Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee

by Fox, Lana

  And when I tell Janey how I followed him in my car and saw him with the woman in the raincoat and bowler hat, and how the woman turned me on, and how Henry had never looked at me that way, I feel Janey’s arms slipping around me, as she presses her cheek to my cheek. I can feel her breasts rubbing against my shoulder blade, and do I imagine it, Kitten, or is it true that I can feel her hard nipples, rubbing against my back? She whispers, ‘I know it’s a cliché, but you’re better off without him,’ and I can’t do anything but nod because I’m drunk on her closeness, the scent of her coconut soap, the warmth of her breath. Then she says, ‘And you’d never have known who you were if you hadn’t seen him like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  Janey says, ‘People go through their whole lives without discovering who they are. And when you discover your own sexuality, everything else kind of falls into place.’ Returning to my shoulder massage, she says she used to think she was straight, except part of her knew she wasn’t. She’d watch heterosexual porn, she explains – the mere mention of this makes me flush – when really she’d only be interested in the woman. She had no success with boys, so she thought she was a freak. ‘But I wasn’t a freak. I just wasn’t accepting myself … so how could anyone else even begin to accept me?’

  I tell her that isn’t what I’m like. ‘I’m just obsessed with sex,’ I say, feeling the tears returning. ‘I just want to think about sex, and have sex.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ says Janey. ‘You’re a flesh-and-blood human being who wants to feel alive.’

  Janey begins to massage my scalp, and I close my eyes – so this is how it feels to have her hands in my hair. She uses a perfect pressure and has a surprisingly sensual touch. Dear God, Kitten, I feel dizzy with desire. ‘Do you journal?’ she says.

  I gawp at her. ‘Yes, actually, I do.’

  ‘Well, when I first realised I was into women, I journalled. I was like you, back then. I mean, changing your whole life because of your sexuality can feel weird because society hates sex. But if you journal, you’ll start to see that sex can be the root of happiness. You’ll love the people you want to love, in the ways you want to love them.’

  ‘You mean, I’ll screw the people I want to screw?’

  ‘You’re not listening, Debs. I said the people you want to love. This is just as much about love as it is about flesh.’

  Well, I’m not sure I quite believe her, Kitten. Young people sometimes seem so confident, don’t they? But it doesn’t sound like she’s telling a lie and my gut tells me to go with this. I have to say, I appreciate Janey more than words can say, right now. She’s so sincere, so thoughtful. I wish Lil would treat her well.

  So I thank her warmly and give her a hug, even though she’s in her underwear. And then I say, ‘I should go and have some dinner. Have you eaten?’

  She nods, so I turn to go.

  ‘Deborah,’ she says, and I turn. ‘Have you seen my display?’ She’s pointing at the opposite wall, and suddenly my eyes are opened. She’s hung a huge pinboard and covered it with pictures and clippings of shoes. ‘It’s amazing,’ I gasp, as I rush over. It’s an explosion of colours and shapes. There are crazy platforms, old-fashioned loafers, ballet shoes for ballerinas, high heels of all shapes and sizes, red shoes, black shoes, rainbow-coloured shoes, celebrities like Marilyn Monroe and some goth woman in the pointiest boots you’ve ever seen … shoes, shoes, shoes. And the sight of them makes me laugh out loud. ‘It’s fantastic!’ I say, clapping my hands together. ‘What fun!’

  And when I turn to her, she’s beaming. ‘I knew you’d get it,’ she told me. ‘When you love a thing, you love a thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and we hold one another’s gazes for a while, and I feel like I might cry again – but in a better way.

  And now, half an hour later, I’m down in the kitchen, tucking into my Lean Cuisine, wearing my new tiger-print stilettos. I don’t know what I feel about them right now. They feel stolen, almost, or like a gift with added baggage. But they’re beautiful objects. And as Janey says, there’s nothing wrong with that.

  Chapter Seven

  His and Hers

  Tuesday, 13 March

  11.15 a.m.

  Dear Kitten,

  I haven’t got long to write to you today because I’m going to Guy’s place this evening. He’s cooking for me, Kitten! I think we’re going to bond some more like we did on the phone … and sex in the bedroom is a whole lot more intimate than fucking ourselves in a field. Also, I’ve had two phone conversations in which Guy hasn’t mentioned phone sex even once. He’s asked me how my day was, and filled me in about a business trip he’s taking in a couple of weeks’ time. There’s something special about talking just for the sake of talking. I think he wants to take things to the next level. Romantically, I mean.

