I Saw You

I saw you; working in the garden, looking half your years, strong rugby-player legs and kneadable chunks of flesh and muscle hidden under your t-shirt. You removed it and revealed a forest of hair matted together with sweat making wet rivulets of fur down your chest towards your belly. In your happy place: sunshine, hard work and harder soil. Something to swear at while you hack at it – mattock, chainsaw, spade – problems easy to solve with violent actions; labours of love.

The sun glints off your glasses and small beads of sweat trail down your forehead, heat radiating from your body, fug of sweat, dirt, oil, remnants of labour, swearing at the quad bike and chickens. A dark, sweaty hand reaches for a glass and I see the reaction of your body to the cool liquid streaming down through you. Pause.

When you eat you stop, chin resting on folded hands, eyes closed, as if the food you’ve just swallowed requires great contemplation and as you stand there in the sun I imagine you eyes under those glasses doing the same, closed, patiently waiting, feeling the water running down inside you the coldness juxtaposing with the intense dry heat on your back and the wet trail of sweat on your front.

I want to kiss you and taste the salt on your lips. I want to absorb the heat from your body, feel the wetness of your chest against mine, smell the sweat, petrol, earth, oil. I want to feel you slide a dirty wet hand up my skirt and pull me into you. I want to hide in the garage amongst the paint cans and power tools, skirt up, sitting on the bench, eyes water as you pinch my nipples and thrust inside me, body flexing and waning like it had been earlier in the paddock hacking at the earth until it fell soft in your hands, fertile and ready for planting. I want to watch you come and see the change in your eyes, see you young and in your happy place. Instead I take back the glass and watch you return to your other happy place secretly admiring how good your arse looks in those scandalously short shorts and wait for next time.

A Real Date!

Today was officially my first “proper” date in more than ten years. By date I mean the first time I’ve met with someone looking for more than just a sex toy with a brain. H and I didn’t really have a “first date”; he took me home from a concert one night and we had sex. My boyfriend before him and did I have a first date. He was a devout Christian and didn’t do the sex before marriage thing. I thought I was too. I’m glad I had sex before I got married; I just wished I’d hadn’t bothered getting married! Although now it’s out of my system – the marriage thing – I can focus on more important aspects of a relationship; compatibility, sex, working towards the same goals, taking time to enjoy life instead of spending every minute trying to make more money to pay off debts. I’m enamoured by the idea of being with someone who wants to look after me; who can take responsibility for paying bills, planning holidays, researching insurance companies, new cars…the thought of being with a real man is incredibly attractive.

This person was actually interested in me. Part of me is now worried that the “real” dates I have will be great and wonderful and I’ll want to see them again and I’ll fall in love and I’ll discover they’re horrid to have sex with and terrible with money again. I feel like I want to be able to ask them: “Do you enjoy sex and are you financially capable of looking after me?” When you have a checklist with two things: compatibility and healthy finances you’d think it would be easy to find someone but both are aspects of a person’s private life you just don’t get to see. A bankrupt man can drive a Ferrari; a millionaire can own a thirty-year old Beetle.

He was late. He had the time down wrong and had to stop for petrol. I was early. The difference was almost an hour so it was a long wait. I was getting hungry and secretly hoping he’d buy me lunch. He got me a cup of tea. I hoped it was because he went on a few dates and didn’t offer to buy food at what was now lunchtime with every date. He’s Irish and it’s the Scots that are cheap right? We talked for over an hour and he was nice to talk to. I didn’t feel any sexual stirrings; sex really didn’t even come into the equation anywhere. Minds first?

He’s mid forties, three children, divorced. Works in IT, owns a home, has enough money to spend $30k landscape-designing a garden and has a cleaner. Pretty much like every single man in this town. Looks well past his forties, he looks as old as Cream. Too much facial hair, strange dark grey eyes that look hollow.

