Weekend In The Country

Well, I've just had one, with QIG....(Quasi-Insane Geezer). I drove down in late, dark, thundering rain. It's a nice route from mine to his - empty motorways, flat landscapes, an absence of police cars....a little shy of 2 hours later, I arrived. He came out to greet me; cute t-shirt? Check? Hair spiky? Check. My nerves rumbling like a giant's footsteps? Check, check and check again! I think I muttered something about the 'bloody awful weather,' as I dashed past him and up the stairs to his flat...
He calls me 'darling.' I call him 'sweetness.'

'So, darling,' he said, 'can I get you anything?' A hand traced a limb, I think. My stomach began its inadequate rolling. I liked a tea. I liked his touch more. The dance continued, from his kitchen to his leather sofa, an oversized caramel luxury, like the Lemsip ad one. He's into KT Tunstall; she filled in the gaps in our silence. I overly-drummed my fingers to 'I Don't Want You Now.'

At some point in our teenage courtship, we went to his local; it's about 30 metres from his house but I'd brought the thundering rain to his village, too, so, another mutter from me - 'fuck this,' - to be shamefully precise, we jumped into my car and dashed off.....His local is a creaking, rural idyll, not a place to go if you like your furry animals any way other than stuffed. A large pair of horns sat over the bar, two cats dozed in sluggish repose, drips coming off our backs as we shook ourselves dry and bought the drinks.....to be continued, cos, to be honest, even writing this is knocking at my conscience and my heart. I miss him just 28 hours later, and remain, as ever, clueless......

Have I Been A Bad Girl?

Well, Santa lucked out for me this year, without dispute so somewhere along the line, I must've done something (or 'one') pretty damn good. I woke up on Tuesday with my boyfriend, my official one. Tall, muscly, meat where it matters and an embrace tighter than Scrooge's book-keeping, we'd welcomed in our first Christmas the night before, with a bottle of Bolly and a cork that shot up to hit his tall ceiling. We giggled, drank, toasted and then fondly, shyly, like two new lovers, led each other up his stairs to his room where I think I, hoping to hear the reindeers' hooves as they landed on his terraced roof, curled up and went to sleep. I was woken the next morning with several big parcels, not least one which unleashed a big box of Lancome goodies. My boyfriend then whipped the long, white ribbon which had secured the parcel, around my wrists, tied me to the bedstead and fucked me 'til, quite literally, Kingdom Come.

But, oh God and I hate writing this, 2 days before, I'd met my Quasi-Insane Ex, ostensibly 'to talk.' We'd agreed to meet in a caff which shut just as he'd texted me 'am en route!' 'It's shutting, genius,' I replied, 'must decamp to a pub,' and decamp we did, to a city centre, poor-man's pub with a council-house door and a farting jukebox. We talked for 2 hours and still the chemistry was there, bubbling away, often exploding as our faces melded into one beneath the drunken surface of cheers and baubles and people sitting uncomfortably next to us.

Later, outside, walking back to deserted, underground carparks, I pressed my face to his fleece and murmured

'Please, please don't be a prick again.'

MSN Fun

Christ, there's so much to be had, beginning with Voldemort. He popped up - bad choice of word leading to bad grin - today,

'Hullo!' he said (he's a former public schoolboy), 'ur missing so much!'

'Care to share?' I quipped back, '(course you do! You go to orgies!)'

He barged on, trying to forward me pictures of a tart wearing nowt' but engorged lips and a pair of what looked like leather chaps.

'You'd look good in this!' he brayed, 'I've thought about you,' he added, as an afterthought. The translation that he'd been tossing off over a vague sensory memory of me, plus the good ladies of Leicestershire did nothing for me.

Bored, savage, in a teasing mood, I asked him if he'd like a threesome with my (gender not specified) housemate.

Quick to pick up on the pertinents....'male or female?'

'Male,' I trilled, 'but he's a lovely guy!'

