, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The dialogue in this blog is as accurate as my memory of the events allow. 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

Bee Anonymous


oldart6Tuesday finds me sitting in the corner, lap-top open but un-fingered. I’m people watching, as the lunch-timers drift in look for vacant tables, and sit. There’s a different barrister today, bottle blonde, fair skinned, ear stud, too much make-up. He smiled as if he knew me when I ordered by coffee and sandwich. I guess baristas talk about the clients. I wonder they are saying about me.
I don’t recognise anyone else form my other visits.

There’s a cute couple sitting at the next table, fingers intertwined, eyes only for each other. A few tables away two suited and booted men in blue suits look as though they are having a business meeting.

A few ladies-who-lunch, are spread around like confetti, shopping bags at table legs, sporting Harrods and Selfridge Logos.
So what is it that drifts into my mind as I look at my fellow diners? I start to wonder about their lives and in particular their loves and lovers, of course. It is said that on average city boys have at least five girlfriends going at one and the same time. True? Don’t know? Who did the census and why? People would be apt to lie, wouldn’t they?

So, what about me?
There had been seven other cocks before my husband came along with his. His wasn’t the longest, the fattest, or the most beautiful meat machine I’d ever entertained, and he didn’t have the most staying power, or smooth technique; but he did have an earnest and sincere desire to please me. He was a lover and not a stud.

He might have been the eighth cock, but then again he was also the first – the first to ride me bareback – the first to leave a rich, creamy deposit inside my lady tunnel. Which, at the time was, and remains – a very big deal; and that was after we’d exhausted and flushed almost four hundred condoms. He is still the only man who does, and for the foreseeable future, will, get to fuck me without the rubber barrier.

If this sounds like an advert for safe sex – it might well be.

When we first got together he had been seeing another girl for almost nine months; which makes him a cheat. And I had been having sex, but not regularly with another bloke. I was not actually dating him, because he had a girlfriend back home when we started.
To his credit he did write to her and break it off after about a week.

What is the average number of cocks a modern woman has inside her before she finds Mr Good Cock? It is probably less that the average number of vaginas men get into before they settle down with Ms Good Vagina.

Rugby had always seemed to me to be an excuse for thirty angry men to beat up on whoever was unlucky enough to be handed the odd shaped ball.

That first time it  wasn’t my idea of fun to be standing on the side line in the persistent drizzle. Mary, my mildly nymphomaniac housemate, had developed a desire to be filled up by one of the muddy rampaging Neanderthals, and she’d begged and pleaded with me to accompany her to the match, so she could stake her claim.
I was relieved when the final whistle was blown and the mud splattered horde headed for the changing rooms.
“Can we go home now?” I asked.
“We can’t,” she said, taking my arm in a restraining hold. “The game is just beginning. We have to go to the pub. I want to be there waiting when they arrive.”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“Oh, please, please, please come.”
“Okay. But I have a paper to write and I’m already behind. I can only spare an hour.”
We were propping up the bar when the first of the men arrived, washed and changed and smelling of deodorant and muscle liniment.
Soon the little pub was crammed with twenty bragging, heavy drinking men in tight T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms.
Mary slid off her seat, threaded through the crowd and linked arms with a broad shouldered, dark haired tower of muscle.

Well that was that, I thought, and was about to get up and headed for the door when a voice said, “That’s the last you’ll see of her till tomorrow. If I know Eddie, she’ll be on her back before the sun goes down.”
He smiled as I looked at the plaster decorating his eyebrow, the dark bruise that would become a huge black eye, and the blood encrusted split lip.

“Did you get run over by a herd of cattle?” I asked.
“Very droll,” he said. “I’ve not heard that one before.”
“You must excuse me, I have to be going.”
“Do we frighten you?”

“Yes, of course. I’m terrified. So I’ll just rush home and hide.”
“Is it our size, or do you just think that rugby players are intellectually challenged brutes who can’t string sentences together?”
“Well, that’s certainly not your problem. Is it?”
“Oh, I can be as tongue tied as the rest of my species, but a nice brutal game always makes me thirsty, hungry and horny.”
“Well I suggest you go and find someone who can feed you and cater to your other needs.”
“You aren’t offering to administer to a wounded solder then?”
“The most I can offer is an aspirin and directions to the nearest hospital.”
“What I really want is-“
“I know what you want and I’m not giving…. sorry.”
“I was going to say a beer and a curry. But I like the way you think.”
“And afterward?”

“Afterward, you can retreat to the safety of whatever lonely bedroom you have and dream about what might have been.”
I had to laugh at the guy’s self assurance and impertinence. He certainly wasn’t an intellectually challenged brute who couldn’t string a sentence together.

Here seems like a good place to stop – for now. As you can see it’s just after two. The work is piling up.