Dear Joely: The Affair Was Perfect. Then He Went Down on Me.

Dear Joely,

I am 44, married with two children, aged 12 and 8, but the relationship is all over bar the shouting. It won’t be easy to leave. My husband is abusive, not physically, but through a complex web of coercive control. I am seeing a psychologist. That’s just some background.

For a long while, I have felt as though I am ripe to have an affair. As I said, there is nothing between my husband and me, and I am constantly left alone while he works long hours and travels abroad for work. I work as well, but the childcare has somehow worked out to be my responsibility.

About four months ago, I met a man through work and we really hit it off straight away. He is intelligent, kind and generous, and we have heaps in common. We get together for meals whenever we can, normally lunches because of our commitments. We talk and talk and talk. He gets me, and for the first time in years I feel understood.

I should mention that he is also unhappily married. That’s just the start of it, though. Our lives are so similar it’s actually spooky.

Over time, we built up quite a closeness and, yes, an attraction as well. We ended up making a date to spend a night together at a hotel away from the area where we live. My children were spending the night with their grandparents.

It was really quite lovely being with him in those circumstances. I got to dress up, and we had drinks at a nice bar and then dinner together. It had been years since I had done anything even remotely like that.

After the drinks and food, we ended up back in the hotel room. Things progressed to kissing, then touching, and soon afterwards we were naked in bed.

He went down to give me oral sex, and that’s when things took a turn for the worse.

It was awful. It didn’t turn me on at all. He was all over the place and didn’t seem to have the first idea about female anatomy. I found myself in the really difficult position of not knowing whether to fake it or say something, which I think he detected.

I tried to encourage him to have normal sex, but that didn’t work either. He wasn’t erect. After all the weeks of build-up, talk, closeness and caring, followed by the drinks and dinner, it was a terrible outcome. I felt like crying.

He ended up pacing around the room, not naked, and I tried to get him to talk about it. He wouldn’t speak for ages. Eventually, he told me he had never gone down on a woman before and had felt enough about me to make me his first.

My reaction was not what he had hoped for, and he felt ashamed and embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say.

We spent an awkward night together, and the atmosphere was horrible. Since then, things haven’t been the same between us. I miss him terribly because the messages and conversations haven’t been as they were.

Worst of all, I cannot imagine in my wildest dreams ever having sex with him again. It has completely turned me off. I wish I could change that, but I have the ick. A serious case of it.

If I’m honest, I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that he had never given oral sex to a woman at his age, he is 39, or that his first attempt, with me, was so bad.

I feel down in the dumps, lonely, sad and disappointed. To be honest, I wish I had just given an Oscar-worthy performance.

Pathetic in Putney

Dear Pathetic in Putney,

First, you are not pathetic. You are disappointed, lonely, sexually underwhelmed and currently living inside a marriage where your freedom has been slowly parcelled up and handed back to you in supervised portions. That is quite enough misery without adding self-contempt to the buffet.

And no, you should not have given an Oscar-worthy performance.

An Oscar-worthy performance might have spared him one mortifying evening, but it would have sentenced you to an entire sequel. Possibly a franchise.

The problem is not simply that he was bad at oral sex. People can learn. Female anatomy is not guarded by riddles, fire-breathing dragons or a subscription paywall. A willing, attentive adult can improve enormously by listening, asking and resisting the urge to approach a vulva like an unfamiliar control panel.

What seems to have killed the mood was the whole peculiar bundle: his inexperience, your shock, his shame, the pacing, the silence, the failed erection, and the crushing distance between the night you had imagined and the one you actually got.

You had not merely booked a hotel room. You had booked passage out of your life.

For weeks, this man had been intelligence, kindness, conversation, recognition and possibility. He made you feel understood after years of being controlled and neglected. By the time you reached that bed, he was carrying the combined weight of romance, escape, sexual resurrection and proof that another life was waiting.

That is an impossible amount of luggage for one man to bring into a hotel room, particularly when he has never previously travelled south.

Your ick may be permanent. Sometimes desire disappears with the speed and finality of a stage trapdoor. But it may also be protecting you from the humiliation and sadness of that night. You cannot order yourself to want him again, but you also do not need to decide immediately that the entire connection was fraudulent.

The more revealing question is whether the two of you can talk honestly now.

