**The dialogue in this blog is as accurate as my memory of the events allows. I am gifted or cursed with an eidetic memory; which means that I can recall everything I’ve ever read, seen, heard, experienced, smelt and done.
This comes in very handy in my job, and also means that I can lie to my husband successfully.
Although few people have this ability, it usually fades before adulthood.**
Writing a diary is fairly easy. But writing about things that were said and done three years, seven months, ago, takes a skill I’ve yet to master completely. I trained to write reports and decipher complicated legal jargon, unfortunately, I was away the day they covered the erotic confessions of a wayward wife.
Even with my uncanny memory, I have to remind myself that the people I’ve met have ways of speaking that are, and continue to be alien to my own provincial, sexually stinted, almost, sanitized language. At first the sheer weight of sexual bluntness in their words was like a slap in the face with a wet fish.
Frankly, I feel out of my depth, drowning, as the sheer weight of words, situations, feelings and sensations crowd in on me, weighing me down.
I recall a scene now in which everybody was blowing everyone else, when they weren’t sticking silver straws or rolled up bank-notes up their nostrils and sucking in hundreds of pounds of cocaine at one quick sniff.
And I don’t just mean women blowing men. My eyes have certainly been opened. The problem is that once they are, there’s no closing them again. You can’t put the genie back in the box.
What’s that old Chinese saying: you can’t un-know something, even if you build a mental wall to hedge it in, the wall will always be there as a reminder of what is hidden.
How hard can it be to write a blog? Just tell it as it is……. as it was. Then remove the names and the descriptions of the pertinent characters.
Simple….. Yeah. Right!
Like a million other women I’ve read “fifty Shades”, and if that’s what erotic writing is, then I’m afraid anybody who stumbles into this blog is going to be very disappointed. Perhaps I should hold off until I’ve waded through piles of erotica. But who has the time, and frankly I don’t have the inclination. I’d rather be doing it than reading about it.
There are of course a good number of sites like this one, and yes, I’ve looked at a few. (I won’t list them here. That’s called free advertising.)
I’d ask for critique, but as I’m not even going to pretend to be a world-class writer, and this blog is as much for me as you, you my friend, will have to suffer the stumbling prose and disjointed dialogue. Not that I’d reject any suggestions if anyone more competent decided to suggest a different angle. So please, comment away.
But no story lines please. This is not a work of fiction – it’s a confession of guilt.
It’s Saturday. I’m all alone in the house, with exception of two fastidious cats and one damp, smelly dog, fresh from a walk across the fields that surround or little hovel. Husband is out visiting someone or other. It’s rugby international season again. When is it not. At least that’s what he told me. Could be he’s up to his balls in pussy somewhere. Perhaps I’m not the only one playing away from home. But I doubt it.
Mine is an open book; wears every emotion on his face. In fact his eyes are so clear I sometimes think I can see right into his busy brain.
This morning he rolled me over and played harmony with his tongue on my clitoris, while his thick finger-tip strummed at my G-spot. By the time we crawled out of bed his sperm-bank was half in me and half on the sheets.
So, here I am taking to the blog, while still warm and sated from my husbands bed.
Hey, I never said he didn’t make me cum. He has a fat, beautiful nearly nine inch cock. It’s just that the journey is invariably the same. Like a straight road to your favourite destination. Sometimes you just want to get there by a more twisted, more dangerous route.
I just know he’ll come back with a dozen long stemmed roses and half-a-dozen spliffs from his friend. It’s always the same after his regular Saturday morning shag.
In the beginning…..
O’ what tangled webs we weave
-when first we practice to deceive.
But when we’ve practiced for a while
-we find we can improve our style.
I once believed that we exercised free will to plot the path of our lives; where we went to college, where we worked, who we screwed, married or murdered. But I’ve learnt that nature has thrown in a wild card; a wind of chaos that can disrupt anybody’s and everybody’s carefully laid plans. And that force is called lust, or desire – those often illogical, impossible to reason with emotions that can completely fuck-up your life.
