I Want to Feel the Fire Again

I said it. I said it out loud. Not flippantly, not joking, not as a kink or fantasy whispered in the dark—but as a declaration. I sat across from you on the couch, warm cup of tea between my hands, your eyes already half-widened in that quiet panic you try to hide behind a calm, curious stare. You blinked, and I know you heard me. You just didn’t want to believe it. But baby, you heard me.

“Find me a boyfriend,” I said again. Slowly. Clearly.

I want to feel the fire again. I said, pointing at the fireplace.

You’re like a candle—steady, warm, dependable—your flame calm and constrained, flickering in rhythm with our routines. But what I crave now is the fire—wild, open, untamed—licking the air with heat and hunger, throwing shadows against the walls. I want to feel that kind of passion again, the kind that devours reason and dances naked in the dark. I want to spread for it, moan into it, be consumed by it while you watch, safe in your stillness.

You swallowed, hard. Gulped, really. You looked so cute doing it. Like you were trying to swallow a bowling ball made of nerves, love, fear, and twenty years of memories.

Let me talk, my love. Just let me talk.

I love you. First and foremost. I love you. Not the idea of you, not the version of you I married back then—you, right now. I love the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, I love the sound of your toothbrush against the sink in the morning, and the way you always—always—touch the small of my back when I’m doing the dishes. I love our routines. I love our Sundays. I love your loyalty. I love that you’ve never once made me question where your heart is.

And that’s just it.

I know exactly where your heart is. It’s with me. Entirely, fully, devotedly. It’s not wandering. It’s not distracted. It’s safe. So damn safe.

And that’s part of the problem.

Because passion? Passion isn’t safe. Passion is a goddamn fire. It burns hot. It tingles. It makes your stomach flip for no reason.

It’s unpredictable and urgent and, frankly, a little dangerous. And baby… I miss it. I miss the butterflies. I miss wanting something so badly I feel it in my thighs. I miss catching someone’s eye and feeling like prey, not just a partner.

You give me love. You give me comfort. You give me devotion. But you don’t make me feel like prey anymore.

And I’m not blaming you. Not even a little. It’s not your fault. It’s not mine, either. It’s time. It’s routine. It’s bills and Netflix and forgetting that we used to be wild. Do you remember the first time we had sex in the car, windows fogged up, your hand in my jeans while I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe? Do you remember what it felt like to sneak kisses in public, not because it was cute, but because we literally couldn’t keep our hands off each other?

That version of me is still in here, I promise. But she’s quieter now. She’s settled. She’s got things to do. She picks up dog poop in the yard. She cleans out the fridge on Wednesdays. She wears the same three soft bras on repeat. She doesn’t flirt anymore because—who is there to flirt with?

So I’m asking you, my darling husband, my forever man, to help me. Help me find her again. Help me wake her up. Help me remember what it feels like to be ravished.

I want you to find me a man.

Not just any man. Not a one-night thing. Not a shady Tinder hookup. I want a boyfriend. Someone funny, tall, handsome. Someone who makes me laugh until I snort. Someone who looks at me like he wants me. Not for what I do for him, or because we’ve got matching dental plans, or because I’m his rock. I want to be his fantasy. I want to be the woman he thinks about while he’s in the shower. I want him to want to bend me over the couch while dinner’s burning on the stove because he can’t wait.

And I want you to watch.

I want your eyes on me while he takes me from behind, while I moan and shudder and feel. I want you to see the way my face lights up, the flush on my chest, the raw animal of it. Not to humiliate you. Never that. But because I want to share it with you. I want you to be part of it. Maybe you’ll watch. Maybe you’ll touch yourself. Maybe you’ll help. But I want you there. I want it to be ours, even as it’s his.

Why should you find him? Because, love, no one knows me like you do. You know my type. You know what makes me laugh. You know who I’d want to kiss and who I’d find annoying by brunch. You’d protect me. You’d screen out the creeps, the guys who don’t respect women, the ones who think they’re doing me a favor by showing up. You’d find someone who’s not intimidated by our love, but turned on by it.