He texted me a couple hours afterwards inviting me out for a drink. What happened to the real, old-fashioned dates where a man buys opera tickets and invites you out to dinner afterwards? We’ve already done “a drink” – is that all one gets now days? Am I really just “a drink” girl?

The Sex Addict

Two days of bitter cold and rain and me thinking I might have a window of time with Cream after work Tuesday only to discover, again, he had to rush off left me feeling lonely and miserable by Wednesday night. I sat, wrapped in a coat, gloves and scarf by the bus stop, rain whipping into my face and the wind driving icy knives through the thin polyester fabric of my $15 trench coat. I wished I had enough money for a decent wool coat and a car, and a holiday in winter every year to somewhere warm and exciting.

Instead I miserably sat outside, ridged against the cold and wind, waiting for the bus watching the lightly-clad jandal-wearing tenants of the housing development across the road come and go from their multi-storied hovels catching a last cigarette in the cold, wet weather before shuffling up three flights of stairs to their even colder concrete-walled units and wished I could pretend poverty like this never existed instead of living amongst it. Every day I fight the fear that I might find this type of lifestyle normal and lose the urge to live even a middle class life. Realising my goals to move from the middle class to the upper class have, in the last year, migrated to moving from the poorest classes to the middle class depress me. I’m suddenly hit by the huge jump I have to make to get back to where I belong – where I grew up – let alone to where I once aspired.

Against this miserable backdrop I was dragging myself out to meet someone again.  I had $30.00 after pay day and hadn’t done the groceries and was debating whether I turned up early like usual or turned up late and hoped he paid for my drink. In the end I arrived second and paid for my drink – damn – another $3 that could have gone on bread for breakfast for a week. We talked for quite a while about nothing, about sex. He was going through what I can only describe as a misogynistic phase of fucking as many different women as possible after his divorce. He proudly admitted he won’t fuck a woman more than once because he doesn’t want to get attached; doesn’t want to think of them as humans I expect. He sneaks into his female flatmate’s bedroom late at night and has sex with her too. She has a boyfriend. I wonder if she feels dirty and guilty afterwards or open-minded and sexually free. Does she just lie there and take it because she said “yes” to him once and now feels like it’s too late to say “no” now?

He’s a regular at swingers parties with a crowd in town that meet every couple weeks. I wondered how people get into these “crowds” – do they sit at the table at dinner parties and say: “Yes, Harold and I have taken to fucking strangers every other weekend in gimp suits. You really should give it a go; it’s awfully good fun. That reminds me George; I’ll loan you my sex swing once Barbara’s finished with it.”

Even at swingers events he wont sleep with the same woman twice and had reached a point where he wasn’t going so much anymore because it was the same people most times and he was running out of new cunts to fuck. He then admitted he might be addicted to sex. I said he sounded like he was addicted to masking the pain of being left by his wife by penetrating as many women as possible as though physically controlling and exerting himself over another woman was going to help him regain the ego lost from his divorce. He asked if we could have sex; I asked if he could seek a counsellor.

I was tired, still depressed under the cheerful façade. Wishing once again I could meet Cream’s younger clone and live happily ever after – whatever that means now days. I’ve spent every minute; every second of my life trying to push myself further, harder better. Nothing is ever good enough. If I’m not achieving my goals I’m miserable. If everything isn’t perfect I’m frustrated and unsatisfied. Sitting there listening to this angry, hurt self-centred man using sex with strangers to heal himself emotionally somehow I tried to think of a time when I felt happy and didn’t constantly think about how to make more money, do better in my career, be the ultimate most perfect girlfriend/wife…there never was. Always, always there’s this underlying frustration and urgent desperation; a need that I’m not doing what I should be doing. That something is wrong and I’m not following my calling. Not with my soul mate. I don’t belong. I wish, desperately, I could have a sense of belonging. A sense that I’m in the right place and it’s okay to stay there for a while. I wish I could lose myself in my every day life like I do when I’m cooking or sewing; I just want to feel like I’m doing the right thing. How do I find that? Where is it? Where do I belong? How do I stop being this lost vagabond travelling from one town to the next; one job to the next; one man to the next and find home?

