Zoe’s Modern Life

Travel day started with a 7 a.m. alarm, which, after a week of late nights and leisurely mornings, came as a shock to all of our systems—especially George’s. But it was home time, and you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.

We landed early Tuesday afternoon, dropped my mum, my nephews and one of their girlfriends home, said goodbye to the most amazing taxi driver and finally breathed.

We were home.

Then my nephew rang to say he’d left his bag—containing his passport and wallet—in the taxi, and we needed to sort it ASAP.

Okay, well…

That was exactly seven minutes and 32 seconds of post-holiday calm before we were plunged straight back into the chaos of real life.

It was fun while it lasted.

Paul drove off to meet the taxi driver and searched the taxi, but there was no sign of the bag.

That was because, as it turned out, my nephew had the bag with him all along.

He was just being a massive dope.

Honestly, nothing says welcome home quite like an entirely avoidable missing-passport emergency.

Seeing as Paul had already left the house, he decided he might as well do the rounds for work. He drove to Southport to check on a job and then popped into the garage to see how his van was doing.

For an inanimate object, he really does love this van.

We own six vans, but this one is Old Faithful. I’m fairly certain it’s had so many replacement parts that it’s technically a completely different van by now, but Paul remains emotionally attached.

While he was out visiting the love of his life, I got on with unpacking, washing and drying all the clothes, and generally attempting to drag us back into some sort of routine before the working week began.

Now, if you know me in real life and you’ve met George, you’ll know that he is constantly on the go.

He never stops moving and, more importantly, he never stops talking.

I was putting another load in the washing machine and sorting dinner when it suddenly occurred to me:

Oh shit.

I haven’t heard George for a while.

Silence where an eight-year-old should be is rarely reassuring, so I went to check on him.

I couldn’t find him in any of his usual places. It was only 4:30 in the afternoon, but eventually I went into his bedroom and climbed up to the top bunk.

That was when the horror hit me.

My eight-year-old was having a nap.

A nap.

At half past four.

I tried to wake him. I used all the usual tricks, but nothing worked.

Eventually, I decided that if he was sleeping that deeply, he obviously needed it. I accepted that it was going to be a very long night for the rest of us and left him to sleep.

At 8 p.m., Paul and I were watching Succession and eating spaghetti bolognese when George finally appeared.

We looked at him.

Then we looked at each other.

Oh fuck.

It was his bedtime.

We were absolutely screwed.

He announced that he was hungry, so I offered him spaghetti bolognese along with several other options.

Apparently, every suggestion would take far too long—which was confusing, considering we were literally eating the bolognese and I could have plated it up immediately.

Still, we settled on toast.

As I made it, I mentally prepared myself for a long night on very little sleep.

Then a miracle happened.

George ate his toast, announced that he was going back to bed and slept until 7 a.m.

The boy definitely needed to catch up on his sleep.

So, long story short: the clothes were washed, dried and put away, we all slept, George went back to school, Paul went back to work and normal service resumed.

Let’s go, go, go.

Nothing scuppers a day’s plans quicker than Paul asking:

“Have you got anything planned today?”

That question never means he’s interested in my schedule.

It means:

Drop your plans, because I’m about to ask you to do something highly unreasonable.

Will I have to wait in all day for a parcel containing a part we urgently needed yesterday—a parcel that probably won’t arrive, resulting in an argument with a call centre and an eventual trip to the depot?

Or will I be doing a 500-mile round trip in steel-toe-cap boots before unexpectedly being roped into manual labour?

Nobody really knows.

Today was one of those days and, luckily, it was the former rather than the latter.

I waited in for a parcel that arrived two hours late and then had to “nip” to Bradford with the part.

For clarity, Bradford is a 130-mile round trip.

Apparently, this qualifies as nipping somewhere when you’re married to Paul.

In slightly more exciting news, I’ve been messaging Laura this week.

I genuinely don’t know whether we’re going out as friends to catch up on life, or whether this is going to turn into a spicy meet.

We’ve decided to start in a swanky cabaret German bar and then possibly head into the gay district afterwards.

