We’ve got a relatively quiet couple of weeks ahead of us before our big family holiday to Egypt, and I cannot bloody wait!

Sunshine, cocktails, no school runs and two glorious weeks of doing as little as possible. What’s not to love?

In the meantime, however, my entire immediate family has apparently decided to go on holiday without me.

Yes, you read that correctly.

All of them. Without me.

Now, I’m not going to lie, I do feel a little bit left out. But in fairness, I can completely see how it happened, and I know it wasn’t some elaborate family conspiracy to get rid of me.

It all started when my eldest brother, Jack, booked a week on the Isle of Wight with his sons over the summer. Our uncle lives on the island, so it was a lovely opportunity for them to spend some time together.

Then Jack decided to take Mum along too.

Lovely. Very thoughtful.

Meanwhile, my other brother, Sam, and his wife decided that sounded like a rather good idea and promptly arranged to gatecrash the holiday in their campervan.

And just like that, what started as a little trip with Jack and his boys had somehow turned into a full-blown family holiday.

Minus one rather important family member.

Me.

When I first found out about this lovely little family holiday that apparently didn’t require my presence, I can’t pretend I handled it with complete grace and dignity.

There may have been a few sly digs.

Actually, who am I kidding? There were definitely a few sly digs, and I wasn’t exactly subtle about my bruised feelings.

The ridiculous thing was, I completely understood how it had happened. Nobody had deliberately excluded me. One person had booked a holiday, another had decided to tag along, and before anyone knew it, practically the entire family was off to the Isle of Wight.

Without me.

And while the rational part of my brain understood the situation perfectly, the slightly sulky part was still having a moment.

Anyway, after Mum had been out with my auntie, she gave me a call.

“Hi Zoe, I’ve got some good news!” Mum announced when I answered the phone.

“Oh, go on then.”

“I’ve spoken to Lorraine, and she completely agrees with you. She thinks we’re in the wrong.”

Well, no shit, Sherlock.

On what planet would anyone think it was perfectly acceptable for an entire family to bugger off on holiday and leave one person behind?

But apparently my auntie agreeing that it was a bit shit was supposed to make me feel better.

“Why don’t you book somewhere and come down?” Mum suggested.

Well, no.

For starters, I’ve already got far too many holidays booked this year, and at some point I do actually need to stay at home and earn some money.

And secondly, that’s not the bloody point!

I didn’t necessarily want to go to the Isle of Wight. I just wanted someone to have thought to invite me.

There is, after all, quite a difference between choosing not to go on a family holiday and discovering that everyone else is going on one without you.

Anyway, it was what it was. I wasn’t about to cancel my plans, rearrange my life or book another holiday just to prove a point.

Even if I was reserving the right to be a little bit sulky about it.

So, the long and short of it was that the weekend before we were due to spend two glorious weeks firmly in Mum and Dad mode in Egypt, we’d managed to lose our main source of childcare.

Fantastic.

Don’t get me wrong, I was very much looking forward to our family holiday, but Paul and I do rather enjoy a bit of grown-up time together. And with practically my entire family sunning themselves on the Isle of Wight, our options were looking somewhat limited.

It appeared we were destined for a perfectly respectable, entirely vanilla weekend.

Then I had a thought.

“I mean, we could have a vanilla weekend…” I suggested to Paul.

“Or we could go for secret option B.”

And let’s face it, when you’ve been together as long as we have, you don’t really need to explain what secret option B involves.

So, we made a couple of calls, had a few conversations, and before we knew it, we had plans.

With other people.

Paul had Friday night.

I had Saturday.

And just like that, our perfectly innocent weekend had taken a rather more interesting turn.

Friday: Trampolines, Candy Floss and a Hot Date

Paul had arranged to meet up with Jeff and Sarah, a couple we already knew. They’re in a cuckold dynamic, and Paul had played with Sarah before.

They’d decided to spend the evening at Jaydees, a swinging club in the Midlands.

So, Friday was sorted.

But before Paul disappeared off for his evening of adult entertainment, we decided to do something fun as a family.