While I’m mid-midlife crises, staring at a bowl of cold yellow chips slathered in some form of greasy sauce, wishing I could eat them because it would save me finding food for tea, I realize home is not here and I want to go back to that tiny little rented piece of all I have – immediately. He offers to drive me home and I’m torn between not wanting to spend another minute waiting in the rain at the bus stop and not wanting to invite (or him to invite himself) in. Stuck, I say I actually need a lift to a friend’s house and I’ll walk to my place from there. I’m either a good liar or he was keen so he dropped me off at the end of my street and Cream bailed me out by ringing at a pre-arranged time allowing me to make a graceful exit but not before he stole a kiss and I stole a feel of between his legs, a hard handful belonging to a hard owner. He bit my lip – accidentally? It tore the skin leaving me with an unsightly swelling the next day. After the roughness of Rancid Chocolate I was feeling like every man wanted to tear me to pieces. Life’s too short to ever see him again. Life’s always too short; perhaps what I need to learn is it’s actually not.

No, Nope…Yes! One of those days

It was just one of those days I cannot even begin to describe; a rollercoaster of pleasure and frustration. I had a date for 12 noon with a young woman, twenty something, I like to think small-ish, Middle Eastern, dark hair and eyes, bouncy little breasts, naïve. Possibly none of those. I wouldn’t know because we had a mix up over the venue and when I texted to change it her partner who’d come along for the visit had left his phone in the car. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Mostly I was just sick of penises after Saturday so when the opportunity arose to meet a member of the softer sex I was excited about sex again. And then it didn’t happen and I had a nice coffee with great company – me – while I waited for my 1pm meeting with Chili; Our great reunion after the great cell phone loss that separated us for five months. Except he texted me that he was in bed sick. Bugger, bugger, bugger.

Having just travelled forty minutes by bus to drink coffee alone I decided to bus back home and do something more fun than sex like sewing. I updated Cream and got no reply as usual; he texts Strawberries all day when he’s at work and used to text me but now he just ignores 90% of my texts, sends a brief perfunctory reply or texts back hours later. I’m a bit disappointed that upon getting to know me he now finds me so unappealing. I’m worried I do this to all men; maybe I’m just an awful person and only worth casually fucking. Warts ‘n all I’m just too ugly. Strawberries sends me a sexy picture…a clean pantry. Very sexy.

By the time I get home she asks to come round and I’m excited. We tumble in bed together and she comes beautifully in my mouth and no matter how tired my tongue gets I never tire of hearing her come and seeing her smooth white body writhe under my hand and mouth. My whole mouth will be in pain tomorrow but how can you stop when someone so beautiful is melting under you? She makes me come with her pretty little hands and I wish she could show every man I’ve ever slept with how to do that and we cuddle and she foolishly feels the need to apologize for Chocolate and I’m not worried – it’s not her fault. And we cuddle and she tells me, as always, that any person would be lucky to find me and I wonder if she’s trying to bolster my ego or encourage me to move on from her and Cream. Probably both, even if it’s subconsciously.

And I lay there lazily stroking her hair not thinking of anyone else or anything else for that moment until a knock happens in the distance. It took me a while to connect; a knock; someone is at the door; shit! Someone is at the door! I want to ignore them and pretend I’m not home and she starts getting dressed and calling out to them. What bastard has ruined my peaceful moment?! The handyman, finally arrived to fix my stuck window, sigh. Seeing our disheveled hair and bare feet and hastily thrown on clothing I see the excitement in his eyes at busting a lesbian couple at it on a sunny afternoon and don’t bother to correct him. At least he was very eager to fix my window going so far as to drive to the other side of town for a latch to finish the job and offered to come back and help with any more repairs – especially, I imagine, if it’s a warm  afternoon and Strawberries is in…

Chocolate Goes Rancid

Finally, after three cancellations I get my dinner with Strawberry’s Chocolate. He’d supplied me with a washing machine in return for a reasonable price and a home cooked dinner next time we were both free. He was late – by an hour – leaving my dinner drying out in the oven. He did appreciate the meal and was reasonably nice and sincere and charming if somewhat awkward.

