Saturday, 22 November 2008

THE DAILY MALE - continues...

...but of course, I must be slightly attached because as the hours tick by and I don’t hear from him, I start to feel slightly miffed. I didn’t expect the mad momentum of last week - that would have been unreasonable – but a 'thank you for having me :- )' wouldn’t have gone amiss.

I get on with my day getting increasingly peeved whilst attempting to accept the inevitable. I consider texting him, but what would I say? A telling-off would be churlish and I sure as hell ain’t gonna thank him considering I did most of the work! I prepare myself for the fact that now he's had his way, I may never hear from him again.

At 6.30 p.m., I go to yoga and then for a drink with some of the girls. A guy comes over to chat to us but he’s wearing a wedding band so I send him packing, and as I’m heading back home, my phone finally vibrates. It’s Cute Face. About bloody time.

Hey sexy. Had a good day?

I smile and thank G-d that normal service has been resumed. I wait a while before replying (he's punished) and we make another date for Wednesday, in his words 'a school night', so if CC on Tuesday goes horribly wrong, at least I’ll have something to fall back on.

Just before signing off for the night, when he’s obviously having a bit of a personal fondle, Cute Face enquires if he can he ask me a very personal question. I could put money on what’s coming...

Do you ever take it up the arse? I’ve never really tried it…not bothered either way but I thought I’d ask x

How very charming! And nice that he ended with a kiss.

While I'm composing my reply which takes a while, he sends a mildly panicked Have I offended you? obviously worried that he’s gone too far.

I tried it once (thrice actually) but it didn’t work for me. Too painful, too many nasties involved and it didn’t turn me on. I know women who like it but I’m not one of them. In case the next question is ‘Do you swallow?’ I’m not keen on that either. Are you getting bored already??!

I don’t hear back from him so I shrug, switch everything off and go to sleep.

Tuesday. Today’s the today. My date with CC. He won’t cancel now, will he? I expect I’ll hear from him sometime later to confirm. I’ll give him ‘til 5, then I’ll give him ‘til 6.

I have lunch with a girlfriend in the café where I write and just as she's leaving, my mobile rings. I leap out of my seat as I see CC's name on the screen and I run out into the street to where the noise levels are lower.

I don’t want him to hear the background buzz in case he thinks I’m here with someone else. That might make him insecure again. The situation's tenuous enough as it is…

He sounds bright and perky and offers to pick me up in a cab at 7.15 to which I agree with effusive thanks. We hang up with a jointly chirpy ‘See you later' and I try to work on through the afternoon.

At 5.30 I go home to start getting ready. I change into my new coral top with the matching silk skirt, and slip into my taupe patent high heel shoes, finishing off with a pearl necklace and earrings. He’s never seen me this dressed up before. I hope he likes it.

At 6.36, I’m absolutely bricking it. If I put any more make up on, I’ll look like a drag queen. I need a drink, but I don’t want to smell of alcohol and I also feel I might throw up. Notwithstanding this, I pour myself a vodka and cranberry juice, crack some ice into it and down it in one.

Rugby Player texts me à propos of nothing: You are an uber sexy version of Jennie Bond. What the fuck is he talking about?

I ignore him ‘cos he’s disturbing this deliciously anticipatory moment, but at 7.20 I declare CC officially late.

I’m not unduly worried. The drink has calmed me down somewhat but now I’m dying for a fag. That would truly be the kiss of death. He’s very anti-smoking and he would definitely smell it on me. And I don’t really smoke anyway, except I really need one NOW.

My phone rings suddenly and I grab it off the kitchen table. It’s him. He can’t make it. No, it’s OK. He’s apologizing. He’ll be another five minutes.

‘No problem!’ I squeak brightly.

You can be five years late, mate, as long as you turn up eventually…and I take a long, neat slug from the vodka bottle.

I check myself in the mirror one last time. Short of stripping everything off and starting again, there’s not a lot else I can do.

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