone to want to read about?

Well, it’s 10 p.m. on a Tuesday night and I’m standing on a private island in Croatia wearing lingerie, fairy wings and a light-up crown.

I promise I don’t look tacky.

And I’m about to walk into the hottest sex party I have ever attended.

People from my real world have no idea places like this even exist, let alone that Zoe from the school run—the one who lives in yoga pants and hoodies, with her hair in a bun and not a scrap of makeup on—goes to them.

Welcome to the secret diary of an average housewife.

So, how exactly did I end up at a sex party on a private island in Croatia?

Well, I’ve been with my husband for seventeen years and married to him for seven.

We met online—before it was cool to meet online—and started out as fuck buddies. Somehow, that turned into a relationship, then accidentally living together, then marriage.

We are now the proud owners of an eight-year-old.

Our relationship has always been open.

We never had a dramatic conversation where we decided to “open things up,” because we never really closed them in the first place. Over the years, there have been periods when we were more monogamous and periods when we were considerably less so, but essentially, we have always been open.

Ethically non-monogamous. Swingers. Open. Call us whatever you like.

The important part is that we have sex with other people, we both know about it, and it works for us.

I should probably also mention that I may have undiagnosed ADHD, so there is every chance this story will take several scenic detours before we reach the destination.

But we will get there eventually.

Probably.

And in this particular story, the destination is a Croatian island full of attractive, semi-naked adults.

Being open and having sex with other people is not a fixed arrangement. It is a continually evolving dynamic because relationships grow, people change and life rarely stays still for very long.

What worked for us five years ago might not work for us now. Boundaries shift. Needs change. Feelings appear where you did not expect them, and sometimes situations do not go quite as planned.

But one of the greatest things this lifestyle has given our relationship is the ability to communicate properly.

People who have been established in the lifestyle for a long time often have communication skills that are second to none. They have to.

You cannot navigate jealousy, attraction, boundaries, insecurities and other people’s feelings by expecting your partner to read your mind.

You have to talk—even when the conversation is awkward, uncomfortable or involves admitting that you have fucked up.

And trust me, we have both fucked up.

When that happens, we have learned that the best thing we can do is be kind to each other, talk honestly about what happened and work through it together.

The aim is not to have a perfect relationship in which nobody ever makes a mistake. It is to create one where both people feel safe enough to admit when they have.

We had already been on a few swinging holidays before Croatia.

We had done Temptation and Desire in Mexico, Playa del Inglés in Gran Canaria, and even a Butlin’s weekender or two.

Then 2025 happened.

It was, to put it politely, a thoroughly shitty year. I will get into that in a later blog because, as previously established, we enjoy taking the scenic route around here.

One evening, my husband was scrolling through Facebook when the algorithm started algorithm-ing and presented him with a LADbible article about where British swingers were going on holiday.

The article featured Spicy Island: a private island in the Adriatic Sea that SpicyMatch takes over for ten days at a time, creating two separate weeks of sun, fun and filth.

There were very few details about the island or what actually happened there, but who doesn’t love a slightly mysterious adventure involving a lack of swimwear and some questionable decision-making?

The article was immediately forwarded to me with one simple instruction:

“Find it and book it.”

Nobody has ever needed to ask me twice to book a holiday.

So I found it.

And I booked it.

At that point, I had absolutely no idea what I had signed us up for.

But six months later, I would be wearing fairy wings and very little else, preparing to make several questionable decisions.

Now that I have your attention, I should probably continue with Croatia.

Instead, because I am apparently incapable of telling a story in a straight line, we are going backwards.

Not too far—just to the beginning of the summer I turned forty.

Croatia was not actually the beginning of my midlife reinvention. By the time I arrived on that island, I had already quit my job, dyed my hair purple and spent several months questioning almost every decision I had ever made.

It had also been a difficult year for our family. The kind of year that rearranges your priorities and reminds you, rather brutally, that time with the people you love is never guaranteed.

So turning forty did not feel like something I wanted to quietly acknowledge over a sensible dinner and an age-appropriate glass of wine.

I wanted a celebration.

Naturally, this became a family holiday involving enough relatives to field a professional football team, an overexcited eight-year-old and a flight departing at an hour when no civilised person should be expected to function.

Because before there was Croatia, there was Marbella.

And that is where the summer I turned forty really began.