You know what I need, even when I don’t say it.

And I need this.

It’s not about replacing you. God no. You’re not going anywhere. You’re my home. He’d be the fire pit in the backyard—flickering, warming, playful. You’re the house. The structure. The foundation. But every now and then, I want to sneak out with a glass of wine and sit in that glow, just for a while. I want to feel a little reckless. A little alive.

He doesn’t have to be single. I don’t care. If he’s married and his wife is cool with it? Even better. Maybe she’s feeling the same way. Maybe she’s tired of being a tax partner and wants to feel like a sex goddess again. Maybe this whole thing could be beautifully mutual, grown-up, consensual, and full of fireworks.

And let’s be honest here. You like watching me. I know you do. The way your eyes get when I’m dancing in the kitchen in my underwear? You like seeing me confident. Sensual. Owned. But not by life. By desire. By a man who is lost in the sight of me. And you’ve told me before—you like the idea of someone else seeing what you get to have every day. You like knowing they’re jealous. You like seeing me through their eyes.

Let’s make it real.

Let’s pick him together. Let’s laugh through it. Let’s be picky. Let’s vet him. Let’s flirt with him. Let’s invite him over for dinner and see if the spark is real. Let’s take it slow and build the tension until it’s unbearable.

And then let’s blow it all up.

I want him to take me on your bed. I want to scream into your pillow. I want to feel your hand in mine while he’s inside me. I want to whisper “I Love You” as I stare into your eyes. I want to kiss you while he finishes. I want us tangled in it together. I want you to look at me after and see me glowing.

He gets that raw, primal version of me—the hunger, the moans, the aching stretch of being filled by him. You watch, your eyes drinking in every second, every sound I make, every way my body surrenders to the moment. And then, when he’s spent and I’m still trembling, that’s when you come to me. You don’t rush. You slide into me comfortably slow and deep, and it feels like coming home. Your touch is different—more deliberate, more intimate. You kiss me, you hold my face, you remind me who I belong to. You make love to me while the echo of him still lingers, and it’s that mix—his fire and your devotion—that pushes me over the edge all over again. And when you’ve had me, when you’ve claimed me with your body, you don’t stop. You go down on me, licking every drop of us from my thighs, from my folds, from deep inside. You feast on me like the animal you know I am, and you make me feel it—that I’m wanted, worshipped, devoured. That I’m yours… even when I ask you to share me. Especially when I ask you to share me.

And after he leaves, I want to curl up on your chest and feel more connected to you than I’ve ever been. Safety. Not because I needed someone else. But because you gave it to me. Because you understood. Because you knew that keeping our marriage alive doesn’t mean pretending everything is perfect. It means embracing who we are becoming. It means letting each other breathe.

Or maybe… maybe he doesn’t leave. Maybe we don’t rush to clean up, to pack it away and pretend it didn’t just happen. Maybe we just let the night hold us. The three of us, bare and honest, drifting into sleep tangled together—his arm around my waist, your hand resting in mine, my leg draped over yours. My body still humming with everything we shared, every look, every thrust, every whispered “yes.” You on one side, my lover on the other, and me right in the middle of it—safe, full, adored. Not torn between two men, but connected to both of you in different ways. I don’t want to run from that. I want to fall asleep there, in the warmth of what we created together. I want the sheets to smell like all three of us in the morning. I want that memory to linger. I want it to become part of our love story.

Maybe this is crazy. Maybe it’s bold. But baby, we’ve always been a little bit bold. You married me because I wasn’t ordinary. Because I challenge you. Because I lead. Because I know what I want.

Well, I want this.

I want to feel him grip my hips while you tell me how beautiful I am. I want his cum dripping down my thighs while you kiss my forehead. I want the contrast—the heat of the new, the comfort of the forever. I want more, not less.

And I want you to give it to me.

Find me a boyfriend, my love.

Let’s do this—together.