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The next day, I wonder if we’ll ever have a repeat performance. And it, and Paul’s dick, does arise at some point over the weekend. When the following day arrives, I don’t even feel like I’ve had sex. My muscles may as well be numb. There is no passion and, trust me, I’ve tried. But it’s work; the bills, mortgage…this, that…meetings, conferences, stress, frustration, job dissatisfaction. Like me, Paul finds similar excuses. I’ve sometimes wondered about his excuses and whether he’s been faithful; he doesn’t have the energy for regular pursuits, like…walking to the shops. He’ll drive to the liquor shop, which is five minutes on foot. It’s the way of the world, I guess. As things are, he hardly gets time to drive his new Saab. What is a two minute drive to keep the engine humming. This is the thing: people prefer to keep their car engines humming and ignore their core needs or, like me, take incredible or incredibly stupid risk to satisfy their primal instincts.
From Sexyman 431
“Let me eat you…”
It’s when I’m at my mother’s Tupperware party that my heart pounds with anticipation. Despite the dullness of eight hardcore housefraus vying for new kitchen containers, that mum ensures are ‘new and improved,’ I sit and eagerly wait for the party to reach its conclusion.
At some point, probably when mum’s friend Janice discussed meat containers, I remembered the mobile phone in my handbag. Its internet capability flashed in my head. I excused myself and visited the bathroom. After firmly planting my ass on the covered toilet seat, I fished out my phone to check my profile messages.
The direct message reaches into me. My stomach flips and my pulse immediately quickens. Sexyman 431’s message leads me by my pussy. I think about cunnilingus. How can I not think about it when faced with a direct statement? I also consider my dying sex life at home. When was the last time Paul offered oral sex? Even during the last throes of sex, he’d prefer direct penetration, a few customary thrusts and a climax. Mind, he expected to be orally pleasured as foreplay, often using the pathetic argument about men and their different biological needs. Such needs required direct foreplay techniques, whereas penetration was sufficient for women. This was Paul’s view of it all.
I don’t wait. I urgently type out my cheeky message:
“As long as you don’t mind my southern baldness. When can we meet?”
Corny –but effective. Sexyman 431 must be glued to his Blackberry or laptop. A response hits my phone within ten minutes and shortly after reading his reply, I begin to feel the first ripples of excitement; my skin prickles and the light sheen of perspiration coats my cleavage. His response:
“More room for me to lick, kiss and suck. Tomorrow. I need to speak to you first.”
Instead of asking ‘Why doesn’t Paul talk this way?’ I wondered how fast I could get out of my mother’s house.
“Call me now,” I typed.
As clichéd as it may seem, the wait felt like forever. Imagine being cloistered in one’s mother’s bathroom, holding one’s breath for fear of having one’s thoughts read.
Nothing.
Two minutes on and I sat staring at the phone.
I returned to the living room and too my position among the housewives as they marveled at newly designed containers and colors. It was then that the phone rang. The women glared at me. I feebly made my excuse.
I raced out to the porch and breathed into the phone. At least regular fucking would improve my fitness, I thought.
“Hello?” I said in my put-on quasi porno voice.
“Guess who I am.”
“I don’t think I have to guess now, do I?” I said.
“My name is Tom.”
“Nice to meet you Tom.”
“Care to reveal your name?”
My mother raised her penciled brow. “Your husband? Doesn’t he know where you are?”
I nodded. “He does now.”
At the back of my mind, a voice told me not to push my luck. Using my husband as an excuse to leave would only drag me further into the awkward urn of lies. One lie would lead to the next; a silken web would form and engulf me.
Whether I killed time at my mother’s or waited at home, the hours could only crawl by until my much awaited meeting with Tom.
(2 B Cont’d)
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