  10.45 p.m.

  Oh, Kitten, as I write, Guy is asleep at my side, his tanned chest rising and falling, the white sheets twisted round his waist. He’s a very sexy man, Kitten. A real catch. So why do I feel just a little bit empty?

  Anyway, when I arrived in a taxi he insisted on paying for, he was right in the middle of creating a lovely meal. Ricotta-stuffed ravioli with home-made tomato sauce, topped with fresh Parmesan and a side salad. For dessert: a pile of strawberries with dark chocolate truffles – he fed these to me on the sofa, as I lounged against him, his breath all close and chocolatey, his eyes a sparkling brown. For every strawberry, he told me I had to kiss him. ‘That’s the cost,’ he teased. And sure enough, I laid each of these kisses along that manly jaw line, enjoying the scent of his aftershave and the smoothness of his just-shaved cheek.

  This is where we discussed our star signs. I told him I was Sagittarius and it turns out he’s Aries – we’re meant to be a perfect match! ‘You’re a go-getter,’ I told him.

  He gave a soft laugh. ‘That’s true. And what about you, Madame Archer?’ He laid a chocolate on my tongue and I felt it dissolve, oh, so sweetly.

  So I give him the low-down on Sagittarians. First, I tell him, we seem very fiery and outgoing, but we’re actually quite sensitive deep down. I also tell him we tend to talk a lot, and sometimes we’re loudmouths – can’t always keep a secret. ‘At the same time, we’re incredibly perceptive. We have a habit of hitting the nail on the head when it comes to getting to the root of things.’

  ‘A bit of a psychologist,’ he says, ‘like Gladys.’

  ‘In my way,’ I say. ‘But we’re also wanderers. We like our freedom.’

  His eyes brighten. ‘Yes, I can see that in you! You’re adventurous. Like your choice in shoes.’

  I stretched out my foot to stare at the tiger-print stilettos, which, I might add, were looking stunning, teamed with flesh-toned stockings and my fitted black dress with the lacy trim. I could see his gaze lingering, so I lowered my foot – I didn’t want to destroy this moment. ‘I’m a freethinker, too.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ he says with a smile and a sideways look.

  I slap his arm.

  And with that I’m sinking beneath his weight like some 50s starlet, and his hard on is pressing down on my belly, and my hands are exploring his wonderful backside. ‘I haven’t undressed you yet,’ I murmur, when he comes up for air.

  With a slick grin, he undoes his belt and swishes it from his jeans so it hangs from his hand like a whip.

  I laugh. ‘Careful, cowboy.’

  He drops the belt to the floor. And soon he’s unzipping the back of my dress, and laying damp little kisses down the side of my neck, and I unbutton his shirt, and I slide off his jeans, and I straddle him in his boxers as he wrestles me out of my bra. He insists that I keep my shoes and stockings on, and I have to admit, I’m relieved by this – I love to have him worshipping my shoes. Besides, he’s mad about my legs and feet, and can’t stop running his fingers over my glossy stocking-tops. ‘What shall we start with?’ he asks, as I sit astride him.

  I tell him I’d like to do it just like this. Me in h
is lap; riding up and down. He agrees – and it’s stupid, I know, but I’m so proud that I’ve brought the condom that I’m feeling rosy-cheeked as I slide it onto him. And oh, when he clasps my hips and pulls me right onto him, I feel him filling every inch of me. I also realise that this was how Henry took the bowler-hatted girl … while I was watching at the window … and I can’t help imagining Janey sitting beneath me with a wonderful black silicone toy. Oh, my! I’m so wet as I fantasise, my hips working harder, my breath coming in starts, that he feels like he’s slicked with oil. And he must be a mind-reader because, once I’m close to climax, he whispers, ‘If there was someone else here, Deborah, would it be a man or a woman?’

  And I say, ‘Guess!’

  And he says, ‘A woman.’

