ManEaters: A Mature Confessions Story

Maybe I should tell you a little about me first, to give you some context. My name is Amanda Wyatt, and ten years ago I married a Wyatt Wyatt. Yeah. I know.

When I don’t roll my eyes over the insane naming choice, I just see the humour in it. I’m trying to recall if he’s ever asked me to call him Wyatt squared during naked time, but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t. If he did, I think we can rule out him having been serious.

Up until recently I was a native of Northumberland, a remote region in the northeast of England. I grew up at a time when council houses were being built in villages and everyone with a bit of snobbery bought one to prove they were moving up in the world outside of Newcastle.

Interesting times were had by all. A mishmash of people, backgrounds, and mindsets. I’m rambling, and Wyatt tells me not to do that, so… let’s get on with it.

As of today, I’m forty-eight, happily married, and have two grown, strapping sons from before I met Wyatt. I’m also the proud mother of two stepdaughters in their late teens. I have a part-time job at a clothing store, and I’m generally considered the strong mother and wife.

I’m what you’d call matronly—a word that I suppose can only be used when you’re of a certain age, because it usually conjures up thoughts of middle-aged women with big hips or bingo wings. I’m all those things and more.

But when I was a teen, I was slim and very popular with boys. I wasn’t wild about the peasant look that was in vogue at the time; instead, I opted for shorter skirts and tops that were easier to haul off. Throwback to the sixties, my mother called me.

I’m five-foot-five and, at the time, weighed about a hundred and ten pounds and had perky 32B tits. I wore my long, ash-blonde hair in a literal “Farrah Fawcett Do” that required lots of hairspray and flicking.

After two kids I became more ample all over; I’m ashamed to say. I’m now one hundred and fifty-five pounds, and I wear a 38C bra. Sadly, I haven’t grown four inches since 1978, so I’m overweight.

The reason I’m laying out these measurements is because it’s important. The first secret I’m going to share with you will set the tone for those that come after.

Yeah. I have secrets—and lots of them—but it’s time to let them out and run in the sunshine. My husband is in the dark about these secrets, and I trust him when he says he doesn’t have time for the internet. If that’s true, he’ll remain in the dark.

For a while I considered using a pen name and alter settings so no one could ever connect me to Amanda Wyatt, but I didn’t enjoy myself, so I’m taking the risk. Time will tell if I choose… wisely.

I’m starting with my first sexual awakening, so we’re going back thirty years, back to a simpler time, when I was eighteen and doing my A-Levels during the sixth form at grammar school. This all happened before I met David (my previous partner and father of my boys) in college.

This isn’t a chronological account of my sexual escapades. In the meantime, I’m starting at the beginning.

My best friend was Karen Dodson. We’d been friends since we were eight and attended the same schools, right up until we decided on different colleges in 1979.

Karen’s mum and dad bought their home on a development in a village on the River Tyne, and I got along well with her parents. Her mother’s name is Frances, and her dad is Alec.

Alec was always friendly and a good dad to his two daughters. He worked and played golf on the weekend, which Karen and I secretly thought had something to do with Frances—a mighty woman.

Frances was the definition of a middle-class wannabe—a term I don’t think we used back then but was definitely a thing. She came from a working-class family outside Newcastle and had worked hard to obtain her materialistic lifestyle, and it was all about “what would the neighbours think?”

She was obsessed with her appearance and went to keep-fit twice a week, and her hair was somehow blacker than a dollar-store witch’s on Halloween. I saw her at the start of 2010, and she’s still jet black, so safe to say it’s not natural.

Frances is immaculately made up and well put together, too. She’s a shade taller than me—around five-foot-six—and keeps a trim figure. I’d wager she’s around one-twenty, and she has smaller tits than me. An A-cup, I’d wager.

I know she wears padded bras because we had a discussion about it after I voiced a desire for bigger boobs, and she told me about her secret weapon. I’ve never seen her in jeans, always skirts and nice blouses, even at home.

