by R J Butler
Do you like the taste of my pussy, yeah? Do you like eating my pussy?
She fell to her knees and kissed me while pulling on my shaft. After a while, she held her hand up and admired the wetness on her palm. That’s all you, you naughty boy. She licked it clean. Tastes good.
She then stood up, found her knickers and put them back on. That’s enough for today.
What? I thought…
All good things come to those who wait. Soon but not yet. One step at a time. Can you wait a little longer?
No.
Poor Robbie. Well, it’ll give you something to look to, won’t it?
I sighed. Yes, Dawn. I like a woman in control, but not this controlled. Now, somehow, I had to force my erection back into my boxers and trousers. And that was no mean feat.
Still, I felt fantastic. What amazed me was how natural it felt – no awkwardness or, dare I say it, guilt. It felt as if our bodies belonged to one another.
An hour later, I caught a taxi home. The driver chatted but what he said I have no idea; my mind was still back in Dawn’s flat. We hadn’t had sex but that was fine; I wouldn’t have wanted to, couldn’t have faced the enormity of such an act. What we’d done was enough to leave me reeling, fighting for breath.
I arrived home and found Emily watching a documentary on wife swapping. How appropriate. She told me about Lola’s latest adventure – another visit to another Father Christmas, and issued instructions for the following day, something about football shirts. Managing to escape, I stumbled up to bed and collapsed. I fell asleep with a smile on my face. A very large smile indeed.
PART TWO
Wednesday, 2nd January
The post-holiday blues have set in; you can feel it hanging heavily over the office. Only Heather appears content, happy that things are returning to normal. Ernie is still morose after his failure with Marjorie in Accounts; Karen is worried but another minute aspect of her wedding arrangements; and Paul’s not speaking to me. I wish Sean was here to brighten things up, but he’s away again, parachuting off the Gulf of Mexico or somewhere. And most significantly, all is quiet on the Dawn front. I think she’s forgotten about me. On Christmas Eve I received a text that had my heart spinning, which said: I cant get you out of my head now, and on Christmas Day I received a couple texts thanking me for my presents, to which I responded in kind, but since then, bugger all. I texted her twice on Boxing Day, and twice again the following day, each one a little more desperate, but nothing in return. Now pride prevents me from trying again. And it’s so painful, this silence, this continual checking of my phone; my yell into the wilderness: Oh, Dawn, what have you done to me? To use her words – I couldn’t get her out of my head.
Christmas Day was jolly enough. Usual stuff: over-excitable children, too much to eat, drunken haze, etc. Joshua was pleased with his football shirt with his surname printed on the back. Not cheap, my word, £45 for the shirt and £3 per letter; and with a name like Collingbourne, that mounts up. I wanted to change our name to Li or Ho there and then. And Lola, bless her, loved her pink dolls and her pink clothes and her pink horse.
For New Year’s Eve we went to a neighbour’s house. As Big Ben chimed in the New Year, and following the usual round of Auld Lang Syne, with the first line repeated throughout the many verses, we hugged and kissed our partners. Happy New Year, darling, said Emily.
And you, my love. In my mind I visualised Dawn and her husband in a similar embrace somewhere in West London. And then we all danced, drank and smoked, and tried not to think of our children waking us up in only a few hours.
Thirty minutes later, my evening’s contentment was made complete with the arrival of Dawn’s text: I’m having a glass of champagne and toasting us. Here's to you my darling. x.
Joyful, I locked myself in the bathroom, and texted back: Having a great time. Pissed and happy. Wish I could give you a new year kiss. Your so fucking wonderful, love you, R.
1.30 p.m. I’ve done a bit of work, not much. Updating the ‘Learning and Development Directory’, but mainly sorting out my files – the sort of New Year task I always quite enjoy. Dull stuff really but I am on the top of the world – I have just received a text from Dawn: Can you escape to mine tomorrow after work?
I text home: Ok if I go out for a drink tomorrow after work? An hour later, comes back the response from home: Yes.
I text Dawn in return: Sorted. I’ll be at yours tomorrow from 5.30. And in return a slightly disappointing text: Great. Bring some dvds.
DVDs? Are we going to watch bloody DVDs all night? I rather had other plans; plans that were exciting me and making me nervous at the same time. Again, the old anxieties creep in – what if I don’t get an erection this time, I did last time but that doesn’t mean anything. Viagra. It’s the only solution; might not need it but better safe than sorry, etc. There’s a sex shop about two miles from home; surely they’d sell it. But if we’re simply going to watch a DVD then why the bother? Perhaps in Dawn’s world, “watching DVDs” is merely a euphemism for an evening of rampant sex. I certainly hope so. Since December 21st, I’ve visualised many a time her nakedness, the shape of her breasts. And I want more, desperately so.