I’ve arranged a sleepover for George just in case the night ends back at mine, but beyond that, there is no plan.

I know what I’m doing on Sunday evening, but first I have an entire family weekend to get through.

Friday night rolled around.

Paul had been working away for the past couple of days, so we opened a bottle of wine, put on a 2000s indie playlist and settled onto the sofa for a catch-up about the week and our weekend plans.

Naturally, the conversation turned to Laura.

Did I know the “tone” of the evening yet?

No.

I did not.

As we discovered in Tony Montana’s Marbella pad, I am apparently the least observant swinger in existence.

Despite everything, I still had absolutely no idea whether Laura and I were meeting as old friends or whether this was, in fact, a fuck date.

Then came the question of what I was going to wear.

I eventually settled on a tight white bodycon dress, sheer enough for my pierced nipples to be visible through it—completely accidentally on purpose, of course.

I added a denim Superdry jacket, my trusty purple-and-white Nike Dunks and a white thong.

Casual enough for drinks on a Sunday night.

Sexy enough for a potentially spicy encounter.

Perfect.

Paul asked how I felt about going out with Laura, and I admitted that I was ridiculously nervous.

I’d never had a solo meet with a woman before.

Solo meets are actually quite a recent thing for both of us.

Over the past couple of years, we’ve realised that our schedules don’t always line up, and sometimes we don’t click with another couple equally.

It’s also fun to be a little bit selfish occasionally and have a meet that’s just for you.

Plus, the reclaim sex afterwards is hot.

Telling each other what we’ve been up to—and hearing all the details—has become part of the fun.

Paul started teasing me about who was paying.

I always expect a man to pay.

I know, I know—feminism and all that jazz—but I would also expect Paul to be a gentleman and pay for a woman he was taking out.

On this occasion, however, I was obviously paying.

My bank balance is healthier than Laura’s at the moment because she’s between jobs, and she’s had a really difficult time lately.

Sometimes someone just deserves a birthday treat.

Paul was excited for me.

More importantly, he was excited to hear all the details afterwards.

Saturday morning was spent at the local farmers’ market, followed by every parent’s favourite weekend activity: a children’s birthday party.

Then it was home to fake tan.

I was planning to wear a white dress the following night and, despite a British heatwave and a week in Marbella, I still resembled Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Thankfully, I have Paul to reach all the bits I inevitably miss and make sure I’m suitably golden rather than patchy and orange.

We had another quiet night at home.

After the holiday, we needed a weekend to recharge—especially as someone’s actual 40th birthday was happening the following weekend.

We had an early night, and then it was Sunday.

I showered and decided that, obviously, I needed another layer of fake tan.

I’ve tried loads over the years, but St. Moriz three-hour tan is still my favourite.

It’s one of the cheapest and, on me at least, it always comes out streak-free.

I also decided to top up my purple hair.

Nobody warned me that a dramatic change of hair colour would be quite this high-maintenance.

Although, if I’m honest, I’m fairly certain the tan and hair dye were both distraction techniques, because by this point I had accepted that I was probably about to go on my first spicy date with a woman.

Paul made sure I ate before leaving so I didn’t have two pints, become unexpectedly smashed and end up in a taxi home by 9 p.m.

In between curling my hair, sticking on my lashes and starting my makeup, I obediently ate a slice of toast.

Thankfully, the hair and makeup gods were smiling down on me.

I looked in the mirror and thought:

You know what?

I look really good tonight.

I ordered an Uber to the bar and texted Laura to ask what she wanted to drink.

She said a pint, so I ordered two and found a seat near the door.

There was a band playing.

I pretended to watch them, but in reality I was acutely aware of every single person who walked through the door.

I was so nervous.

Then Laura arrived.

She was every bit as hot as I remembered.

She’s shorter than me—about 5’3”—with a curvy figure, a rockabilly style, tattoos everywhere and a gorgeous face.

She is exactly the type of woman I’m attracted to.

The moment I saw her, I got butterflies.

We hugged, and my brain briefly went:

Shit.

