At 49, and in a sexless marriage, I thought my libido was stone-dead. Then one day, post-divorce, THIS encounter woke it with a vengeance. Ladies, here’s why it’s time to be less ‘British in the bedroom’…

I am in a hotel room close to London’s Liverpool Street station. It’s a smart-ish business hotel and it’s the middle of the day. I am fully clothed but I am also about to have sex. Strictly on my terms.

‘I hope you enjoyed it,’ he says, five minutes later, as I sit up and stretch. ‘I might see you again?’

‘Sure, maybe,’ I say vaguely, knowing he definitely will not.

And with that he’s gone, stopping only to pay for the room on his way out – a fact I discover later when I try to pay for it myself. A gentleman, then, as well as a proficient lover in one very particular area…

That was my seventh ‘date’, with no strings, guilt or judgment attached, but nevertheless a rather narrow remit.

I’m 49, and after 25 years in a marriage which had been sexless for the final three – and has been over for a year – I’m finally feeling fulfilled. Indeed, at last, I’m getting what I want, which is a man who will give me the kind of sex I crave and nothing else. It really is very liberating.

If the part of my story that takes place in hotel rooms is unconventional, the rest of it is not.

Over a long marriage, and after having two boys – now aged 13 and 15 – my ex-husband and I grew apart. In the end, we rarely spoke to each other, let alone had sex. I suspect he was having an affair with a colleague at his IT firm for at least some of those latter years, but it was an amicable split. The children live with me in south London, while my ex moved out to a nearby flat.

Post-divorce, however, something rather strange happened to me. Peri-menopause had flattened my libido to the point that I no longer even thought about sex… but then one day it woke up again.

At first it was a slow burn, nagging at the corners of my consciousness. The partners of my friends, for example, had never looked so attractive. I began to have erotic dreams about them.

For the fact is, and here’s where all our British hang-ups and reticence and shame kick in, my ex-husband and I rarely experimented with oral sex. Correction – I did it to him, but only after I’d had a bit too much to drink. In total, he returned the favour twice in the whole time we were together. On both occasions, it was referred to as a ‘birthday treat’. Did we talk about this? Of course we didn’t. We didn’t have a single honest conversation about sex in our entire marriage. 

Post-divorce, it suddenly seemed as though other possibilities existed. The trouble was, I’d heard so many bad things about modern dating, the thought of it filled me with dread. Could I really pretend to be interested in an endless stream of boring men over dinner in cheap restaurants?

I made my own money as a copywriter for a health and wellness brand; I was happy on my own. I just didn’t want to be celibate for ever.

A few months into this newly libidinous era, I mentioned wanting to ‘get out there again’ to my long-time hairdresser. Raising her eyebrows at me knowingly, she asked if I’d ever heard of Feeld, an app created for people looking for ‘no-strings’ sex. ‘The great thing about it is that it’s really diverse on there,’ she whispered as she cut my layers. ‘You explain what you’re looking for and there’ll always be someone who’s into it.’

I remember blushing furiously in the mirror. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t looking for something kinky. Who did she think I was?

But the name stayed with me and later, alone, I had to admit I was curious. There was something appealing about saying what you wanted and actually getting it.

I hope, and suspect, younger women today are more upfront about their needs in the bedroom. But most women of my age won’t have experienced the freedom – and pleasure – that comes with recognising and fulfilling different kinds of desire. I’d always assumed my ex-husband and I weren’t especially passionate people, but now I wondered whether my passion had in fact been quashed by him.

A week after the salon revelation, and with the boys over at their dad’s, I set up a profile on Feeld. My bio was short and to the point: ‘Female, straight, looking for men for fun. Especially interested in those that enjoy giving rather than just receiving pleasure’. 

I added a few photos taken on family holidays, including one of me in a Boden swimsuit looking, well, like a normal mum. I didn’t want any man being disappointed by what he saw in real life.

I was convinced nobody would match with me.

I was wrong. Four hours later, I’d had a couple of likes, but I didn’t fancy any of them. A few days later, however, there was a match with a man who intrigued me. He looked handsome, kind and had a dad bod. Fine. Just the kind of chap who was currently populating my daydreams.

We started texting.

He said his priority was ‘seeing women enjoying themselves’. I’m not sure that I bought this at first, but my hairdresser wasn’t wrong: there really are people out there for everything.

He didn’t talk much about his relationship history and I assumed he was single, probably divorced – not that it was any of my business. He was presenting himself on the app as single and if he wasn’t, that was his lie and his lookout.

After five days of texting, he asked if I wanted to meet him, and now the nerves kicked in. What was I doing? I was six months post-divorce and about to turn my hitherto safe, happy dream world into… what? Some kind of sordid reality? But I knew I would do it even as I wavered.

We arranged to meet in the lobby of a west London hotel. In the flesh, he looked like a younger Gary Oldman (he said he was 52), which was frankly perfect. I hadn’t told friends what I was up to, reasoning that I’d just not go up to the room he’d booked if he gave me the ick on sight. And part of the thrill was the secrecy of it all. I felt slightly guilty when I thought of my sons, as if I was betraying them by being so seemingly reckless, but I also knew I deserved some fun, too.

Looking back, I’m sure the hormonal roller coaster of late-stage peri-menopause was playing a part. As the tide of oestrogen waned, I’d started to put myself first for a change. And yet the last hormonal hurrah was also driving my libido to an ever-higher pitch. Frankly, I wondered whether this was what it felt like to be a man.

We enjoyed a glass of wine at the bar and, even better, the conversation flowed. Although he didn’t share many details, he admitted he’d been married and had a child. Remarkably, we talked about sex. Clearly that was the only reason for our being there, but saying it out loud still felt like breaking all the rules.

I decided not to ask ‘Gary’ how many times he’d had a no-strings hook-up before because I didn’t want to be put off.

‘I want you to feel as comfortable as possible,’ he said as we went up to the room. And even though everything about what we were doing seemed surreal to me, I felt weirdly calm, too.

‘Gary’ was very reassuring, constantly telling me how attractive I was; how it was his dream to be with someone like me. When it was over I remember thinking: that is how it should feel.

Since that first ‘date’, I have been on half a dozen more with other men – most about my age, some a little younger – and nearly all have gone exactly the same way.

Only on one occasion have we gone any further, and that was a case of genuine chemistry: we started the ‘date’ with a frenzy of kissing in a dark corner of a dark bar. 

Have I ever felt unsafe? Perhaps oddly, never. I trust my gut instinct and know that I’d call it off in an instant if I ever felt in danger. I have begun to tell one close friend where I’m going and I make sure I text her again when I get home.

Most men think women need to be emotionally attached to enjoy any form of sex, but I’m living proof that we don’t. I haven’t developed any complex feelings towards these men and I’ve never seen anyone twice. I also like the power of not reciprocating. It really is all about me.

I sometimes amuse myself by imagining how my ex would react if he found out. Had you told me even a year ago this would be me on the cusp of 50, I’d never have believed you. Writing it down makes me sound narcissistic or even sociopathic, but I know I’m neither of those things – I’m just making up for lost time.

To be honest, I see it more like a spa treatment. It’s just a way to release stressful emotions. I don’t feel guilt or shame. To be honest, I’ve never felt more alive.

*Miranda Haybridge is a pseudonym