5 p.m. It’s dark, I pull on my hood and park a little distance away. I have no qualms about going into a sex shop in Central London but here, in my own backyard, so to speak, where I know people and have friends living nearby, this is different. I scuttle along, head down, conscious of a large bus queue on the other side of the road. The door is open, and I push aside the beaded curtain and enter. Like any sex shop, it’s brightly coloured, too hot and induces in one a sense of unease and guilt. Inside a couple of blokes in suits stand back to back looking at the array of porno DVDs. Behind a high counter, perched on a high stool, sits a pale faced man with tattoos on his hands and knuckles, smoking a roll-up. Behind him is a TV screen showing one of his products – a porno film with a couple making noises of operatic proportions with various genealogical close-ups where cameras should not tread. How can one work with that behind one all day long? Does one become immune to it? Maybe we should try it at the office.
Hi, I say. Between us, on the counter, sits a display of brightly coloured vibrators, some which bend at peculiar angles, others surely too thick for your average woman to even contemplate.
Right. His accent his Irish, his voice bored. His fingers are heavily stained with nicotine. I venture that this man has never read our ‘Guide to Providing a Customer Led Service’, which I helped compose.
Do you sell Viagra?
Yeah. How many will you be wanting?
I glance up at the TV. God, that woman is flexible. Don’t know, to be honest, I’ve never taken it before.
Right. They all say that.
God, that man in the film has got some cock. I’ve seen horses with less girth. Oh. Well. I guess one will do.
He rummaged beneath the counter as the screams on the TV behind reached a new crescendo. I would hate it if Emily screamed like that; the neighbours would never forgive us. And surely that bloke isn’t going to put it there?
Ten pounds, he says, wrapping the blue, diamond-shaped pill in a twist of paper.
Ten pounds for one pill? It seemed very large as pills go. Should I take it all in one go? I ask handing over a tenner.
I wouldn’t; else you’ll have a hard-on from now to Easter. Just take half, or if it’s really yer first go, take a quarter. Anything else?
What? No, thanks.
You sure? We’ve got a new batch of anal DVDs, and a great one for Granny fuckers. And what about dwarves? You look like a man who likes a bit of midget banging.
What?! Most kind but I’ll give it a miss for now. Thanks anyway.
I left, walking briskly back up the pavement, head down, not wanting to look at the bus queue opposite, trying to shake my mind free of banging midget grannies.
Thursday, 3 January
12.45 p.m. I feel on edge all day; can’t concentrate. Even my work on absence monitoring hol
ds little joy. Lunchtime, I trot off to the library near work, library card in hand to choose my DVDs. A rather different selection from the one in the sex shop. The library’s only just re-opened and it looks great – spacious, clean, smiley staff, good stock, lots of PCs; a far cry from the library my mother used to take me to all those years ago, when the female librarians doubled up as prison wardens ready to pounce on you for the slightest indiscretion, quoting by-laws and pointing to a mass array of ‘DO NOT…’ posters. As I enter, the children’s section seems full of lactating mothers bouncing new-borns on their knees in time to a muted rendition of Incy-Wincy Spider. I pick out four DVDs, carefully chosen to hopefully have limited appeal for Dawn. Job done, I’m on my way back to work, hurrying against the cold, and as I pass by De Niro's, a familiar voice calls me back. It’s Paul, offering to buy me a coffee, and tempted though I am to make excuses I feel I can’t refuse his peace offering.
Settling down at the table beneath a poster for ‘Heat’, I opt for a small Americano and an apple Danish.
That’s a lot of DVDs you’ve got there, Rob. Planning a night in?
Something like that.
So, he says, after we’d dissected the weather, how did you get on with Dawn that night?
What do you mean?
You know, when she took you home. You both left fairly sharpish.
Nothing happened, I say, visualising her straddled on top of me on the bedroom floor, the khaki bra, the feel of her breasts in my hands. She drove me back and dropped me off outside my house; that was all. But look, Paul, I’m sorry –
Ah, don’t worry about it. All fair in love and war, and all that. Anyway, it was obvious she only had eyes for you.
Was it?
Totally, you lucky bastard.
Paul, you forget she’s married.
And so are you.
Oh yes, so I am.
You rascal, you. So come on, what really happened?
For a moment, a nanosecond, I almost tell him, a part of me wanted to, to tell someone, even moon-faced Paul, that I am falling in love with Dawn but just in time, at the last moment, I spot the trap and neatly avoid it. Like I said, Paul, she simply took me home. End of.
I believe you, he said in a tone that implied the total opposite. Well, whatever, he added. Good luck to you, mate, she’s one heck of a babe.