She can be a pain in the arse about putting dishes in the dishwasher and being neat in general, but she’s a likable lady. That doesn’t mean we didn’t make jokes behind her back about her being a social climber.

Two houses down from Karen’s parents there was a married couple in their fifties, Bill and June Sanders. Fifties wasn’t considered young back then, but remember, I was eighteen.

Bill and June couldn’t have kids, so they spoiled Karen and her sister, Julie. June was an elegant, slim blonde who definitely had the best clothes and makeup available to her.

Frances was a little in awe of her, and we got a kick out of seeing Frances purchase the same décor items as June. June was taller than Frances—five-foot-eight, I’d estimate—and had a hot body for a fifty-something. She had a big rack like me. She must have been a 34C.

Frances had a lot of friends—one of whom I was acquainted with after a fling with her son, Gerry. It was a summer-love kind of situation—I was looking for a Prince Charming, and he was looking for pussy. We called it quits when we figured out we weren’t compatible in that department.

Gerry’s mum was Vicky Price (well, step-mum, but Gerry called her “Mum”), and at the time she was around ten years younger than Frances, so thirty-five. Vicky was married to Bob Price, who I thought was better looking than Gerry, and he was a good-looking dude.

Vicky was a good-looking brunette, with a fuckable mouth and pretty green eyes, all set in a cloud of curls. She was a little overweight with big boobs and definitely fit into the “voluptuous” category.

She wore her curves well and dressed to show off her features. She had a uniform of tight tops, bitty skirts and plenty of lipstick. She was around my height—five-foot-four—and a solid one-forty, her assets being her most obvious quality.

Vicky wore a 38D bra and never needed padding. From the whispers I heard from my male classmates, she was every man’s MILF. Or as they would have said if the term existed, “Hot MILF.”

I hope you enjoyed the meet and greet. Don’t get too attached to these character names because, just like you—er, I mean me—they’re good British spectators. Now, where was I?

My girl Karen had borrowed some books, and I needed them for a school project. Only Karen was away at a party with her boyfriend, and she didn’t expect to be home until Saturday, having made sexy plans.

I decided to call her house on the off chance someone was home and I could swing by. I’d only gotten my licence a month before (third try was a charm) and I was taking the opportunity to snag my dad’s car at any opportunity, even a ten-minute drive called to me.

Frances answers the phone, and I explained my dilemma. She told me to come over and sniped about Karen not returning my books. She was not a woman who failed to let you know she was ticked off about something, which could explain why people were generally a little afraid of her.

She told me her husband, Alec, was at a golf dinner until late, and Julie was sleeping over at Heather’s (her grandma’s). She mentioned she was having company, including June and Vicky.

I asked how Vicky was doing, as I hadn’t seen her since my split from Gerry, and I enjoyed talking to her. In fact, I visited her twice when Gerry was at the football game with his dad, and we shared coffee and conversational gossip.

Frances asked why I wasn’t at the party with Karen, and I gave her the skinny on my split with the planned date, which explained my no-show. She was sympathetic, even though I thought he was a dickhead and didn’t care.

She added that she and the “girls” (never heard anyone use that term to describe women that carried handbags in the crook of their arms until that night) were going to drink wine and laugh, since they had the house to themselves.

“You’re more than welcome to join us, love,” she said.

I paused, thinking a night spent with Frances and June listening to them complain about bread prices and Christmas was not on my to-do list. I remembered I could flirt with Vicky and that acid-wash-wearing Sarah was too hot to spend a Friday night alone, so my polite decline turned into a “Thank you, I’d love to. I’ll be by at seven.”

I didn’t want to go out, but I was afraid to stay home—if you know what I mean—and quickly found my “fuck me” outfit. Denim mini, zipped up at the front, black knee-high leather boots, and black tights (what? It was the eighties). I went with a red polyester blouse over a black bra