'Yes, when were you thinking?' he typed back.....

(....Look, I really shouldn't be telling you this but if you ever get pulled over by a traffic policeman anywhere between Wales and Birmingham, try saying 'don't I know you from that do in Leicestershire?' And then forward me your saved fine as recompense....; ))

Married Lover....

....yes, I've got one of those, too. Any self-disrespecting young woman should have one, as should every mid-life crisis bloke who can't quite believe that 'the chicks' won't go for them anymore. Despite having been happily married for nearly as long as I've been kicking my heels on this planet, it seems that even his coupling is porous. He's the geezer in the other post, by the way, the one whose salary doesn't quite match his expectations of a Ferrari. I can't imagine Jeremy Clarkson praising my chassis as much as that of an F40's.....I don't respond to a heavy touch, for a start....but demographically, there's a decent enough age-gap to be yawningly predictable and he wears the ties whilst I wear the low-cut jeans.

We had sex in his car a few nights ago.....it was freezing cold outside, the windows of his car steamed up, icy stars tacked high above the lorry park - amused snort - that we laid down in. He stripped, I stripped and then paused for The Check....this is, ladies and gents, the bit where you reach down and check that said bloke has removed his socks. He hadn't. I sighed and when he, mouth halfway to mine in a pose of blissful ignorance, realised I wasn't moving my gob the same way whispered,

'What?'

'Socks, honey, socks,' I said, lazily laying back, fully reclined, grinning, daring him to touch me, to lay one desperate finger on me whilst still wearing those ghastly garments. Quickly, he whipped them off. Very quickly, actually.....

Quasi-Insane etc, etc

So, we texted....first no kisses, then a little 'x' from him which I duly picked up and ran with. We exchanged thoughts, demographics, preferences. I'm a Piscean, prone to road rage, loves Private Eye...he was the same. A mutual gasp, 130 miles apart, perhaps even the golden finger of fate nudging us together. But we still wanted to outwit, outwrite each other...after he'd listed what he looked for a woman (and, readers, naturellement I fitted his particular bill that day), I quipped back


'Do you want fries with that?'

Back To Leicestershire....

....although not literally, you understand.

I received another text last night from the guy who's invited me....he's a kind of sexual Voldemort, his name inspiring either piss-taking or shudders from my friends. It doesn't make me proud but it does make for good anecdotal material and I'm keen on plundering the past for your amusement. Anyway, back to the text.

'Are you S, M, or switch?' he asked

I paused for a few moments, thought it through and typed back....

'Er, I have a Visa Debit if that's any good to you.....'

Quasi-Insane Ex Part Two

(I was tempted to put 'Part Deux' there. Could you tell?)

Right, where was I? Ah yes, being driven back up the M5, night-driving, sodium lights and me, memories and thoughts slipping through my mind as I dozed, semi-drifted through this radiant glow of having found this guy. Behind me, my mate's friend, thinking I was asleep said...

'She's not serious, is she? He's a prick!'

A murmur of agreement from my friend. But I, drunk on a pair of blue eyes, lazed further back into the half-light. Midnight. I got dropped off, still smiling, dancing drunkenly up my stairs....I put his number into my phone, carefully tapping in the digits, securing it, as if to heart, to my lowly SIM card. I lay back, probably pleasured myself with the thought, any thoughts of him, and curled up to sleep....

The next day, I didn't text him. Resolutely difficult, but it's what all those books say, isn't it? Men like to hunt. Men like to chase. Men don't like to be shepherded to the hearts of others, ordered about by agendas that go against their own....let them set the trap, let them watch their prey, high-heeled, hot-footed, girlishly teasing them with their silence. Thought precludes love. If I love, I don't think about how to pull reciprocal feelings from the other, and if they love me back, I doubt they do, either. It was mutual but calculated. He always had the upper hand.