He started out sweet-ish, and we kissed on the couch and I took him to the bedroom and he suggested getting under the blankets which suits me fine – I hate having to clean the duvet cover if I can just wash a sheet. Somewhere between my clothes coming off and his clothes coming off it went pear-shaped. And instead of nice foreplay and me coming we had to have this persistent discussion about “sex in my anal” and I said: “no” I was pissed off that he’d asked for anal sex straight away and even more pissed off his grammar was so atrocious – a man who can’t tell the difference between a noun and an adjective does deserve to be with me.  Also I really just wasn’t up to it that night. But the conversation went on:

“Why can;t I have sex in your anal?”

“It’s medical and personal; I don’t want to discuss it. End of story”

“So can I fuck your anal?”

“It’s not an ‘anal’ it’s an ‘anus’ and ‘no’, do you want to have sex or an argument? Because I’d rather you just went home and I had the bed to myself!”

He refused to leave, we had an argument about him wearing a condom, and in the end I lay there saying I wasn’t interested any more, bugger off. So he forced himself into me and I just grimaced. Afterwards I really wanted him to get dressed and go home so I could have a shower and sleep. Instead he rolled over and went sleep. SNORING!!! Arghhh. I couldn’t sleep and I was too damn polite to turf him out of the house. I should have rung the police but I didn;t want to look like some stupid slut who thought the man she was dating was ok because he’d dated her ex-girlfriend. It was a horrible complicated mess.

He stayed in the middle of the bed leaving me squashed up uncomfortably on the wrong side of the bed – and then on my own couch and went back to snoring for an hour. Then, sure as eggs, woke up and asked for anal sex again. By morning I’d had an hours’ sleep and the same argument about the physical health of my anus at least four more times. I was grumpy, exhausted and never wanted to have sex again.

I was utterly miserable. I felt awful, after the last couple weeks I’d had enough of sex with strangers, of pointless unsatisfying sex, of discussions about anuses. I never want to see another penis again. The next day I went out Cream’s place and spent six hours hammering nails trying, through sheer physical labour and sunshine, to shed the guilt, anger and disgust of the night before. Soul restored to health I was happy if somewhat disappointed I missed another opportunity to spend a couple minutes alone with him.

Merlot…

I have a system for my dating. First date is 20 minutes maximum, during the day at a cafe. No alcohol. No night time darkness. They don’t get my real phone number (I use a separate phone), workplace name or home address. If they pass date one then I’ll graduate them to evening drinks in a busy bar I know well and I have a friend text or call every 20 minutes to check I’m okay.

This date I had the foresight not to suggest the “bingo brewery” from last week and picked a familiar bistro with surprisingly nice cosy corners where I found myself wedged into a corner booth, knees touching, with a single small town teacher. We chatted for a while but it wasn’t effortless, awkward pauses that I always seemed to fill in with more rabble – I’m hopeless for talking too much.

He drove me home and came into my tiny flat and it was a bit awkward, he didn’t make any moves but asked me what I though of him, did I want to see him again. Playing it safe I guess which was nice not to have someone presumptuous. We sat on the bed and talked a little; I never quite know how to start the pre-sex talk! One day I’d like to start a real relationship properly and have a handful of dates before having sex, really build things up until the sexual tension is mad and first time sex with that person is mind blowing.

