We have been married for thirty years, and we are very happy with each other. Mostly. I say “mostly” because Paul refuses to engage in any sexual activity. Not any form; he will not let me suck him, peg him, or shag him. In fact, due to my habit of trying to shag him in my sleep, he has moved into a separate bedroom. ‘He can’t,’ he says; ‘his dick is broken,’ he says; ‘it won’t get hard,’ and he says he has tried Viagra with no success.

It is so frustrating; I mean, it is beyond what a healthy woman can cope with. I see him and I get wet; I want to shag him, to let him fill me with his meat and sow his seed, but he refuses. I masturbate daily, sometimes more than once a day; actually, it is usually more than once per day.

I use a vibrator; I have even been known to use my rolling pin – anything to get satisfaction. I suppose I could take a lover, but how do you meet someone? How do you find a sexual partner? Do you advertise, and if so, how? I am no expert on computers, and I don’t dare look online; I don’t want Paul to look at my online history and see what I have been doing. It is so frustrating.

Paul had just gone to play golf, and I knew he would be gone for some hours. The golf took several hours, and then he would spend time in the golf club chatting to his friends. I had been suspicious, and I had inspected his golfing days’ underwear. I had thought that perhaps he was actually having an affair, and I was sure that if he was, that there would be evidence in his underpants.

Dried semen, the smell of a woman, a miscoloured pubic hair – something like that, but no, nothing. It seemed he was telling the truth; he simply was impotent. At 56 my husband could no longer get it up.

Irritated, I decided to mow the front lawn. It would take my mind off things. I went outside, opened the garage and pulled the lawn mower out. It is quite old, runs on petrol, and leaves nice stripes on the lawn. All I have to do is mow in a straight line! I checked the fuel; there was plenty in the tank, and I pulled on the cord.

Nothing. Not even a splutter. I pulled again; still nothing.

“Having problems?” my neighbour Phil called out.

Phil is a widower; his wife died of cancer a few years ago, and as far as I know, he hasn’t dated since. He just lives alone and does his thing, whatever his thing is. I know him well enough to chat to, but that is about as far as it goes.

“Bloody thing won’t start,” I replied.

“May I look?”

“Yes, Phil, you may,” I said, a smile on my face. I am not one of those women that feel offended when a man offers to help; no, I am not.

Phil wandered over my lawn and looked at the mower. He sniffed it, he test-tugged the pull cord, and then he gave it a proper tug. The mower spluttered, then stuck its tongue out at Phil and sat inert on my lawn.

“Ha.” Phil said, “Stubborn mule. Give me a moment; I shall go and get some ether.”

Phil wandered off and disappeared into his back garden and, I presumed, to his shed. I stood there glaring at my lawn mower, annoyed that it had refused to do the one thing that it was taking up space in my garage to do.

“Here we are,” Phil said, a spray can of ‘Starter Fluid’ in his left hand. He bent down and sprayed it into the box that was the air filter and pulled the chord again. The mower spluttered, coughed and then started. It ran briefly and then stopped.

“Hhmm, okay. When I pull, and after it starts,” Phil said, “can you spray the can into the air filter? It might just need a bit to keep it going.”

“Okay,” I said. How difficult can it be?

Phil grabbed the mower by the handle, his other hand on the cord pull.

“Ready,” he said, and so I started spraying. Phil pulled the starter cord, and the mower sprang into life. I kept spraying; the mower kept running.

“Okay, Mica,” Phil said, “You can stop now.

So, I stopped and pulled my hand and the can away. The mower ran and didn’t stop.

“I guess that you have some old petrol in there,” Phil said. “When you have finished, I’ll drain it and give it a service. You can go and get some fresh petrol before you use it next.”

‘It’s not only the mower that needs a service,’ I thought.

Phil coughed. “Pardon?” he gasped.

Shit, I had spoken aloud and not simply thought it.

“Thank you for doing the service for me,” I said, with a face that was probably going red.

“I wouldn’t know where to start, and, to be honest, Paul can’t manage anything these days, apart from golf.”

“So I gather,” Phil said. “So I gather.”

Phil wandered off, and I got on with the mowing. The front lawn was beautifully flat, and I managed to get a really good stripe on it. When I had finished, I pulled the mower onto the driveway and cleaned as much grass off as I could. I wheeled the mower round to Phil’s house and rang his doorbell.

“All done,” I said. “I have brought the mower round; do you want it now, or shall I take it back, and you can let me know when you want it?”

“Leave it there, and come in for a coffee,” he said.

I slipped my shoes off, as they had grass cuttings on them, and followed Phil into his house. His house was a smaller three-bed; ours was a four, so the layout was a little different. He led the way into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on the heat.

He turned and looked at me, the way a man always looks at a woman, starting at my face, down across my bust, stopping at my crotch and then back up again.

“I really did hear what you said earlier,” he said. “Paul is not keeping his end up?”

“Oh,” I said quietly, “that was supposed to be thought, not said.”

“Maybe, but I heard your thoughts. You need a fuck buddy or an affair.”

I spluttered; I had no idea what a fuck buddy was – not an expression I had ever encountered before. I wasn’t sure if I should admit my lack of knowledge. An affair I knew all about, having thought that Paul was engaged in one. I didn’t think I wanted an affair; it had too much risk of damaging my marriage, and Paul didn’t deserve that.