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It is Saturday. He’s gone out, I am alone and it seems like a good time to tell of what happened after La Petite Mort.
I won’t bore you with the details of this morning’s doings, except to say that it all happened as usual, so far. Aren’t I the lucky girl – having my cake and eating it too, someone out there is thinking.

It’s been a hard week and I’d love to slouch around, but you working girls all know that the house won’t clean itself, and the washing won’t march to the machine, squeeze inside and close the door.
Plus I have an appointment at the hair dressers in the village and lunch with an old friend, whom you have heard of before.

*

That night I was and felt well and truly fucked.
I had to go home; I did and I didn’t want to; But I had to….and I needed to find a way of viewing the situation objectively.

But how to find objectivity, when you’ve just been professionally screwed, and your vagina was still purring like a well stroked pussy…..cat.

I decided very quickly that I could either hate myself for the fucked up mess I was making of my life, or I could take the long view, and conclude that that was who I was, and that self-hate was ultimately destructive.

Very grown up of me. Even then I know that I was deluding myself, and denying that there might, and would probably be dire consequences.

Who needs an expensive psychiatrist, with that kind of screwed-up reasoning to fall back on?

A couple of hundred years ago the towns folk would probably have tied me to a stake; piled faggots around my feet and set it alight, while virgin nuns sang the Ave Maria, hoping that God would be listening and reach down for my slightly singed soul.

I drove home, butterflies dancing in my belly.
I was famished; all I’d consumed all day was a half a sandwich, a fifth of whisky, and a mouthful of semen.
Famished I might have been, but I was sure that if I’d stopped to eat, the food would have choked me.

By the time I pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine, the dash-board clock had clicked past ten. Another seven minutes slipped by before I could force my hand to open the door. A light rain was falling and the naked cherry trees at the side of the drive, animated by a breeze were waving hello to the home coming slut.

The house was in semi-darkness and there was a vague smell of curry in the kitchen; he makes magnificent chicken tikka. In the lounge the fire was dancing merrily in the burner, and the two cats and the dog were lying in front of it. They had made peace; Patch had promised not to chase them and respect their space, and the cats had promised not to slice open his nose with their razor sharp claws when he sniffed their hind quarters.

He was sitting at the dining room table surrounded by books and papers, a half filled tumbler and a bottle of Jim Beam near at hand.

“Hello, sweetness,” he said. “You must be dog tired and hungry. I’m betting you haven’t eaten a thing.”
“Tired yes, but I think I’m past eating now.”
“I’ve left you something warming in the oven, just in case.”
Suddenly I wanted to eat his curry, just because he had cooked it, even though I felt it would make me gag

I wanted to hold him, and bed down with him, and have him slide into me, and create fiction, and cum inside me, because he was the only man who ever had. Making love to him, fucking him, clinging to him, feeling his hot seed flowing inside me, might have drowned the memory of the other…… But I knew that there was no hope of that. No hope that I would forget a single, solitary instant.
I wasn’t able to forget anything.

“I’m just going to go to bed,” I said, yawning significantly.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said.
There was no sound of, “I’m going to fuck you tonight, so don’t go to sleep,” in his voice. I was half disappointed. But I was still going to get a cuddle. His big hands would still cup by breast, his naked groin pressed against my bottom. I’d feel his penis twitch ever so slightly because of it’s proximity to the hole of its dreams.

What was that line? Yes…. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow was Saturday and Saturday mornings almost always began the same way…………..

*To the purists – I apologise for the sloppy French in the title of this piece.*

 

 

 

 

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