

## GREATER

## EXPECTATIONS

**A NOVEL**

## Alexander McCabe
Greater Expectations

Published by Alexander McCabe

Copyright Alexander McCabe 2014

Smashwords Edition

February 14th, 2015 version

The right of Alexander McCabe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written consent of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claim for damages.

This is a work of fiction and, as such, any reference to any persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

The author accepts no responsibility nor liability for the information contained herein including, but not restricted to, any and all persons, websites, places, work premises and establishments. The inclusion of such does not, in any way, constitute an endorsement or association by or with the author nor the content, products, advertising, or other such materials presented by such persons, websites, places, work premises and establishments.

Artwork by Kirsty C. Maclauchlan

For Marie
Table of Contents

Start of Greater Expectations

Chapter 1 - Statistics

Chapter 2 - The Algorithm Of My Heart

Chapter 3 - A "Chat" Becomes "The Talk"

Chapter 4 - An Exceptional Stereotype

Chapter 5 - The "X" Factor

Chapter 6 - Motherly Love

Chapter 7 - Pugilistic Tendencies

Chapter 8 - Caught Between "Rocky" And A Hard Place

Chapter 9 - To The Manor Born

Chapter 10 - The Lady And The Tramp

Chapter 11 - Blindsided

Chapter 12 - Penny For My Thoughts

Chapter 13 - Black Friday

Chapter 14 - The Wedding Crasher

Chapter 15 - Wishing I Was Lucky

Chapter 16 - Deaf, Dumb...And Dumber!

Chapter 17 - PussyQuack69

Chapter 18 - Orgasmic

Chapter 19 - The Highlander

Chapter 20 - D-Day

Chapter 21 - Mistress Fiona

Chapter 22 - Cut Off Without A Penny

Chapter 23 - The Marital Carousel

Chapter 24 - Dad

Chapter 25 - The Joke To Recovery

Chapter 26 - April Fool

Chapter 27 - Heartbroken Heartbreaker

Chapter 28 - Enabled In The Disabled

Chapter 29 - Usurper_Of_Fate

Chapter 30 - Desperately Seeking Susan

Chapter 31 - Lost In Translation

Chapter 32 - Douglas McElroy

Chapter 33 - Stupid Cupid

Chapter 34 - Penny Wise

Author's Note

Prelude

About the Author
1

### Statistics

Wednesday 7th January

I derive an absolutely ridiculous amount of pleasure from reading any statistic that places me firmly in the minority. Not those statistics that would see me placed in the "Ted Bundy" or "Fred West" categories you understand?

No, not those.

_Never_ those.

Those are the sort of statistics that make you wonder who and why anyone would want to compile statistics? Rather, those other statistics that imply that you are in any way "normal" or "average". Is it not simply abhorrent to think that you could ever be categorised as such? Worse still, who would ever want to be considered as "normal" or "average"? It's a concept that irritates and irks me no end. The very idea of it. Everyone is an individual and, as such, we are all of us special and unique.

Well, almost all.

As that most eminent of philosophers Dr Seuss said, 'Why fit in when you were born to stand out?'

So there was I sat in my truck cab enjoying the first of undoubtedly many coffees and reading today's newspaper–as I am inclined to do from time to time, such is my want–when I stumbled across such a statistic. One of those solitary, soulless, single sentence side column statistics that suck the very life from you and are there for no other reason than to fill out the page of the newspaper.

This particular nugget stated:

" _Statistics show that today is the day, and January the number one month, that most couples–especially those with children–are likeliest to separate due to overspending throughout the Christmas period."_

I mean, come on. Who wants or needs to know that? Not only is this a depressing statistic in its own right but, worse still, they actually integrated it within an actual league table.

A statistic within a statistic.

As the rain relentlessly pounded against the cab, my mind wandered to contemplating those unfortunates sat at their breakfast tables reading this very statistic. Spouses who were blissfully unaware of exactly how much had actually been spent over the Christmas period and, as they did so, this coinciding with the very moment that the mailman was dropping in their credit card statement. In providing any merit to this statistic, then it now validated an option that they had not even considered in the very seconds before reading it. Worse still, should their partners also read this innocuous little paragraph, then it presented them with the very same option too.

