It’s difficult to know where to start to recount such a memory. Where to begin? Which of the many decisions we make every day is responsible for the string of consequences that are the eventual out-fall of choosing one moment over another to do something or go somewhere?

Have you ever wondered – after a bird has flown into your car, or a kamikaze rabbit has run across the road and straight under your tyre, or you’ve stood under a tree and a twig or bird droppings has fallen just ahead of you – if you you’d been just a few seconds earlier or later leaving the house, or taken that one more step, then you wouldn’t have killed the bird, or flattened the rabbit into a messy paste, or been hit on the head by the falling twig or had bird droppings in your freshly washed hair.

At which moment did the ball of fate start rolling……?

I had taken the decision to leave Italy on that day, and I had booked the time of the flight, so I alone had set my feet on the road. Did it all become inevitable the moment I picked up the phone and booked the last seat on the plane? Or was it because someone else had slightly changed my plans? So who was to blame for the result?

I am happy and contented now: life is good. But there was another time when I’d also been ecstatically, almost painfully happy. A time when every moment brought a fresh taste of the sweet, heady, intoxicating drug that is being madly in love for the first time.

There are no artificially induced highs that can equal the euphoria one feels the moment love comes crashing in on your life, leaving you breathless, bemused and grinning like a lunatic.

Even now, a decade and more later, I still experience a tremor that starts at my hair and travels down the back of my neck, over my skin, until every fibre of my being seems to scintillate with a tingling discharge, whenever I think of that moment, that day, that journey, those few weeks, in which I went from a sweet, innocent nineteen-year-old virgin, to a not so innocent, nineteen-year-old woman, whose world would never be the same again.

It was such a little time, a day, a week, a month. I was in love – or thought I was. I was content to see my life diverted along a new, stranger, more exciting path than the one I’d had planned.

Love had infected me, I saw only him, I felt through him, my thoughts were drowned in the memory of his last kiss, the last time we slept together, or didn’t sleep, but made love on that lumpy bed, long into the warm Bangkok night.

I had wanted him inside me every moment. I yearned to feel the big head of his penis sliding into me, throbbing, pushing out the walls of my vagina that only he had used; his mouth on mine muffling the sounds of ecstasy that his pounding hips ripped from my throat; his hands moulding my breasts that no other man had touched; his fingers and tongue that could keep me on the edge, melting my bones; the perspiration of our bodies mixing into rivulets that soaked into the sheets.
I had been drunk with love, stupid and blind with infatuation, lost in a sea of lust, willing to perform any depravity he asked.

In those few weeks I saw things that little girls from the lush, safe, protected garden of England are not supposed to see.

At first I saw them with eyes of a tourist. It was all new, different, exotic, titillating, exciting. My eyes were wide with amused wonder and a kind of admiration for the people, as if it was all entertainment; a show put on for the benefit of foreigners. But slowly I started to notice the smiles that never quite reached the eyes, and the practiced laughter that always carried a tinge of sadness and shame. Suddenly my amusement turned to a kind of stomach churning horror, and I started to feel shameful and dirty and angry, as my eyes, fully opened saw the awful truth – that I really knew nothing about people and less about the lives others choose to lead, or were forced to lead.
How quickly it all happened.

But I get ahead of myself……

Oddly, it was an act of kindness that had set my feet on the new path. Had I used my original ticket, then my life would have taken a different path. Maybe – possibly. Who really knows?


Reasons to me wakeful

Friday 2 am…..

I was awake anyway. The reason is very small and beautiful, with golden curls and makes little sucking sounds while it sleeps. I tried to go back to sleep myself, but disobedient thoughts crowded in, ricocheting around in my head, pushing me out of bed again.

So here I am, laptop on lap, a single lamp to lighten my corner of the room, wondering which path of my crooked tale to talk about.

I am not sure when it happened, but I feel as though my reasons for continuing with this blog/diary/confession, whatever you want to call it, has changed. Or is it me that’s changed?

I started writing, as a form of catharsis; a way of viewing the entire tableau of my indiscretions, so I could analyse why I so easily took the turn down the murky track of infidelity.

Initially I blamed my fall from grace, on a drunken and drug fueled one-night-stand with a stranger. As if somehow he alone was the catalyst that started the chain reaction that converted me from faithful wife, into a faithless adulterer.

I eventually abandoned that self-delusion and admitted to myself that if it hadn’t been him that night, it might have been someone else, some other night. Another place, another time, another man – the same result.

Of course the question asks itself, was I born bad, or did something happen to turn a nice, roman catholic girl into the cheating blogger you’ve been reading about?

I’ve often speculated that I might have something of the nymphomaniac gene. That too was discounted, since I’ve generally found myself well sated after a good, solid fucking.

It’s difficult to judge oneself – those of us who are given to this type of self analysis, swing from being hyper-critical and inwardly cruel, blaming our genetic makeup (the born to be bad syndrome, if such exists), to being too lenient, blaming circumstance and our treatment at the hands of others.

Who did you wrong, lady?
No one….Someone. One man……

Booze, blow, bed, bath


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…after….Hot water…..

I have seen Ingrid several times since that afternoon when we shared booze, blow, bed and a bath, but only in company with Christian or other people, never entirely alone. Her blonde hair had been cut short and dyed a red-brown, and she’d had her tongue pierced – two little metal balls sat side by side in the middle, like a pair of silvery eyes.

The last time had been at an engagement party for a lesbian couple Christian had introduced me to the year before. Inga had swooped across the room when I arrived, wrapping me in a welcoming embrace, whispering in my ear, “I was afraid you weren’t coming. I would’ve died if you hadn’t.” Then she’d kissed me on both cheeks and finally on the mouth. Her lips tasted of almonds, her pupils large and there were a few crystals of white powder clinging to her nostrils. She took my hand and dragged me off to talk to the happy couple.