After all, we were still responsible parents. Even if one of us did have a rather interesting appointment later that day.

We took George to our local trampoline park for the morning. A perfectly wholesome family activity involving bouncing around, burning off some energy and generally doing normal Mum and Dad things.

Then, come twelve o’clock, it was time for Paul to leave.

I gave my husband a kiss goodbye and sent him on his merry way.

Off for a hot date.

With another woman.

And obviously, a nap.

Because we’re forty, not twenty, and apparently a good night’s debauchery requires a sensible amount of preparation these days.

With Paul safely dispatched, George and I decided to head into the city centre for a spot of lunch.

George very generously offered to treat me.

With my bank card, obviously.

We settled on Zizzi, where George ordered a pizza and I went for a Caprese salad.

When it came to dessert, however, he had other ideas.

He’d spotted one of those candy floss machines and decided that was considerably more exciting than anything on the dessert menu.

Fair enough.

One enormous cloud of spun sugar later, I looked at my son and realised we had a problem.

I genuinely couldn’t tell how much candy floss he’d actually eaten and how much had ended up stuck to his face.

There was only one thing for it.

An emergency trip to Boots for baby wipes.

“Muuuuum! Why are you embarrassing me? I’m NINE! I don’t need anything for a baby!”

“Mate, you’re covered in sticky sugar. We need to wipe your face.”

“But it’s embarrassing!”

Honestly, the sheer indignation.

“You’re lucky you’re with me,” I told him. “When I was your age, Nana Maureen wouldn’t have bothered with a wipe. She’d have just licked your face clean.”

George stopped in his tracks and looked at me in absolute disbelief.

“You’re lying.”

“I am 100% not lying.”

Clearly, this was such a horrifying allegation that it required independent verification.

So I rang my cousin Roxy, who just happens to be George’s favourite person.

She barely had time to answer the phone.

“Hey, Roxy! Tell George how Nana Maureen used to clean our faces.”

Without missing a beat, she replied:

“She’d lick it.”

“EWWWW!”

George looked suitably horrified.

And just like that, the prospect of having his face cleaned with a baby wipe suddenly seemed like a rather dignified option.

Nana Maureen: traumatising generations of children, one spit wash at a time.

With George’s face finally returned to something resembling its original state, we decided to head home.

It was approximately a billion degrees in the UK at the time, and frankly, the thought of cooking anything was about as appealing as sticking my head in the oven.

So we decided on a cold picky-bit dinner instead.

A quick trip to Sainsbury’s to stock up on the essentials, and we were back on the train heading home.

Once we got back, we spent the afternoon chilling in the paddling pool, making the most of the sunshine and doing absolutely nothing particularly productive.

Bliss.

As the evening rolled around, we decided a movie night was in order.

Something easy, something cosy and, most importantly, something that didn’t require me to do very much at all.

Meanwhile, over in the Midlands, Paul’s evening was getting underway.

My phone pinged with a message from him.

He’d arrived at his Premier Inn, had a shower and was just about to head down to the bar to meet Jeff and Sarah.

Lovely.

We had a little chat, and I filled him in on our afternoon’s adventures, including George’s candy floss incident and the horrifying revelation about Nana Maureen’s cleaning methods.

I asked Paul to send me a picture when he was ready and to drop me a message when he got back to his hotel.

One of the slightly odd things about swinging clubs is that phones aren’t allowed inside, so when one of us goes out without the other, there isn’t much opportunity for checking in throughout the evening.

You get used to it, but it does mean that once they’re through the doors, you’re pretty much left to get on with your own evening.

I wished him a fantastic night, told him to enjoy himself, and carried on with my movie night with George.

At 2:30 in the morning, my phone pinged.

“Fantastic night! I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. I love you x”

And that was that.

My husband had clearly had a brilliant evening, George and I had enjoyed a lovely day together, and everyone was happy.

Well, apart from George, who was probably still emotionally recovering from the knowledge that Nana Maureen used to lick children’s faces clean.

Just your average Friday in the Zoe household. ❤️

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow was my turn.