Can he say, “I was inexperienced, frightened and ashamed,” without making you responsible for repairing his pride?

Can you say, “I was disappointed and overwhelmed, and I did not know how to guide you,” without turning his lack of experience into a character defect?

And can either of you discuss what happened without pretending the evening was solely a technical malfunction involving his tongue?

Because there is another awkward truth here: neither of you is free. You are both using this relationship partly as refuge from unhappy marriages. That does not mean your feelings are unreal. It does mean the relationship has been growing in a greenhouse, protected from school runs, bills, domestic habits, difficult decisions and the full weather of ordinary life.

Before deciding whether this man deserves another chance in bed, I would concentrate on something more urgent: creating a safe, independent plan for leaving your abusive marriage.

Coercive control often intensifies when the controlling person senses separation. Please continue working with your psychologist, and seek specialist domestic-abuse support to help you plan practically and safely. Do not make your escape dependent on whether this affair survives. You need a door that belongs to you, not one held open by another unhappily married person.

As for your lover, one honest conversation is warranted. Not because you owe him another sexual audition, but because you miss the friendship and closeness that existed before the hotel. Tell him the night affected you, that his withdrawal has hurt, and that you would rather speak plainly than let embarrassment rot the whole relationship in silence.

Then see what he does.

A man can be forgiven for not knowing where everything is. At thirty-nine, however, he should be capable of having a conversation after getting lost.

Yours in better exits and considerably better sex,

Joely

Dear Joely: The Case of the Wandering Toe

Dear Joely,

I am fortunate to live in one of the nicer areas of Sydney with my husband and our two young children. All is as well as can be in those departments.

We are very good friends with our neighbours across the street. They are a couple, about ten years older than us. Every month or so, the four of us get together for drinks and some food. We alternate between our houses as the venue.

We both have spas in our yards and, at the end of these evenings, we usually end up having a tub together, with more drinks and chats. We don’t wear clothes on these occasions. This isn’t for any racy reason. It just came about because none of us normally wears clothes when in our own spa, so we figured: why would we start on these social evenings?

Nothing is made of the nudity, and we all really enjoy chatting together in the warm tub under the stars.

All good so far, but the problem is this: the male neighbour has taken to touching me underwater with his toe.

I don’t mean an accidental touch. I mean he is putting his toe between my legs and looking for encouragement.

This is incredibly awkward for me. If I call it out when it’s happening, that’s the evening — and possibly future get-togethers — finished. Or he could deny it.

If I speak to the female neighbour about it alone — we are very close as friends — she might feel awkward or jealous, or not believe me.

I told my husband, and he seems more amused than anything.

I don’t want to encourage him in any way. I like things, apart from this problem, as they are.

I learned of your page from a different friend and thought — hoped — you might be able to help.

Yours

Unwanted Toe Attention

Dear Unwanted Toe Attention,

What a beautifully civilised arrangement you have created: good friends, warm water, drinks beneath the stars — and one man’s big toe attempting to start a separate social programme.

Let us clear up the only part that appears to be confusing anyone. Being naked in a spa is not an invitation to be touched. Your neighbour knows the difference between an accidental brush of the foot and deliberately placing his toe between your legs while watching to see what happens next.

This is not a rogue limb. He is conducting a small underwater feasibility study:

Will she react?
Will she say anything?
Might the toe be permitted to return?

The answer to the final question must be no.

You do not need to turn the evening into a neighbourhood emergency or suddenly announce, “Whose toe is that, and why is it there?”

Although it would settle the question rather efficiently.

The next time it happens, move away, look directly at him and say quietly:

“Please don’t do that again.”

No nervous laugh. No apology. No long explanation that allows him to pretend you have misunderstood the fascinating migratory habits of his foot.

If he denies it, simply say:

“Good. Then it won’t happen again.”

That is all you need.

I would not begin by speaking privately to his wife. He created the problem, and it should not be handed to the two women to manage between them over coffee. Speaking to her first also gives him the opportunity to deny it before you have ever addressed him directly.

Your husband’s amusement deserves a second conversation too. Tell him plainly that you are not flattered, entertained or secretly enjoying the attention. You feel uncomfortable and sexually intruded upon, and you need him to take that seriously. He does not have to storm across the street with a pool noodle unless that is what you want, but he does need to stop treating it as a saucy neighbourhood anecdote.