We all have a story. Our lives have a beginning, somewhere there’s a middle, which is usually when we decide it’s time to pass on our genes to another generation, and an end. Well, we all know what happens then. No prologue. No chance of a rewrite.
They say that the best and easiest place to start a story is at the beginning, but the hard part is deciding exactly where the beginning was.
Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden wouldn’t have made the best seller list, if the serpent hadn’t come along and fucked up their lives with a little too much information about the joy of sin. But seeing that Eve had already given birth to Cain and Abel I suspect that Adam already had a fairly good idea that the cleft between his wife’s legs was the fun zone. Perhaps what the serpent really whispered about was all the other things he could do.
This strange life of mine all started a couple of years back when I wasn’t expecting my ordinary ordered life to take a left turn into the maize of lover’s lost and found.
I suppose if I look back, with benefit of hind-sight, I might conclude that my descent into chaos started, as usual, with a message from Christian. If I’d left work early that Friday afternoon, as I’d intended, I would’ve been safely home, and nothing would have induced me to go back into the city to that gallery opening.
Christian is an artist, wine lover, right wing socialist and probably the gayest man on the planet – at least that’s how he describes himself. We’ve been friends for half my lifetime; shared secrets and a bed multiple times, with not the slightest chance of fluid passing between us. Although he did once offer to give me a hand job, just as a novelty, and out of scientific curiosity, since he said that he’d never actually handled a vagina.
I naturally declined the offer, on the grounds that a GCSE in science didn’t make him a scientist, and that he couldn’t claim to be even slightly bi-curious.
The early evening still carried some of the heat of an unusually hot day in late June as I made my way across Westminster Bridge. Traffic was backed-up nose to tail, due to ongoing road works. A taxi driver blared his horn, as a kamikaze cyclist in a pin-striped suit and Etonian tie balancing a leather briefcase on the handlebars, weaved and swerved in front of him; then shouted out of the window an insult about the cyclist’s mother.
As I walked down the concrete steps, Christian’s long, slender frame was leaning against the low embankment wall, his white linen trousers turned up at the ankles, pale blue silk shirt un-tucked, straight blonde hair swept over his left ear, the small diamond stud decorating his left earlobe winking in the evening light.
“You’re late,” he scolded lightly, looking me up and down, as if I was a naked model about to sit for one of his canvases.
“I stopped off for a waxing and to have my eyebrows plucked,” I said sarcastically. “And the underground was jammed with sweltering, sweating, humanity. I’m sure I felt someone fondle my bottom.”
“Lucky you, I haven’t been fondled for almost three days. I’m starting to think that all the really nice men have emigrated.”
“You don’t like nice men.”
“When I say nice, I mean a man with a lovely package and hairy derriere. Anyway, we can discuss my fleshy needs later, there’s quite a crowd in there already. We might have to use our elbows.”
“Lead on MacDuff. Seen anybody interesting?”
He combed his hair away from his eyes with his fingers. “Not a really – a few people with too much money; some skinny tart with bad dress sense and excessive hair under her stubby nose; a dozen or so talentless pretenders; a fat, balding art critic from some disgusting provincial rag; a few others who don’t deserve a mention and, oh yes……a dangerously handsome Italian looking hunk. I saw him first, so hands – I’ve decided I’m going to have his babies.”
“That’s what you said about the last one….what was his name again?”
His eyes closed to dagger slits carrying a hint of pretend malice. “You promised you’d never mention the departed. If there ever was a fucking prince who became a frog, it was that asshole.”
Here I have pause to collect my thoughts. I can’t think about that evening without a little sadness. I can’t help but see it as the death of innocence and the birth of corruption.
I’m not crying crocodile tears you understand. I wasn’t dragged kicking and screaming into a life of cheating on my husband. I had my eyes wide open, in a kind of sleep-walkers trance.
Still sounds as if I’m attempting to mitigate what I’ve done. Perhaps I am. Perhaps we women who’ve fallen through the branches of the faithful tree and landed on our backs with our legs spread for anonymous men to fuck, need some form of psychological bandage for our consciences.
Or is that just me who is afraid to accept what I am.
There’s probably an old saying, but I can’t think what it is.