Mid Life Crisis

I think that's what it's called, when a bloke, too poor to buy a Ferrari but too horny to ignore the urge, embarks on an affair with someone close to 20 years his junior. I'm the, uh, junior, by the way....I work with him, well, for him, just to add a further dash of power and cliche to the mix. About a year ago, I decided that my job was boring enough to warrant doing something interesting whilst plodding the corridors of (minimal) power. So, at a work do two weeks later, I wore my tightest jeans, my highest heels and with a slash of mascara and red wine, asked him, as we let other bar-goers crush us closer and closer together whilst, ostensibly, standing at the bar, if he masturbated about me. Those were my exact words. And he, tentative, astonished in fact, I think, nodded dumbly.

I have a wide smile and smiled widely. He has a nervous smile but massive blue eyes that speak in lieu of his mouth which was still agape with shock. And that second, those eyes - what IS it with me and blue eyes? - sealed the messy fate of filing-cabinet fucking and Texts That Are Only Received When The Wife Is Out....

Again, more later....I have washing up and cooking to do, those moments of prosaic living between the jaunts to Leicestershire (wry grin)

A Definitive Low

I was invited to an orgy in Leicestershire this weekend by an ex.

His exact words?

'Come dressed for sex and we'll split the petrol!'

Quasi-Insane Ex

I flatter him by prefacing his insanity with the hopeful disclaimer that he's not actually as nuts as he is. But I know it to be true, so there's a fruitless start to begin with....
We met in mid-summer, our eyes locking on the other at a military do that was snaking into the cool depths of evening. I was new, he was a well-worn member of the crew and after serving me with my Coke - 'full fat or slender?' he asked, cheekily, came and stood at my table, cockily asking me who I was.

'Uh, I'm his friend,' I said, jerking my finger towards said friend who nodded. I guess, though my radar was operating low to the ground that day, that Said Friend had actually invited me down to be on his arm, not fall for this, for this ageing bus-boy with the denim-blue eyes but he took it well, shooting off to gas with his other friends. The empty seat next to me beckoned the first contact, the first conversation. Butts perched, glasses hedging the early bet of a fleeting contact, we introduced each other, preliminary demographics building up quickly to his theory on fear....

'You see, I've got a handle on my fears, I really have,' he said, glugging back his drink as I waited for elucidation. Glass banged back on table, hand smearing across his mouth.

'You've got heights - well, I did parachuting for that. Speaking in public - do presentations at work,' and just as I was about to write him off as bullish and quite frankly boring, he produced the killer line....'fear of being seen naked - well, taking off my clothes in front of women works well for me.' I know, I know, I'm gritting my teeth as I write this, but his eyes, people! They were cerrulean blue! He had a look (incisive, sideways) that cut my protestations dead! He had a spare fiver and bought me another whisky! This was, in short, folks, the closest thing I'd got to love (or a Meg Ryan movie) in quite some time.....the parting shot was a public kiss, lingering, deep, and quite possibly very embarrassing but those rose-tinted specs just won't come off......I needed to believe that, bad US positive pep-talk speak aside, he was nearing The One. Or perhaps just The Half. But at the very least, a fraction that made good of the decimal point and my desire to be loved....to be continued. Sit comfortably, please, this one's a long runner

Introduction

OK, you've got me....a 6ft brunette with green eyes (you can fill in the bits where I've missed out such adjectives as 'stunning' and 'wicked'), trying to not be single but not doing it very well. I have a boyfriend (I think....), plus a manager who slots perfectly into the Mid-Life Crisis demographic. Oh, and a quasi-insane ex, whose main attraction (retrospectively speaking) was his chocolate-box location deep in the Cotswolds. Plus a few others....a cast of raggle-taggle (headed none-too modestly by me) characters all of whom create a love-life that was once summed up by a drunken friend of mine....slurring, her head nodding somewhere against my tits as we tried to dry our hands in a nightclub loo, as..

'it's entertaining, mate, if nothing else.'

Here's hoping, folks.....