Meet Number 36

Number 36, also known as The Neighbour’s Husband, was a cute boy. A soldier. Attractive, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and with a handful of tattoos. Some of them were jokey tattoos, designed to be displayed on drunken nights out, like that one on his butt that everyone joked about every time we went out drinking together. He got his butt out a lot. In fact, he did anything it took to make the people around him laugh.

Number 36 had an infectious personality. When he was happy and chirpy, which he was a lot, you couldn’t help but be happy and chirpy too. He had a great sense of humour; a proper little class joker. I could tell you a thousand stories of the ridiculous things he did in the name of a laugh. Like that one time, he climbed up two storeys to hop on my balcony and into my flat to help himself to a beer from my fridge.

“I’ve run out,” he laughed. And I didn’t mind. Me and my husband were good friends with him and his wife. It wasn’t the first time he’d come to our house for beer because he’d run out and we knew it wouldn’t be the last.

There were other times and other parties. He backwards-bounced on my yoga ball once, somehow managing to leave dirty footprints all over my ceiling. And he’d be the first person to get random body parts out so that other people could stick pegs on him ‘for a laugh’. There was never a dull moment when he was around. It was exhausting, but so much fun at the same time.

I wanted Number 36 for a long time, even fantasising about the things we would do together. Never in a million years did I ever think I’d get the chance to welcome him into my bed, though. His wife was a gorgeous size zero, and it wasn’t long before they were expecting their first child. I, on the other hand, was a size 16, had barely the shreds of her self-esteem, and was beaten up by her husband, and cheated on, on the regular. They lived directly beneath us and could usually hear practically everything that was going on.

But we did sleep together, and it didn’t take long. I can’t remember how we ended up in my flat alone, or even where my husband was. I just remember Number 36 knocking on my door one evening, a pizza menu in one hand and a box of 24 beers by his feet.

“Fancy some company? I’ve got beers and pizza and if you’ve got the cigarettes?” he asked.

“Sure, come on in!”

We ate pizza, drank quite a few of the beers, and smoked far too many of the cigarettes, and then, completely out of the blue, we ended up having a water fight. He playfully threw a glass of water over me and then I threw a full jug of water over him and then … well, it all got very wet. We somehow ended up in a compromising position on my couch, soaking wet, laughing … and then time just stopped. It was just for a second or two, but it felt like so much longer than that; we were just staring at each other. Almost as though we were searching for permission in each other’s eyes. And then it happened. The kiss. Not just a little kiss: a big one, passionate, with months and months of mounting sexual chemistry backing it up.

It was like an explosion. We just couldn’t hold it in anymore. In between our frantic kisses he reached down and grabbed my sweater – my new, favourite, mustard-coloured sweater – literally ripping it into two pieces as he tried to get it off me.

“Shame,” he muttered into my mouth. “I always thought that looked really nice on you.”

I think that might have been the only real compliment he ever paid me. Apart from telling me how good my dick-sucking skills were, of course.

We fucked that evening, and then a few more times after that. Maybe four or five. We actually ‘hooked up’ a lot more than that, mostly with stolen kisses and quickie blowjobs, but it was never anything serious. I didn’t have feelings for him and he didn’t have feelings for me, but we did have a truckload of sexual chemistry that needed releasing every now and then. We knew each other really well, but he also knew The Hubby well, too. That worked as both an advantage and disadvantage for him: he knew about all the infidelities I didn’t know about but was then faced with the awkward dilemma of whether or not he should tell me. I think that’s why he didn’t feel guilty about fucking his mate-and-neighbour’s wife: he knew my husband was a dick.

I didn’t know about all of my husband’s infidelities, but I knew about enough of them to allow me to enjoy my naughty moments with Number 36 without feeling too much guilt. I did feel sorry for his wife, of course. She was a nice enough woman and didn’t deserve what I/we were doing to her, but there was always a bit of bitchy tension between us. I knew that she had been talking shit about me behind my back because other WAGs had told me so. Maybe that’s why I didn’t feel as guilty as I should’ve done?

I learned from an early point that forbidden fruit was possibly the hottest fruit of all, and although it’s not a ‘fantasy’ I should indulge in, I can’t help but get **really** turned on by the sex I’m not meant to be having. Cheating on my boyfriend/husband/partner, being the other woman, fucking a work colleague when the company handbook forbids it …

It’s degrading and morally wrong, yes, but I also find it really hot. Forbidden fruit is absolutely the sweetest for me.

Of all the ‘forbidden fruits’ I’ve tasted, Number 36 is the one I feel the least guilty about. We never got caught. There were a few almost-caught situations, but no one ever really entertained the idea that HE could be screwing around with ME. He even kept other secrets for me, like fucking Number 30: The Guy with the Big Ears.

And I can’t wait to tell you about that guy!

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