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I find myself wondering off topic sometimes, because taking a walk down memory lane, not being too careful about where your feet take you, can sometimes have you turning down blind alleyways, or random half forgotten tunnels, where the walls are lined with image-pictures, like doorways behind which old secrets lay waiting to pounce.

This peek into the early days of my relationship with my husband does him no harm or shame; so I have no qualms about revealing certain, incidences that brought us into collision.

If I had to find an excuse, I’d say that although this is a story about my catalogue of miss-deeds, it is almost impossible to completely ignore the other main characters in my life, since in-spite of their ignorance of their mention (un-named) in these pages, they continue to have a day to day influence on my comings and goings, and the emotional baggage that I carry.

……following from Number theory……….

We walked a few hundred yards to the groups favoured curry house. The elderly owner grinned greedily, recognising the noisy, rampaging army of big eaters, fast drinkers and bigger spenders. They were all on first name terms, handshakes all round. Special table reserved in a side alcove out of the way of quieter guests had been arranged. Beer was the order of the day, again, followed by enough starters to feed an army, and then mountains of meat and chicken dishes, with accompanying hillocks of rice and platters of Nan bread.

Mary and her man had disappeared into a darkened alley-way half way along the road, to accompanying sniggers and whistles. “He does love him a blow-job,” someone joked. “They’ll catch up later, and it wouldn’t surprise if he’s got a silly smile on his face, and she has cream dribbling out of her mouth.”

It wouldn’t have surprised me either.

I was led to the bottom of the table by my captor, where he pulled out my chair and indicated that I should sit next to him. The courses came; plates of chicken madras, tandoori chicken, lamb Jalfresae, Dansak, Biryani, onion baji, Tikka, Balti, Sagwalla, Popadoms, rice, rice, – more beer, more beer, more beer….. please, patron.

He was watching me. His gaze increasingly covetous as the beers disappeared down his throat.
Leaning over he whispered just loud enough for me to hear.
“You are very fuckable, do you know that?”
“Thank you. My boyfriend says so too. But it’s nice to know that someone else agrees.”
“Boyfriend? Anybody I know?”
“Probably not. He hates rugby.”
“I desperately want to make love, to you.”
“By make love, you mean fuck, I take it. It’s not always the same thing.”
“My mama never told me dat. Perhaps, I need a good woman to show me the difference.”
“You may need a good woman, but what you’re after tonight is a bad one.”
“Touche’ mademoiselle.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not a part I play often.”
“You mean you do sometimes? Intriguing. What does a guy have to do to bring out the bad girl in you?”
“That would be telling. And I don’t know you well enough to divulge all my secrets. Anyway, it’s the rugby that makes you hungry and horny. You’ve got the curry, so now I suggest that you go off to a club and pick up some stray pussy to feed your other appetites.”

“Do I look like the kind of guy who goes out and fucks just anybody?”
“Frankly…… Yes.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong, lady.  I’m very picky. Ask anybody, they’ll all tell you. I have very high standards. You have really nice boobs. Has anybody ever told you that? Have you ever done any pole dancing? You’d be fucking awesome.”

“Compliments won’t get you into my pants.”
“So how do I get into your pants?”
“You’ll never know. So I suppose you’ll have to go somewhere quiet and jerk-off on your own.”
“You could give me a blow-job.”
“I never blow on the first date.”
“Is that what this is? A date?”
“It’s just a figure of speech.”
“You really do have nice boobs, you know.”
“You already said that.”
“I know, but I thought they deserved to be complemented again.”

“My boobs thank you.”
“I don’t think that we can be friends now.”
“What’s the matter? Do you have to fuck a girl before you can be her friend?”
“Frankly,……no. But I’m making a special rule just for you.”
“Why just for me?”
“Because you’re special. I can tell. I have this feeling in my….my guts that you could save me.”

“Really? From what?”
“From a life of pointless pussy.”
“Isn’t that what men want? An endless stream of undemanding vaginas, no questions asked before, and no recriminations afterward.”
“On behalf of all men, I am insulted. Men are far more sophisticated and discerning. We are born with the desire to return from whence we came, that’s just as nature intended, but we are all looking for that special one.”

“So you aren’t as shallow as you appear?”
“If you have me a chance I could prove it to you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your eyes tell me you want to make love with me, but you are denying yourself the privilege. There’s no reason for us to be lonely tonight.”
“I’ve heard that song before. Don’t worry, I won’t be going without.”

“Oh yes? – the boyfriend, is he waiting at home, warming the bed with his naked body?”
“Something like that.”
“Lucky fella. How long have you been his girl then?”
“Long enough.”
“How’s about dumping him, and becoming my girl?”

“Just for tonight, you mean?”
“No… no….no. I mean until we decide that we aren’t physically and intellectually compatible.”
“Till tomorrow then?”
“You’re hard lady. Nice tits though, so you can’t be all bad.”
“Thanks.”

“How about I walk you home then?”
“Why?”
“To protect you from unscrupulous mother-fuckers who might try to take advantage of a nice delicate flower like you.”
“And who’s going to protect me from you?”
“Believe me lady – you’ll never need protection from me.”

My protector behaved like a perfect gentleman as we walked back through the streets. He didn’t even try to kiss me when I stopped outside my front gate. “I’ll be seeing you,” was the last thing he said, as he smiled and walked away, not a single weave or stumble in his step, even though he must have sunk nearly a dozen pints. I was impressed, in-spite of my former dislike of rugby and the hooligans who played the game.

I hadn’t seen Mary and her man leave the restaurant, I’d suspected that they’d gone back to his place to bless their union with a few hours of hide the salami. But by the time I reached the sitting room and sat down at my desk to work I could hear her bed bouncing, the head-board crashing against the wall, and her panting like an asthmatic and squealing like a piglet. “Oh… Oh….Oh God! Oh God!”  she wailed, over and over and over.

Mary was a devout catholic girl and the loudest fucker I’ve ever heard. “You’ve got to let them know they’re doing it right,” she retorted, when I suggested she turn it down a notch. “Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk…….”

As I write, this it occurs to me that Mary is probably somewhere on a picket line, demonstrating against certain perceived injustices in government policy. Enough said.
She will naturally have one of the loudest voices in any argument, just as she had when she was on her back. She rarely ever did anything quietly.

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