  So I blurt out something – I don’t know what – because mentioning Janey makes me hornier than ever. And my breasts are suddenly Janey’s breasts as I rub and pinch the nipples, and she’s there, beneath me, groaning, gasping and crying, ‘Deborah, baby …’ And that’s when I come too, riding Guy, my hips lunging by themselves, because they’re faster and more desperate than my poor befuddled mind. And it’s as if a wild light is filling every cell of me: I’m firelit and crazy for what seems like an age.

  When I flop on top of him, mumbling, ‘You haven’t come yet, have you?’ Guy says, ‘No, angel, but I won’t take long.’ Then he makes me lie along the couch, while he kneels above me, holding my ankle, pulling my shoe against him, my stiletto heel pressing into his balls, while he fucks my shoe – yes, fucks my shoe – yanking it against himself, before coming in an impressive surge that spurts and showers and spatters my body. And he keeps crying, ‘Fucking your … fucking your … shoes’ right to the very last surge.

  It doesn’t feel very intimate, Kitten. He’s interested in my feet, really. I didn’t see him look up once. But guys are afraid of that sort of thing – you know, intimacy, closeness, bonding, right? And afterwards, he lies on top of me and whispers in my ear, ‘I come so hard with you. So fucking hard. You’re one hell of a woman. Christ, I’m a lucky boy.’

  So here I am now, up in his bed, because he insisted that I stay. And we showered together and he kissed me good night, all sparkly and sweet. But by the time I’d managed to clean the semen off my shoes, he was on his back and snoring. Well, I can’t say I blame him.

  And I don’t suppose it matters, Kitten, but I kind of had sex with Janey tonight. I was both with Guy and not with Guy. So is that me being the real, sexual me? Or is that me just hiding? And what if it’s a bit of both?

  Chapter Eight

  Scratch ’n Sniff Stilettos

  Wednesday, 14 March

  7 a.m.

  Dear Kitten,

  This morning, Guy was different. He’s clearly not a morning person. I tried to seduce him by rubbing up against him and biting his ear, but he brushed me off, saying he couldn’t. I was horny as hell, and during Guy’s shower – which, by the way, he didn’t invite me into – I considered digging through my bag for my vibrator, but thought better of it. Instead, I peered through the bathroom door and offered to make him a fry-up, which he turned down straightaway, saying he hadn’t got time for breakfast. ‘Make a fry-up for yourself if you like,’ he called, and he reminded me that the front door locks itself when it closes. He gave me the merest peck on the cheek on his way out. But he did say he had a surprise for me next week, if I was interested. ‘A special something for dinner, next Wednesday,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll confirm with you later today.’ And then, as he pulled away, he sparkled like the Guy I know, and added, ‘This’ll be a real treat for you, Deborah.’

  So I guess things are fine after all.

  Anyhoo. Today’s my day off, Kitten, so I’m meeting up with Glads around eleven. But before that I’m going to eat a proper breakfast. So I rifle round his beautiful kitchen, which has a stainless-steel oven that looks as if Jamie Oliver has crawled all over it and licked it to a shine. Plus Guy has the whitest kitchen cupboards with classy little silver knobs.

  On the hunt for food, the most interesting thing I find is pancake mix, a la U.S.A. So I follow the instructions on the box and make myself a set of real American pancakes. They’re rather tasty, if I say so myself, especially when drizzled with lemon and a coating of brown sugar. Unfortunately, the only tea he has is Twinings. I, dear Kitten, am a P.G. girl.

  2.15 p.m.

  Meeting up with Glads for coffee was a pleasure, as usual, and she even bought me a Danish pastry to make up for being a twerp. The only thing she asked me about the vibrator was, ‘Did the gift work out fine, Miss Scarlet?’ before giving an enormous wink. And I said it was just dandy, thank you very much. (Interesting how I flush again all meekly, while I’m wearing sperm-flavoured scratch-and-sniff stilettos, courtesy of Guy and his little explosion.)

  Turns out that things at Academic Central aren’t so rosy right now for Gladys. She got low marks on a Freud essay because she tore the man to bits without discussing his good points. ‘That idiot,’ says Glads. ‘As if women envy penises!’

  ‘Maybe some of them do,’ I say, picturing Janey looking delicious in a strap-on.

  ‘Maybe the Tooth Fairy exists,’ says Glads, ‘but we don’t write essays about that, now, do we?’