Later that evening I saw her slip away with a slender brunette in a tight leather skirt and knee-length boots. It was half and hour before they reappeared. No one took any notice. She smiled wickedly and nodded at me when our eyes met across the room, telling me that what I imagined was true.

That was more than a year ago.

Christian, who loves to gossip, told me that she has been in relationships with a model, that didn’t end well; a singer who tried to commit suicide; the sister of the owner of a Spanish night club, and a male French banker.

Hot water

…….after…. Just Talk………

Christian’s custom-made bath was deep and wide and the water was very hot. Ingrid sat behind me, her knees open enough for me to sit between them with my back to her, her fingers digging into the tight muscles beneath my shoulder blades.

“The night you and I met, I was at a record low,” she said. “I’d just discovered that my lover was a faithless fucking bitch. I’m not really sure what I was looking for when I found you in the kitchen; I was told you weren’t into women, even though you lied and led me to believe you were a lesbian, but I needed to kiss someone.”

“Why me?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it was something Christian said about you being too straight for your own good.” She laughed softly. “You obviously haven’t told him everything.”
“The subject never came up,” I said, flinching slightly as her thumb dug in. “So you kissed me because I was straight and you wanted to see if I’d object. Or was it that you wanted to try to convert me?”

“No, as I said, I just needed to be kissed. Your lips were the closest, looked the softest and you were standing all alone and lost in a house full of the usual sexual deviants. It was a lovely kiss, wasn’t it?”
“Just a little unexpected,” I said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it lovely. It wasn’t unpleasant either.”
She laughed softly. “Sounds like double talk to me.” Her fingers pressed in hard at the base of my neck. “You didn’t move away and you didn’t slap me, I thought felt a little back pressure, and your mouth definitely moved under mine.”

I didn’t retort. When you’re digging yourself into a hole, it’s best to stop digging.

I recalled that her mouth had been soft and her breath had carried a slight aroma of sweet almonds that had transferred to my mouth during the brief encounter. My own lips had responded automatically, deepening the contact, on the edge of allowing my tongue to respond to the tongue I felt beginning a slow invasion of my mouth.

There had been something vulnerable and pained in her eyes as we’d gazed at one another afterward. When she’d walked away to find another woman and “…..lick her till she screams…” I was conscious of a vague feeling of regret and confusion and queasy feeling in my belly.

Later when I saw her with her legs spread wide and that other woman licking her and driving her fingers upward into her vagina, I had felt and anger, shame and yes…. envy.
I’d wanted to pull the other woman’s hair out by the roots. I’d wanted save Inga – to protect her from the harpies who used her. And yes, I’d wanted to be the one who made her scream as she came in my mouth.
But there was no way she could have seen that on my face? Could she?

“Did my sex-ploit confessions shock you today?” she asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“No, not really,” I said. “It’s a bit like being at university; in the first months there were boys and girls whose only reason for being there was simply to bang as many bodies as they could. The condom manufacturers probably have a huge spike in sales from September to December every year.”

Inga laughed softly. “Somehow I can’t see you hopping from bed to bed.”
“I didn’t. But I wasn’t a shy retiring virgin either. I had my moments.”

I almost told her about the gross of condoms Anna and I had bought, but I managed to swallow the words again as they climbed out of the back of my throat.

“What about you husband, the one Christian calls the beast.”
I had to laugh. “He’s not as bad as all that. I admit he’s only slightly civilized – I like him that way. A lot of women like the brute in their men. But he’s also gentle and kind and romantic. I keep the beast enslaved with a lot of sex.”
“Do you love him?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you trust him?”
“He’s never given me any reason not to.”

“Have you ever cheated on him, other than just now with me, I mean?”
“Why not?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“Sorry. What I suppose I mean is, why did you do it with me?”
I turned around and faced her, our knees pressed together. “I don’t know. I haven’t worked that out yet.”

“Well I’m glad you did and I’m glad you are happy. Though I’m not sure you belong among Christian’s group of acquaintances.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s a good friend, someone who would hold your hand while you jumped off a bridge, but he attracts corrupted, unstable, slightly broken people like me. You are different; you are grounded, stable and very normal.”

Ingrid’s word played in my mind over and over as I sat in the taxi that evening – He’s a good friend, someone who would hold your hand while you jumped off a bridge, but he attracts corrupted, unstable, slightly broken people like me. You’re different, you’re grounded, stable and very normal.

 When I left, she was wrapped in one of Christian’s black, silk kimonos covered in white butterflies, red roses and blue hummingbirds, a glass of vodka in one hand and a lit joint in the other. There had been a look on her face which begged the question she was unwilling to ask, and which I was unwilling to answer. “Are we going to see each other again?”

Once is not a relationship, I told myself as I watched the evening traffic through the cabs window. Once was dangerous enough, because I’d seen the look, the hope in her eyes as we dried each other off, standing on the white tiled floor.
I was heading back to my stable, normal life, battling the feeling that I might have made a huge mistake.

Bringing up baby

Those you who’ve been counting the months since I said that I was pregnant, will no doubt be wondering how come I haven’t yet given birth. Is this the longest pregnancy in history? The truth is – I have. And both mother and baby are doing well.

The reason for my reluctance to spread the news until now is that had I done so at the time, anyone who knows me and are following this blog, might start to suspect the truth. For the same reason I’ll hold back the exact date of birth, the sex and the name of my darling child, who, a few minutes from now will be demanding a breast full of milk.

I don’t know how other new mums feel, but attaching my baby to my breast, gives me a weird kid of euphoria, and is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had, in-spite of the sore nipples.