He's no Barry White, but that, friends, is the squeak of love.
Wells, a rotund and decidedly un-Fabio-like man, behaved himself during his first marriage. However, after he divorced his first wife and married Jane Wells in 1895, he realized he was famous, wealthy, and freshly blessed with a wife who was willing to tolerate nearly any shenanigans he and his penis got up to. So he spent the rest of his life porking anything that moved.
Not only were his affairs many and varied, but he meticulously recorded each one in a diary, with detailed notes. There were women over 20 years his junior. There was Rebecca West, a famous feminist novelist, who apparently called him "My Lord, the Jaguar" for reasons that are probably best left unspeculated upon. There was almost certainly at least one Russian spy. All of them and many more were lovingly described in Wells's Ledger of Lecher, with graphic details that offered fascinating windows to the man's life. One lover was "most interestingly hairy." Another was an Australian novelist whom he boned atop a bad review, which they ceremonially burned afterwards, because why not?