She is that! He shoots me a gleeful look. I mean, not that she does anything for me.
Yeah, right, and your blood runs cold. But don’t worry, mate, your secret’s safe with me.
There is no secret, Paul, just… just leave it.
OK, OK, I can take a hint.
5.15 p.m. I’ve stopped off at De Niro’s again, deciding that one Danish pastry is not enough sustenance for a day, and I’m forcing down a baked potato with baked beans and melted cheese, washed down with a cup of tea. But I’ve also come here to calm my nerves. I’ve been in a state of such high tension all day. Tonight, if things go according to plans, I’ll be committing adultery. Not something to value, not something to be proud of, but something I desire nonetheless. Perhaps if Dawn had been less beautiful, less sexy, less so damn nice, I wouldn’t be in this situation. But to me she’s what Bo Derek was to Dudley Moore in ‘Ten’ – Dawn is my ten, my interpretation of perfect femininity. I think of Emily, and I know I love her, and will always love her, but I feel helpless in this pursuit of perfection. It controls me.
Making sure no one is watching, I reach for the diamond-shaped pill in my pocket, and remembering the words of the Irishman in the sex shop, I bite it in half and swallow it down with a gulp of tea. I’ve never taken Viagra before and hope it has the desired effect. Then after a few moments of deliberation, I think, bugger it, and take the rest. So, I’ve taken the Viagra; had something to eat; got my DVDs; and had a little time to myself. Haven’t been able to calm my nerves but I don’t think anything could. And now it’s time. Time to go.
I was pleasantly taken aback by the reception I received on arriving at Dawn’s flat. On opening the door she flung her arms round me and held me some time, nuzzling in my neck, whispering, I’ve so missed you and It’s so lovely to see you again. In the kitchen she asked if I wanted anything to eat and seemed relieved when I said no, but I did say yes to the glass of port.
She led me through to her living room, which I didn’t get chance to see last time. Painted pale blue and infused with a soft orange light, as elsewhere it was impeccably tidy, with a few landscape paintings hanging from the wall, a photo of her mother and step-father, and another of her and Duncan on their wedding day; a low glass-topped table in front of the TV, piled with a few glossy magazines, and in the corner a writing bureau with a laptop, and next to it a small rack of CDs. She sat down on a brown leather settee, and patted the cushion next to her, inviting me to sit. Sipping our ports, she asked after my Christmas, and I of hers, and asked after everyone at work. Then she enquired about the DVDs.
I showed her: This one is a European art-house film; this one an old classic; this a worthy British film; and this one… I don’t really know. Directed by… I read the name. Werner Herzog, whoever he is.
God, I love Werner Herzog’s work.
Oh, fuck, do you?
He’s brilliant. Good choice, well done, Robbie.
Yeah, right. A good choice.
She took a sip of port, swilled it in her mouth, then reached over and kissed me, a syrupy kiss that gave me an immediate, extremely hard erection, aided, I guessed, by the Viagra. But just as I was falling under the spell of desire, her telephone rang. I hoped she wouldn’t answer it. She did. It was her mother. She spoke half in English, half in French. Meanwhile, my hard-on remained firmly in place, almost painful in its strength, pressing against my trousers. Dawn motioned for a top-up of port which meant I had to get up from the settee and sidle along, trying to disguise the tent-like shape in my pants.
Are you OK? she mouthed.
Yes, I whispered. War wound.
She giggled. Pardon, maman, vous disiez?
You speak French to your mother? I asked once we were both settled back down on the settee. We spoke of our parents, and slowly, very slowly, the tumult in my pants subsided but the desire in my heart burnt undiminished. I watched her as she spoke and found it odd that I should be here, dazed by her beauty, awed by the yearning that stirred within me. And the path that had led me to this point had been all my doing, a step-by-step approach that had opened up before me at my command. I’d never expected it to be so free of obstacles. Yet here I was, a step away from consummating what had gone before.
She was still talking, but of what I don’t know, when I took her face in my hands and kissed her gently. She smiled at me, looked coy. I reached out for the port and took a fortifying sip, then kissed her again, my hands feeling the outline of her breasts. Oh, Robbie, she breathed. Don’t stop kissing me; your kiss, it’s so…
Hmm?
So… just kiss me.
I did, again and again. And as I did so, I slowly unbuttoned her blouse. I cupped her bra, pale green, and kissed her neck. I could feel her heartbeat. I reached behind her back and with surprising ease overcame that great male obstacle – the bra strap. The bra fell away and my stomach clenched as my eyes beheld her breasts and those wondrously dark nipples…
I’m not sure about this, Rob.
That’s fine, we don’t have to, I said, lying.
We can kiss though, can’t we?
Yes, of course, just kissing.