Saturday: Bacon Sandwiches and the Full Debrief

Saturday morning started much like most Saturdays in our house.

Bacon sandwiches.

Because regardless of what scandalous activities we may or may not have planned, some traditions are sacred.

Paul rang while I was sorting breakfast. He’d had a fantastic night and was about to treat himself to a Premier Inn breakfast before heading home.

Top-tier choice, if you ask me.

Naturally, I wanted all the gossip, but Paul wasn’t giving anything away over the phone. I’d have to wait until he got home for the full debrief.

Fine. Keep your secrets.

Besides, I had my own evening to prepare for.

Tonight, I was heading to Cupids with a guy I’d originally met at Alchemy and had subsequently enjoyed a private meet with.

So he wasn’t a complete stranger, and we’d already established there was some chemistry.

Which meant I had a meet to get ready for.

And getting ready for a meet, in my world, is never quite as simple as throwing on a nice outfit and a bit of lipstick.

Oh no.

We were talking an everything shower, fresh tan and a hair dye.

The full works.

Because if I was going to spend Saturday night getting up to no good, I was at least going to look bloody fabulous doing it.

So, while Paul was enjoying his cooked breakfast and leisurely journey home, I got started on the rather extensive process of transforming myself from bacon-sandwich-making mum into Saturday-night Zoe.

Same woman. Very different plans.

When Paul finally arrived home, it was time for the bit I’d been looking forward to.

The gossip.

And, more importantly, all the spicy details.

He’d met Jeff and Sarah in the Premier Inn bar, where they’d enjoyed a couple of drinks before jumping in a taxi to Jaydees.

Once they arrived, they had a tour of the club and spent some time mingling with the other guests in the bar.

All very civilised.

But it wasn’t long before the three of them decided to head upstairs.

Now, Sarah has a particular fondness for impact play, and it sounds like she’d certainly come to the right place.

Jeff had her bent over a wooden spanking horse while he used a paddle, with Paul joining in the fun. Later, they moved over to a St Andrew’s cross, where Paul took his turn with a flogger.

Apparently, the experience was intense enough for Sarah to reach orgasm from the sensation play alone.

Clearly, the evening was going rather well.

Afterwards, Paul and Sarah took things further and enjoyed some more intimate time together.

Then, after all that excitement, they decided a refreshment break was in order.

Because apparently even a night of debauchery requires proper hydration.

Suitably refreshed, they headed back upstairs, where Paul and Jeff enjoyed a little more shared fun with Sarah, this time with her taking centre stage between them.

With everyone thoroughly satisfied, they called it a night, jumped into a taxi and headed back to the hotel.

Not a bad Friday evening, really.

And judging by Paul’s enthusiasm during the debrief, he’d certainly enjoyed himself.

Saturday Night: Neon, Naughtiness and a Very Good Time

The rest of Saturday was fairly chilled. We’d had a busy Friday, and with my preparations well underway, there was no need to do anything particularly exciting.

Paul and George had already made their plans for the evening.

Johnny English and a Domino’s.

A typical boys’ night in, really.

A takeaway, a ridiculous comedy and some quality father-and-son time.

Meanwhile, I was getting ready for an evening at Cupids with another man.

Now, Saturday night at Cupids was a neon night, and if there’s one thing I love, it’s an excuse to dress for a theme.

I’d settled on a lime green strappy two-piece, neon heels and my neon Kurt Geiger bag.

Subtle, understated and effortlessly elegant.

Obviously.

You certainly wouldn’t miss me in a blackout.

Suitably dressed to potentially cause a power surge, I headed off to the hotel to meet James.

I’d originally met James at Alchemy, where he’d been attending with a good friend of mine. We’d met up a couple of times since, so this wasn’t our first rodeo.

After meeting at the hotel, we jumped in an Uber and headed to Cupids.

Now, if there was ever a club made for a neon night, it’s Cupids. The lighting, the atmosphere, the whole place just lends itself perfectly to a room full of people dressed like they’ve escaped from an eighties rave.