You are worried that objecting may spoil the evening or end future gatherings.

But darling, the evenings are already being spoiled. You are sitting in warm, bubbling water wondering whether a toe is about to make another covert border crossing while everyone discusses schools, renovations and interest rates above the surface.

That is no way to relax.

One calm, unmistakable boundary may be enough to return the foot to ordinary civilian life. Should it happen again, I would retire the shared spa evenings altogether. Not because nudity caused the problem, but because one guest has shown that he cannot be trusted with the arrangement.

Warm water, cold drinks and neighbourly nudity can coexist perfectly well.

They simply require all four adults — and all forty toes — to behave themselves.

Yours, with both feet firmly where they belong,

Joely

More dilemmas? Read more letters and replies in the Dear Joely advice column.

Dear Joely: Should I Tell His Wife?

Dear Joely,

We had one of those workplace birthday things yesterday. You know the ones. Everyone gets called into the tea room, someone produces a Woolies or Coles cake in clear plastic — the sort that looks like it would still be technically edible in a month — and we all stand around singing like we haven’t got actual work to do.

Nobody really wants the cake. Everyone takes a piece anyway. Then half of it ends up in the bin later because, shock horror, shelf-stable supermarket icing is not actually a food group.

Anyway, I was already in a filthy mood because I’d barely slept the night before, so perhaps I wasn’t at my most generous.

There’s a woman at work — let’s call her Barbara — who has always got on my nerves a bit. She calls everyone “babe,” laughs too loudly at men who aren’t funny, and does that thing where she touches a man’s arm as if he’s just said something terribly clever when he’s only asked where the stapler is.

Normally I just roll my eyes internally and get on with life.

But yesterday, during the birthday cake hostage situation, I noticed something between Barbara and a married male colleague. I won’t name him, obviously, but let’s call him “Old Mate With A Wife.”

It was the looks. The stupid little smiles. The way they were trying so hard not to look like anything was going on that they looked exactly like something was going on.

Honestly, Joely, it was as obvious as a possum in a pantry.

The annoying thing is I know his wife. Not closely, but we go to the same yoga class and she seems like a perfectly decent person. Now I feel like I’m sitting on something.

I don’t especially like Barbara. I don’t feel any loyalty to him. And I fully admit I may have been fuelled by no sleep, terrible cake and general workplace irritation.

But if there is something going on, should I tell his wife?

Yours sincerely,

Namast-hey!!!

Dear Namast-hey!!!,

First of all, I would like to acknowledge the true villain of this piece: the workplace birthday cake.

There it sits, sweating gently in its plastic coffin, covered in icing the colour of printer toner’s breakdown. Everyone gathers around it pretending to be delighted, when in truth they are all thinking, I am an adult. I pay taxes. Why am I eating this?

So I understand the state you were in when Barbara began her mating display beside the urn.

Barbara sounds exhausting. Any woman who calls everyone “babe” while treating the office kitchenette like a cabaret stage is going to test the patience of the sleep-deprived. And yes, people conducting a new workplace flirtation often believe they are being wildly subtle when they are in fact lit up like a service station at midnight.

But should you tell his wife?

Not today.

I know. Unsatisfying. Joely has put the kettle on and hidden the matches.

The reason is this: you are currently angry, tired, cake-traumatised, and morally itchy. These are not ideal conditions for life-altering disclosure.

There is a big difference between acting from conscience and acting because Barbara has finally pushed your last nerve into traffic.

Ask yourself three questions.

First: what do I actually know?
Not suspect. Not smell in the air. Not “the way he looked at her near the paper plates.” Know.

Second: what is my relationship with his wife?
Are you close enough that silence would feel like betrayal, or are you yoga-adjacent acquaintances who once bonded over tight hamstrings and a shared hatred of crow pose?

Third: why do I want to tell her?
To protect her? To relieve your own discomfort? To punish him? To drop Barbara into a moral volcano and watch the plume?

Be honest. You don’t have to be pure, but you do have to know your motive.

If what you have is only a strong suspicion, do not march into yoga like the Angel of Adultery with a rolled-up mat. Watch. Wait. Say nothing yet.

If you later discover something concrete — not gossip, not vibes, but actual evidence — then the question changes. At that point, if this woman is genuinely in your life and you believe she is being deceived in a way that may harm her, a careful private conversation may be warranted.