  I’m about to say that there must be men who envy vaginas, but then I remember what she said about her parents wanting her to always get A grades, and I suddenly realise this is Glads being defensive. So I say, ‘You tell ’em, Glads,’ and she nods, and we’re just fine.

  Apparently, Gladys has a date with a man who is doing her psychology course. A suave Italian called Marco. He’s around the same age as she is. (Wonders may never cease!) ‘He’s so good at psychology,’ she says, her eyes going moony.

  ‘Will he critique Doctor Freud in the sack?’ I ask.

  And she snorts. So I do too. In fact, we’re snorting away for a good long while.

  But when she asks why I look so glam and I explain that I stayed at Guy’s last night, Glads isn’t so perky. ‘I thought you were into your tenant?’ she says. And when I remind her that Janey is taken, she narrows her eyes as if she can’t see me right. ‘But you’re a dyke, correct?’

  Oh, my gosh. What does ‘dyke’ mean, Kitten? Lesbian? A certain kind of lesbian? P.C. or not P.C.? ‘I think I might be into women and men,’ I say.

  ‘Oh.’ She takes a sip of her coffee, but she’s still watching me all the way through. ‘Listen, love,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t get sweet on the man. He’s a bit of fun, don’t you think? A bauble. He’ll wine and dine a girl, then lay her. Simple.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little romance.’

  Gladys puts her hand over mine and her eyes go deep and kind. ‘Sweetie, as long as you don’t get hurt, OK? Not after Henry. It’s your first crush since the split.’

  The way she looks at me reminds me of the first time I told her what Henry had been up to. She was the first person who heard me say the words ‘Henry’s having an affair.’ In fact, I broke the news in this very coffee shop, two tables to the left of where we’re sitting right now. What was even sadder was the total surprise on her face at the time. ‘No way,’ she said, reaching across the table. ‘Henry’s crazy about you.’ And I could see why she’d think that. I mean, even though Henry and I didn’t have sex, just a few months before I caught him he was buying me flowers every weekend and making me breakfast on Sunday mornings. He’d sit on the bed in his stripy pyjamas, all stubbly, with his greying hair tousled, and he’d take my hands between his own and say, ‘The menu today, Lady Deborah, is …’ and he’d reel off the very things we had in the kitchen. He’d offer a ‘great British fry-up’ or ‘croissants with jam’ or ‘a bacon buttie’ or ‘Scotch pancakes’ and it always made me happy to sit and read a mag while he clanked around in the kitchen downstairs, whistling Louis Armstrong’s ‘Jeepers, Creepers’ or ‘Hello, Dolly!’ He liked his jazz, did Henry.

  But I don’t want you to think I was sweet on an arsehole,
Kitten. He was only like that towards the end. In fact, he could be extremely romantic. Take our anniversary, for instance, when he always bought me lilies – there were lilies in my wedding bouquet, see, almost twenty years ago now, and not a year went by when I didn’t receive an armful on 30 September. That’s how romantic Henry could be.

  All those years, Kitten. I miss him. My Henry.

  Gladys pulls her hand away from mine. ‘And anyway,’ she adds, ‘I’d like to see you dating that Janey. Or some other girl. Why not experiment a bit?’

  I don’t know what to say about that, so we move on to Gladys’s hot date for tomorrow night – this new forty-something Italian with a flashy red sports car. Apparently, he’s taking her to see a movie, at the artsy picture house on Remington Ave. It’ll probably be some suave international movie. The kind that has subtitles. I hate subtitles. I like to gaze into the faces of the characters and forget to think about anything else.

  But Glads says that’s because I’m an old romantic.

  ‘You get too attached,’ she says. And she’s probably right, because, as soon as she says it, I find myself thinking of Guy when he says, ‘You are the most beautiful woman to grace a pair of heels.’

  ‘I’m going out with Guy again next week,’ I say. ‘We’re going to dinner. He’s bringing me a gift – a surprise, he says.’

  Gladys gives a hefty sigh and stretches her lips, like she’s totally unimpressed. ‘A bottle of lube and a condom, perhaps?’

  I can’t help but feel she’s raining on my parade.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie,’ she says, taking my hands. ‘I know he’s very fond of you. But he’s a plaything, yes? A hot bit of hot totty.’