She’s actually here.

But almost immediately, everything felt easy.

The conversation flowed.

We talked about what had been happening in her life—which is her story to tell—and what had been happening in mine.

I told her about losing my dad.

I told her what happened with my ex-fuck-buddy and shared possibly the most unhinged story of all time—which I might tell you about one day.

We gossiped about people we both knew, talked about upcoming events and generally caught up on life.

This was definitely giving friendship vibes, but we were having a brilliant night.

What felt like five minutes was actually more than two hours and three pints—or three half-litres, because it was a German bar.

We decided to move on and headed towards a lesbian bar.

On the way, Laura reached out and took my hand.

Okay.

There was definitely still a spark there.

At the next bar, I ordered myself a Corona and got her a vodka and Coke.

We started reminiscing about the night we first met and just how hot it had been.

She looked at me, gently moved a piece of hair away from my face and said:

“Can I kiss you?”

Now, I know consent is sexy, blah, blah, blah—but sometimes you just want to be kissed.

So naturally, I responded with something beautifully smooth and seductive like:

“I think we’re past the point of having to ask that.”

Then she leaned in.

Her lips were so soft, and once we started kissing, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

At first, one tiny part of my brain was still hoping that none of the school mums frequented lesbian bars on Sunday nights, when they were supposed to be at home making packed lunches and ironing uniforms.

After a few more bars and several very hot make-out sessions, I completely stopped giving a fuck who saw us.

Eventually, I suggested that perhaps we should go back to mine.

Paul would already be asleep because he had a 5 a.m. alarm, and George was away for the night.

Let’s see what kind of mayhem we can get into.

Laura absolutely jumped at the chance.

Within five minutes, we were sitting in the back of a taxi, and all I could think was:

Oh fuck.

This is actually happening.

I’m about to have my first solo session with a woman—and it might be some of the hottest sex I’ve ever had.

When we got home, Laura excused herself to go upstairs and freshen up.

I sat downstairs suddenly thinking:

What the actual fuck am I supposed to do now?

Everything I had ever known about sex promptly left my brain.

How does it start?

How on earth do you initiate sex?

What is happening?

Then I remembered that I like How I Met Your Mother.

More specifically, I remembered Barney Stinson’s playbook.

It was time for the Naked Man.

Well, the Naked Woman—but you get the gist.

I stripped down to my white thong and hoped for the best.

Please remember that I was several drinks in at this point.

As I heard her coming downstairs, I started to panic.

Shit.

Is this too much?

Have I gone too far?

Why don’t I possess even the smallest amount of chill?

She walked into the room, looked at me and smiled.

Then she told me she was going to tease every inch of my body until I begged her to make me come.

Well.

The Naked Woman had apparently worked.

She told me to lie down and began kissing and nibbling my neck between deep, passionate kisses.

She ground against me, played with my nipples, bit and licked them, flicking them with her tongue until I wanted her so badly that I stopped pretending I had any patience left.

“Make me come,” I said.

“I don’t hear any begging,” she whispered.

“Please let me come.”

She parted my legs with both hands and then removed my thong with her teeth.

It was unbelievably hot.

That image is going to stay with me forever.

Her fingers were inside me and her tongue was on my clit.

My legs were wrapped around her head, pulling her deeper into me, and I came hard all over her beautiful face.

Then it was my turn to return the favour.

I went upstairs to collect some of my favourite toys and took my time enjoying her body.

She tasted incredible.

She came, I came, and then we both came some more.

Afterwards, we agreed on two things:

We had both desperately needed that.

And we were absolutely not leaving it another year before doing it again.

With Laura’s permission, I sent Paul some very hot photos and videos for him to wake up to.

Then Laura and I spent another hour or two just lying there and talking.

It had started as a week of lost passports, school runs, laundry, delayed parcels and an allegedly quick 130-mile trip to Bradford.

It ended with me wearing nothing but a white thong while an extremely hot woman promised to make me beg.

Just an average week in the life of an average housewife, really.

Maybe I could be a semi-lesbian after all.