Thursday. The past two days have been totally dominated by Cute Face and his not unwelcome barrage of horny, little texts filling my inbox with fun and filth, and my mind with anticipation for the weekend ahead.
It amuses me to reply in kind (any exercise in writing is a writing exercise) but I get to wondering if my 350 free texts are going to be sufficient this month - Heaven forbid this interlude should begin to cost me money!
Of course I know it won’t last. It reminds me of the beginning with MLP when it was all full-on and brimming with pent-up passion. How do you get that intensity to last? I’ve never found the formula even with my great age and experience.
I’m wondering (like it matters) whether Cute Face and I haven’t gone into overkill mode with all this expectation – the fantasy being better than the reality 'n all.
If he’s told me once he’s told me a thousand times how much he’s looking forward to seeing me again, longing to have his body next to mine, to gently slip inside me and feel how wet I am around his throbbing cock, making him wanna cum so hard he could burst, how he fancies me something rotten, that I’m well fit, that he’ll do anything for me - anything at all. It's all guff, of course...but it's a shame I can’t put him in a pot with CC and melt them both down to make the perfect partner!
The postman arrives with my replacement Myla bra. It looks beautiful. I’ll send Rugby Player another 'thank you' later when I’ve tried it on. It’s the middle of the night in New York anyway, and he’s probably busy wooing someone else.
I wonder whether to wear this new lingerie for my date with Cute Face on Saturday. I’m not sure that’s what RP intended when he sent it to me, but CF is here and RP isn’t and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Thursday night. I go out to eat over-priced Asian Fusion with the Lizard of Oz. Bless him, he’s in his sixties and still behaves like a teenager. Whoops...pot kettle black. Shame I don’t fancy him or we’d both be sorted. No more gallivanting shenanigans with unsuitable brain fucks.
I thought I saw CC in the restaurant. I did a double take and my heart made a bid for freedom by trying to punch a hole through my chest. But it wasn’t him.
Friday. I dreamt about CC all night. He called me (which would have been nice) and in my dream, we talk a lot about how it was between us when we first met and what’s been happening since. Not what I’ve been doing, Christ! I’m hardly likely to tell him that!! Anyway, it’s his fault I’m on this path of self-destruction...or ‘having a laugh’ as I prefer to call it.
In the context of ‘If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with’, I text Cute Face:
No more texting til we meet tomorrow. First one to crack gets a smack.
Rain is predicted. Good. We won’t feel guilty about staying in bed the entire weekend.
The ‘no texting’ policy falls at the first hurdle when he caves and starts e-mailing me. I ignore him.
I go to the beauty parlour and instead of a Brazilian, I have a full Hollywood. I’d already broached the subject with him and he told me to surprise him. I surprise myself by managing not to scream. I cave back and text him:
Ouch! I hope you like 12-yr olds…
Completely off? he replies. Cool. I’ll be giving you a good tongue lashing tomorrow.
A little later, obviously having pondered the matter at length (like Albert Einstein pondering the Theory of Relativity) he asks:
So when you get a wax, do you have to get naked?
How else? I reply. What are you thinking about? Another woman touching my cho-cho?
I wasn’t… but I am now! Have you ever done that? Not that I’m asking… you’re more than enough for lil' ol' me but I bet you have, being the experienced woman you are
I continue to wind him up until it’s time to go to my mother’s for dinner. Halfway through a bowl of her especially delicious chicken soup with matzo balls, Rugby Player texts me: How’s the new underwear?
Shit. I forgot to let him know it had arrived or to thank him.
I reply and a conversation ensues:
Absolutely gorgeous. Thanks again. It’ll look stunning hanging from the canopy of a king-size 4-poster bed...
I’d like to see that…
Play your cards right…
I have another pressie for you. But it’s rather more personal…
Avec batteries I presume?
I leave it after that. If he’s into buying presents, I have no wish to discourage that. And not replying gives me a credit. In case I should ever wish to text him first. Which I don’t.
Cute Face is out with mates tonight getting drunk. Why do they do that when they know they need to be on top form the following night?
Saturday. On waking, I find two voice messages in my mail box. Both very drunk, sent in the early hours, the noise of his feet crunching along a road.
I’m really really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow… hic…byebyebye…
followed by something that sounds like him tripping up, then a thud and a groan.
The second message is four minutes long, not talking but walking. He’s obviously forgotten to hang up the first call.
At 10.15 a.m. I text him:
Good morning! x and an hour later, he replies:
not feelin gr8
There’s a surprise… says I. Can you get here by 3.30 so we can go and buy the tele? but I don’t hear back.
I’m not unduly worried. Well maybe just a little.