When we arrived, we bumped into a female friend of James’s.

And it became apparent rather quickly that she was extremely interested in me.

Well, hello.

I certainly wasn’t going to complain about that.

We chatted, flirted and enjoyed the atmosphere, but it wasn’t long before the three of us decided to head off together.

Our destination?

The couples and single ladies’ room.

We found ourselves on the large bed, kissing, and it didn’t take long for things to heat up.

She certainly wasn’t shy about showing me just how interested she was, and neither of us was complaining.

James joined in, and before long the three of us were thoroughly enjoying each other’s company.

I particularly enjoyed watching the chemistry between James and his friend. There’s something incredibly sexy about being part of a moment where everyone is completely comfortable, attracted to each other and having a fantastic time.

Then it was my turn to enjoy some attention from James, while she made sure she wasn’t missing out on any of the fun.

At one point, I was practically folded into a pretzel.

Honestly, who needs Pilates when you’ve got a Saturday night at Cupids?

It was hot, playful and, most importantly, we were all having an absolutely brilliant time.

After our little adventure, we headed back to the bar, where James’s friend went off to do some socialising of her own.

James and I grabbed a drink and got chatting to a group of Irish people.

One thing I love about swinging clubs is the social side. You can go from getting up to all sorts of mischief to standing at the bar having a perfectly normal conversation with complete strangers.

Although, admittedly, everyone’s definition of normal might be slightly different.

We were enjoying ourselves when James leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“I want you all to myself.”

Well, hello again.

I looked at him, he looked at me, and frankly, no further discussion was required.

We made our excuses and headed off to find a private room.

Apparently, James had decided he was quite finished with sharing for the evening.

And I was more than happy to oblige.

Once we were alone, there was no more need for flirting or subtle hints.

We both knew exactly why we were there.

The chemistry was electric, and things quickly became passionate, intense and wonderfully uninhibited.

James certainly wasn’t holding back, and neither was I.

It was exactly the kind of fun I’d been looking forward to.

And to think, we’d nearly settled for a vanilla weekend.

Afterwards, we decided it was time to call it a night at Cupids and headed back to the hotel at around 1 a.m.

Although, apparently, neither of us was quite ready for bed.

There was still time for round three.

Because obviously, two rounds at Cupids hadn’t been enough.

Eventually, thoroughly exhausted, we decided sleep was probably a sensible idea.

James had an early start the following morning, so after a few hours of much-needed rest, we said our goodbyes and I headed home.

And just like that, my little Saturday night adventure was over.

Sunday: Back to Reality (and the Packing)

When I got home, Paul had picked up some fresh pastries and made coffee.

What a bloody good husband.

So, naturally, we sat down for breakfast while I filled him in on all my filthy antics from the night before.

After all, he’d had his turn to spill the gossip yesterday. Now it was mine.

With our respective adventures thoroughly discussed, it was time to return to reality.

Sunday was spent getting ourselves organised for the week ahead and tackling the packing mission, because in exactly seven days we’d be jetting off to Egypt for two glorious weeks of sunshine, cocktails and family time.

Somehow, we’d managed to squeeze two nights of grown-up fun into a weekend that also involved trampolines, pizza, candy floss, a paddling pool and the deeply disturbing revelation about Nana Maureen’s cleaning methods.

Which, when you think about it, rather perfectly sums up our lives.

One minute we’re discussing baby wipes and bacon sandwiches, the next we’re comparing notes on our respective adventures at swinging clubs.

And somewhere in between, we’re just Paul and Zoe, doing the school runs, raising George and trying to remember whether we’ve packed enough sun cream.

It’s not always conventional, but it works for us.

And as for the family holiday I wasn’t invited on?

Well, I suppose it all worked out rather nicely.

Although I’m still reserving the right to be a little bit sulky about it.

After all, I may have missed out on the Isle of Wight, but I certainly didn’t miss out on having a good time.

Secret Option B had been a roaring success.

Now, time to swap the neon heels for flip-flops.

Next stop: Sharm el-Sheikh! ✈️🍹