He was lovely, gentle and – as it turned out – pleasantly kinky. He was slowly undressing me, stopping to peel off a layer of clothing; jacket, socks, top, bra..kissing me inbetween, each time he went back down to peel off a layer and suck my nipples I thought: “say something!” so I pulled him up to me and said: “Tell me a bedtime story – what the most memorable sex you had?” He told about a threesome he’d had with an ex girlfriend and her friend in a hotel, in the spa. Then he kept talking which was wonderful, he slid down between my legs and pulled off my jeans, asked me if a woman had ever gone down on me. I said “Yes, and she’s wonderful”. He put his head down between my legs and I said: “My husband said it’s terrible down there – you don’t have to…” my knickers still on he put his head between my legs and licked me through the fabric, gently pulled it to on side and slid his tongue up between my lips stopping and the top to kiss my clit, gently sucking it into his mouth. I was nowhere near coming but it was lovely. He kneeled between my legs telling me I tasted wonderful and he could eat me all day. The second man ever to say that after Cream it felt like an epiphany, I could really say to myself more men appreciate tasting than those who dislike it! Between him and Cream I fell in love with another part of my body again. Another little wound from my marriage healed up.

After a while of being eaten, being appreciated. He still had his clothes on and I was feeling so wet down there everything felt numb. I pulled him up and started undressing him, shirt, belt – lingered over the belt – remember Cream and his belt, I still get excited when I see Cream’s belt, he needs to stop wearing it to work. Merlot’s BIG, tall, broad, beer belly; there’s a lot of man there. It’s a big of a shock. He was completely shaved, balls, cock everything. Not a scrap of hair down there. The stubble confirmed that it had been shaved a few days ago – perhaps not in anticipation of this date? Maybe he was optimistic; maybe he someone else?

Nice cock, he was still talking sexy, it was nice, “Is the biggest cock you’ve ever seen?” of course not, but it was smooth, nicely proportioned and I’ve long since learned the larger a man’s cock is the worse he is in bed. Medium sized is best; it’s not called a happy medium for nothing. I took his cock in one hand and licked my way around his fraenulum with the tip of my tongue, heard him moan, slid my lips over the top, it was smooth, like sucking a marble, it mostly went all the way in. I chocked a little at the end but even Chili did that to me. He was still kneeling on the floor and he started thrusting slowly into my mouth. I stopped for a break and he climbed up next to me and started touching my clit. I asked him if he minded if I made myself come; I’m not very good showing other’s how I do it and I seem to struggle when I’m not on my own. He lay next to me whispering in my ear, watching me touch myself, alternating between licking me and touching me until I came – at last! It felt like forever – and he kissed me and held me while I shook in his arms.

I took his cock in my mouth and he came in it and afterwards we lay on the bed and he rested a while; this time I had the sense to climb in under the blankets so I didn’t freeze! He had a long drive home and work at 7am the next day so he kissed me goodnight and let himself out. Merlot. He was drinking it at the pub. Warm, spicy and goes down easily. This one only wants to play every couple months; pity. I’ve heard a little Merlot every day is good for the health…

Date with Strawberries

It was beautiful Strawberries today. It always helps if there’s just the two of you; with only one other person to focus on she becomes beautiful Strawberries and the world is wonderful and you are just fine. I like these days. If she was beautiful Strawberries most days to everyone it would completely change the business, the lives of the staff, so much. I long for that day!

We went to the museum and out for dinner and were both far too tired for sex which was disappointing – hopefully for her too. Though she had the bonus of going home to Cream. I used to get excited at the thought of the two of them having sex after seeing me; all worked up and excited. Now I feel like a petulant child left out of something grown-up and wonderful that I’m not allowed to indulge in. It’s a strange double-standard now where I can have sex as much as Strawberries wants to but can’t seem to have any with Cream and because I’m not the primary partner in either relationship I can’t really talk about it with anyone. Why are we playing these games?

If I wasn’t so head over heels in love with Cream I would have quit my job and left town by now; moved home, found anything that paid better and forgotten about them. If I wasn’t so in love I wouldn’t really care anyway. Meanwhile Strawberries massaged and unknotted my terrible shoulder and neck bringing my dead muscles back to life and she’s wonderful and I think: “If only you weren’t so mean on Mean Strawberries Days; If only you were somehow you but not, if only it had worked somehow. I can’t build a life on “if onlys”.