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Once Mike and I had broken the ice and slept together our relationship settled into a fairly predictable routine. We actually saw each other quite frequently, but more often than not it was for a quick lunch with no time for anything other than a bit of conversation and the meal. We would have several real dates during a month after which we usually, but not always, had sex. Then, every four to six weeks we would go away for a weekend and share both room and bed.

Mike was attractive, in a mature way, intelligent and considerate, and an all round great companion. While I loved him, I never imagined that I was in love with him. But, he was pleasant to be with and didn't add any complications to my life. In bed he was as good 'once' as anybody I have ever been with, maybe better. He had, unfortunately, come to the point in life where his 'onces' were farther apart than those of someone thirty years younger.

I found this out during our second weekend trip. Most guys who take a girl away for the weekend seem to think that the most important thing to do when they reach the destination hotel is screw. Mike was never like that. We would settle in, go out and do some things, and then have sex in the evening when we went to bed. On that second trip we had driven to our destination on a Saturday morning, had what I considered to be a most satisfying sexual encounter that night, but Sunday afternoon found our departure time approaching without a second episode. Don't misunderstand, I was still quite fulfilled from the ...

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