My Dating Life NSFW / Sex Number 35: The Take-Me-To-The-Woods-Guy One Ball The Hubby True Tales 

Here We Go Again: Meet Number 35

5-minute read

Discussing domestic abuse and violence, infidelity, an accidental stabbing, blood, lots of drunkenness.

Something has happened, people. Trouble is brewing. I can feel it. To be fair, trouble has already landed in my inbox, but isn’t that what happens when life seems to be going along swimmingly? Something comes along from your past to try and bite you in the ass?

“Hello u long time no speak how u been? Xx”

That’s it. That’s what I got. The message that popped into my Facebook inbox as One Ball and I were having a casual cup of tea with my mother. The message came from a boy in my past … and one I’d rather forget. He’s Number 35 on my list: The Take Me to the Woods Guy. Let’s abbreviate him to Number 35 for now.

Number 35 is yet another solider boy, one I met after The Hubby and I moved to mainland Europe back in 2008/9. My marriage had already started to take its toll on me, domestic abuse and violence happening behind the scenes, and more than a few people knew about us, or of us. Our relationship was the starting point for so many rumours, living in a goldfish bowl with so many other people, mostly other couples and single boys. Boys gossip more than girls, I won’t let you tell me otherwise.

“I know what he does to you … I’m here if you need a friend, okay?” Number 35 reached out to me one night, drunk, in the squadron bar. I was drunk too, and I think that’s why I fell for his bullshit line. What he meant by ‘need a friend’ was ‘need a booty call’, but I’m not sure I knew that at first. I willingly grabbed my phone and added him as a friend on Facebook, promising to send him a message if I ever needed a shoulder to cry on.

I’m not sure when everything first started to turn sexual between us. I barely remember anything about him at all. We only ever hooked up together when we were drunk, and I was normally blind drunk. Blind drunk to the point where I’d never remember anything at all about the night before, or what mischief I’d gotten myself into. Most of the time I didn’t even realise what I’d done until other people told me. Blackout drunk is a real thing … and I’d get that into that state a lot.

I think we slept together a handful of times. Maybe three? Possibly four? I can only clearly remember one time – our first time – and when I tell you the story you’ll understand why I remember it so clearly. I behaved appallingly … and not just because I was cheating on my husband.

Everyone was in the squadron bar one night, downing bottles of port like it was going out of fashion, soldiers daring each other to do stupid tricks and pranks, like downing a full condom full of beer, or running around the base completely naked. It was while everyone was off doing whatever it was they were doing that Number 35 sidled up to me.

“Hey, you alright? You look good tonight,” he said, giving me a cheeky wink and thrusting a bottle of WKD Blue in my hands. “I got you a drink.”

And before I had a chance to respond, a herd of men exploded back into the bar, raucously cheering because they’d just done something drunk and stupid. There was a lot of pushing and shoving, people falling over all around the place and drinks flying everywhere. It was absolute chaos.

And then it turned into bloody chaos.

No one was really sure what had happened at first, but there was blood all over the floor, blood all over a few of the men, blood everywhere. We couldn’t work out where it was coming from. And then I saw him: my husband. Slumped on the floor, blood pouring from a very long and very frightening-looking gash across his chest, very drunk and also now very pale.

In the drunken ruckus, a couple of the lads had fallen over and a glass bottle was smashed in the process. As they scrambled around and tried to get back up, the broken bottle had gone flying, tearing right through my hubby’s chest. It was horrifying. A horrifying accident. I was so drunk, but suddenly so sober, and my husband was bleeding out in front of me.

Thankfully, a couple of the more sensible and not-quite-as-drunk lads called for help, but my husband, now floating in and out of consciousness, ordered Number 35 to stop me going with him to the hospital. I was later told that my husband didn’t want me to see him like that, but I was so angry at him for not letting me travel with him in the ambulance.

“Come on, I’ve gotta take you home,” Number 35 said to me, directing me to his car. “I haven’t been drinking, I’m good to drive.”

“Can you take me to the hospital afterwards? Take me home to get changed and then take me to the hospital, please?” I begged.

“Okay, let’s just get you home and changed first, okay?”

He had no intentions of taking me to the hospital, but I believe him when he walked into my flat with me and said he’d wait for me to get changed. There was no waiting though. Within a minute of being alone in my flat, he kissed me.

I don’t know why I reciprocated. He wasn’t a man I felt particularly attracted to, not physically, sexually or intellectually. I barely even knew him. I just knew he was a guy my husband worked with, who messaged me occasionally to make sure I wasn’t being beaten to death. But maybe because I was drunk, or because I was in shock over the accidental stabbing, or because I just needed some sort of comfort, I kissed him back. And I didn’t stop kissing. Just like I didn’t stop him when he reached up under my dress and pulled my underwear down, and I didn’t stop him when he lowered me to the floor and got ready to fuck me, and I didn’t stop him when he actually fucked me. I encouraged it. All of it. I pulled him in and kissed him as passionately as he kissed me, and I wrapped my legs around his waist to feel him deeper and deeper. I even dragged him to the couch and rode him. It wouldn’t have mattered who *he* was, I just needed to feel intimacy and comfort from someone, anyone.

Both well and truly spent, an hour or so later, he finally agreed to take me to the hospital, but we couldn’t find The Hubby when we got there. The language barrier made it difficult for me to get answers and after what felt like hours, Number 35 finally pulled me to one side.

“How about we get you home? I’ll keep checking in to find out what’s going on and as soon as I know anything, I’ll wake you up. I’ll even sleep on the couch?” he said.

And in theory, it was a good idea. In reality, however, it would take us a little while longer to make it home.

To be continued …

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