I Nearly Said Another Man’s Name In Bed

Mum Sex Diaries is a first-person, confession-style series that creates space for mums to share honestly about sex: the longing, the uncertainty, the awkward bits, and the moments that are unexpectedly funny. From pregnancy and postpartum sex to exploring intimacy solo, these stories reflect the realities many of us live but rarely say out loud.

I was on set with him. Not a real set, obviously. Just in my head. Thursday afternoon, my 12-year-old son is at CCA, and I’m in bed with my hand between my legs.

In the fantasy, I was an extra on some period drama, and he — Hollywood actor Patrick Wilson, whom I saw in the film Morning Glory, the week before — caught my eye between takes. We ended up in his trailer. You can imagine the rest.

Afterwards, I just lay in my bed feeling satisfied and a bit pathetic, if I’m honest. I’m 42. Married nine years. We dated for ten years before that. And yet, here I am, needing to pretend I’m having a sexual relationship with a fictional version of a man I’ve never met to get off. In my fantasies, my husband does not exist.

But here’s the thing: it works. And without it, I’m not sure sex would work at all anymore.

My husband’s not the problem. He’s lovely, supportive, a good dad, and still fancies me. The issue is that after 19 years together, my body no longer responds to him the way it used to. Love and affection are abundant, yet the desire has dulled. That’s the paradox: love isn’t necessarily lusty.

It’s not that he’s done anything wrong. It’s just familiarity. We’ve done everything. We experimented loads when we were younger — different positions, different places, even a few things we laugh about now because they seemed like a good idea at the time, but really weren’t.

We tried the shower once and quickly realised it was more slippery and dangerous than sexy, with neither of us able to stay in position without worrying about falling. Public handicap toilets sounded adventurous but felt unhygienic and awkward, with nowhere comfortable to lean and railings at the wrong height.

The back of the car was cramped and uncomfortable, all too easy to knock heads on the ceiling. A random corner of the Botanic Gardens was thrilling in theory, but mostly nerve-wracking in case someone walked by. And the grass was unbelievably itchy.

So, by the time we got married, we’d exhausted the playbook

Then we started trying for a baby, and sex became this scheduled thing. There were ovulation apps, specific days — suddenly, it stopped being about pleasure and became about function. Even after our son was born and the pressure was off, we couldn’t seem to get back to the way it had been.

The spark had just... gone.

Now it’s usually Tuesday and Thursday nights. Sometimes Saturday if neither of us is too knackered. Same routine: sideways, spooning, what’s easier on the knees. A bit of foreplay, he does his best, and I make the right noises. We’re done in about 20 minutes and then watch something on the telly.

The fantasies started about two years ago. I’d be lying there during sex, going through the motions, and my mind would wander. At first, it was innocent stuff, just remembering how things used to be between us when we were younger.

But then, one night, I accidentally thought about someone else. Just a flash of a face — Jamie Dornan in 50 Shades of Grey. And suddenly I was more present than I’d been in months.

I felt awful afterwards. Properly guilty. Like I’d cheated, even though nothing had actually happened. I didn’t tell my husband, obviously. What would I even say? “By the way, I was imagining you were someone else the entire time”?

I tried it a few more times during sex with him. Different scenarios, different people. It helped. I was more engaged, less bored, and actually felt something. However, I had this moment of panic where I nearly said the wrong name. My tongue froze; my heart sprinted. I caught myself just in time, but it scared me enough that I stopped doing it during sex entirely.

Now I keep the fantasies separate — solo only. Afternoons when I’ve got the house to myself.

And sometimes, in the mornings, if I wake up early and he’s already left for work. They’re not even that explicit, really. It’s more about the scenario than the actual sex part.

I know plenty of women who prefer to lose themselves in romance novels. For me, it works differently. I don’t want to watch or read from the outside. I want to be inside the scene, shaping it, feeling it unfold in my own head.

I’ll imagine I’m somewhere else — on a film set, in a cafe, at a conference. There’s always someone new. Someone who wants me specifically, urgently, in a way my husband hasn’t in years.

Usually, the fantasy circles back to this: I’m a tourist who gets randomly cast as an extra on a film set, with just one scene — a simple kissing moment with the lead actor, whoever my mind chooses that day. I play it cool, almost indifferent, and that’s what fascinates him. He keeps “forgetting” his lines just to redo the kiss. I leave after filming and go back to exploring the city, convinced it’s over... until he insists the director bring me back for more scenes.

Suddenly, we’re shooting more intimate moments, half-hidden under blankets, charged with secret touches that no one else notices. The tension builds quietly until the scene blurs with the fantasy, and that’s where it ends.

I know it’s all in my head. I know these men aren’t real — or if they’re based on real actors, the versions in my fantasies certainly aren’t. 

I’m not planning to actually have an affair

I don’t even want to, honestly. The idea of dealing with a real person, with all their baggage and morning breath and opinions about finances, sounds exhausting.

But I do feel slightly guilty about it. The emotion comes unexpectedly, pressing down during quiet moments. Like, I’m being unfair to my husband somehow. He chose me. I chose him.

We’ve built a life together. We’ve got a kid, a mortgage, and a joint savings account. And yet I can’t seem to stay sexually engaged with him without mentally checking out. The guilt mixes with confusion. I want to do right by him, but I’m lost.

I’ve wondered if I should tell him. If we should talk about it. But what’s the conversation? “Hi dear, just so you know, I can’t fancy you anymore without pretending you’re someone else”?

That’s not going to help anyone.

The sex we have now is fine. Not exciting, but fine. I don’t fantasise during it anymore, but I’m present enough. I touch him, he touches me, we get through it. Not resentful or awful, just some form of intimacy maintenance.

We cuddle more than we ever did, actually — on the sofa, watching telly, or in bed before sleep. We’ve reached a place where physical closeness doesn’t have to lead anywhere. Sex doesn’t need to be spontaneous or wild. It just needs to happen occasionally, and that seems enough for both of us.

The fantasy stuff is separate. That’s where my actual desire lives now. That’s where I get to feel wanted in a way that feels urgent and new rather than obligatory and familiar.

I don’t know if that means something’s broken. Maybe it does. This may be just what happens when you’ve been with someone for nearly 20 years, you’ve done everything there is to do, and your body’s just bored.

Or maybe this is normal, and nobody talks about it. Maybe loads of women are lying in bed on Thursday afternoons, imagining they’re someone else, somewhere else, with someone else.

Perhaps we’re all just quietly supplementing our sex lives with our imaginations because that’s the only way to stay sexual at this stage of life.

Anyway, I’m not stopping. Because without the fantasies, I think I’d stop bothering with sex altogether. And that feels worse somehow. At least this way I’m still sexual, even if it’s only in my head.

At least this way, something still works.

*Name changed to protect privacy

Mongsy is a Singapore-based romance author working on her debut steamy novel.