Within 24 hours, my inbox offered up 23 prospective suitors. I added: “Our time together will be limited to three dates as I cannot become seriously involved.” You must be trustworthy, smart, and skilled at conversation as well as in bed.” Under the heading: “Good girl seeks experience,” it read: “I’m a 44-year-old professional, educated, attractive woman in an open marriage, seeking single men age 35-50 to help me explore my sexuality. My first step was placing an ad on, a kind of intellectual version of Craigslist’s Casual Encounters. It was a case of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Both of us could sleep with whomever we chose as long as we used protection. According to our deal, I’d rent a studio apartment during the week and come back to our home on weekends. “I refuse.”Īgainst the idea at first, he eventually relented. “I won’t go to my grave with no children and four lovers,” I told him repeatedly. I broke the news to Scott that I wanted an open marriage in early 2008, a few months after his vasectomy. I was approaching my sexual peak and was relaxing into myself. Sexually, I was experiencing what happens to a lot of women in their late 30s and early 40s. I’d always been “the good girl,” and had slept with only three guys before getting involved with Scott at the age of 26. Many people will find this hard to understand, but, as the door to motherhood closed, I found myself rushing towards this whole other outlet of heightened female experience - taking lovers. But Scott had made it absolutely clear he never wanted a baby, and even had a vasectomy. I was having a midlife crisis and chasing this profound, deeply rooted experience of being female.īefore then, starting a family had felt like one route to this elusive state of feminine fulfillment. Stuck in a rut - our once-a-week sex life was loving, but lacked spontaneity and passion - I was craving seduction and sexual abandon. Scenarios like these were typical during my year of living dangerously - the crazy 12 months in 20 I jokingly call my “Wild Oats Project,” when Scott and I had an open marriage. “Good night, dove,” writes back Scott from wherever he is. Two minutes after he’s gone, I climb back into bed and text my husband, Scott, whom I’ve been with for 18 years. Having sex with a stranger is thrilling, but I’m not that interested in a repeat performance. Rinaldi (pictured on her wedding day) was with her husband for 18 years before deciding she wanted more. “You really don’t have to take it,” I say. Pulling on his pants after our intimate encounter in my Las Vegas hotel room, the cute 23-year-old I’d just picked up holds out his cellphone, urging me to tap in my number.
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As she publishes her memoir, “The Wild Oats Project,” on Tuesday, she talks to The Post’s Jane Ridley about her erotic journey. Trapped in a marriage where the sex was routine, freelance journalist Robin Rinaldi, now 50, embarked on a 12-month experiment in which she lived apart from her husband during the week and took lovers.