But it would need to be calm, kind and clean. Not:

“Your husband and Barbara are at it.”

More like:

“I’m really sorry to say this, and I may be overstepping, but I’ve noticed something at work that made me uncomfortable. I don’t want to gossip, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I also didn’t feel right saying nothing.”

Then you give only what you know. No embroidery. No dramatic lighting. No Barbara character assassination, tempting though that may be.

For now, though, I prescribe sleep, distance, and not making lifelong decisions under the influence of Coles cake.

As for Barbara, let her keep calling people babe. Every office has one woman who treats married men like complimentary snacks. It is rarely as invisible as she thinks.

Do your yoga. Hold your tongue. Keep your eyes open.

And next time there’s a workplace birthday, bring your own biscuit.

Yours with clean hands and no office cake,

Joely

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Dear Joely: The Vixen Across The Road

Dear Joely,

Emotionally, I'm all over the place at the moment and I could really use your advice. I've been married for seven years to my husband whom I love very much. We're both 36. We're both Geminis. I work for a bank, he's a photographer. We live in a nice house, in a great area. We don't have kids yet, but I'd quite like to start trying soon.

Over the road from us lives a woman I would call a vixen. She's about 45 I'd say, and stunning. Lots of auburn hair and a very curvy body. Rumours in the neighbourhood are that she hosts certain get-togethers at her place. These involve couples and 'swapping'.

We're not into that. But the other day, when I got home from work, she was talking to my husband at our front door. When I asked him later what they were chatting about he avoided the question. I tried a few times, and it was like I'd never even asked. This made me cross.

I pushed the point again when we were in bed later. He eventually admitted that we'd been invited to a gathering at her place Saturday week. I got snippy. He shook his head and turned away from me. We've not mentioned it since.

I'm scared. I want to be the only one holding my husband's car keys.

Heckles Up

Dear Heckles Up,

First of all, let us be calm.

You have not yet lost your husband to the auburn enchantress across the road, nor has he been discovered dangling upside down from a chandelier with a stranger’s house key in his teeth. At present, all we know for certain is that your husband was approached at the front door by a woman with a reputation, and instead of answering his wife honestly, he chose the communication strategy of a nervous schoolboy.

That is annoying, yes. But it is not yet an orgy.

The real problem here is not the invitation itself. Adults are invited to all sorts of things in this life, from gallery openings to mild depravity. The problem is that your husband avoided the question. Then avoided it again. Then eventually coughed up the truth only after you pushed the point in bed, by which stage the whole thing had already acquired the atmosphere of a diplomatic incident.

That matters.

Because once a person starts acting evasive over something sexual, however hypothetical, the imagination does what imagination does best: puts on heels, pours a drink, and gallops straight into catastrophe.

You did, however, strike gold with this line:

“I want to be the only one holding my husband’s car keys.”

That is deranged in exactly the right way. I salute it.

But your real task is not to seize the keys. It is to seize the truth.

At a calm moment — not in bed, not in a huff, not while glaring through the curtains at the vixen’s hydrangeas — say this:

“The invitation is one thing. What bothered me was that you dodged me when I asked. I need honesty from you, even when the subject is awkward. So tell me plainly — what did you feel about it, and why didn’t you just say so?”

And then, crucially, listen to the answer.

It may be that he was embarrassed, flattered, intrigued, awkward, or simply trying to avoid upsetting you. None of those are ideal, but they are not all equally sinister. The point is to find out which one it was.

Also, a useful question to ask yourself: are you frightened that he wants to go, or frightened that some part of him was tempted by being asked? Those are not quite the same fear, and knowing which one is haunting you will help you speak more honestly.

If he tells you clearly that he has no interest and simply handled it badly, then good. You can both laugh grimly about the swingers over the road and move on with your lives.

If he becomes slippery, defensive, or tries to make you feel ridiculous for minding, then I would pay much closer attention. Not because the neighbours are wicked, but because evasion is often more revealing than temptation.

In short: don’t catastrophise, but don’t ignore the wobble either. Talk properly. Demand honesty. And remember that the woman across the road may be a vixen, but she is not the issue if your own front door is sound.

Yours, in defence of candour and proper key management,

Joely

More dilemmas? Read more letters and replies in the Dear Joely advice column.