If it were me, I'd have binned this newspaper immediately and so withdrawn any such option for my partner.

Sipping my coffee, my mind now drifted to imagining a loving couple that had awoken that very morning, content and happy within the stable familial relationship that they had created and ready to face the day together with all the challenges that it would bring. Here, now, there is suddenly this very real option to separate. Those options can play with your head. It would be an option that would certainly play with _my_ head. Especially if the credit card bills were what I deemed "excessive". Yet, I have no idea what such an "excessive" figure would actually be. Naturally, I began to wonder exactly what that mysterious cut off amount is that so determines the financial value of a familial relationship.

Quite literally, the true cost of family.

It can only be imagined that such a figure would have to be relative to the household income - a percentage of their combined earnings maybe? There must be a statistic about it. Now that would be a statistic that I would actually be interested in.

How curious.

However, today's statistic presents neither nice thoughts nor good options, especially for those who woke up in just such a secure and happy state of mind. It is the last thing anyone wants nor needs to read in an already throwaway society that focuses more on material possessions than familial ties.

It was a spiteful, horrible, and just plainly mean statistic. It served no real purpose and was subject to way more consideration from myself than it merited. It was a statistic that I read and re-read before I realised that it had brought the biggest smile to my face. No longer was such an option available to me as I had happily separated the week before and so was delighted to be firmly entrenched within the minority.

Delighted?

Really?

Hardly.

Who was I kidding? I was raw. Isolated, alone, and confused. Being completely honest, I was utterly devastated and distraught.

Apart from all that, I was just fine.

Well, except for the questions. They float around in my head – incessantly, day and night – a constant interrogation of myself. All those questions that torment every single person going through a break up where love was involved. What did _I_ do wrong? What could _I_ have done differently? Could I have done anything more to make us work? Could I have saved our marriage? Was that my burden alone? Indeed, could I still save our marriage? Could I have been more supportive financially?

Emotionally?

Physically?

I didn't want to be any part of this statistic. It had made me re-evaluate my own self worth and my value within the relationship and I hated it for that reason alone. I had trusted my wife and now loathed myself for doing so. My trust had been used and abused and cast aside like a dirty rag. This knowledge generated almost every negative feeling and emotion I have ever known. Never have I felt so powerless or weak.

I will _never_ buy this particular newspaper again.

I had wholeheartedly believed that when we married we had each other's backs. We were the epitome of the old cliché, we two had become one. I had certainly believed it and yet I despise myself for deriving such great pleasure from this statistic for the mere fact that it makes _me_ happy.

Not _us_ happy.

_Me_ happy.

It just serves as evidence to prove how desperate I am to regain my sense of self, my sense of identity, as quickly as possible. This statistic had given me the smallest of victories and I was going to savour every last moment of it.

I _may_ just buy this newspaper again.

The banging on the cab door startled me and brought me crashing back to reality as my natural reaction saw me jump from my seat. Actually, I very nearly shit myself. I looked down through the rain to see the smiling face of Mike Taylor– _who else?_ – "Alright son?" He seemed to be planted beside my driver's door and was looking straight up at me. His eyes were barely open, fighting against the torrent that was attacking his head and cascading off the end of his nose.

He was a pitiful sight but, to me, never has there been one more welcome.

"What the fuck are you doing standing out there? Get yourself in the passenger side you daft twat! Why would you ever stand there in this rain waiting for me to tell you that, you eejit?" I shouted this through the window as there was no way I was opening the bloody thing.

I might get wet.

He ran around the front of the cab and as he climbed in he said "Never again son. I was presumptuous that way once before and so never again will I ever jump in the passenger side of another man's truck without telling him first, just so he knows. I used to just jump in carte blanche, without giving it a second's thought, but not now. Not no more."

It was great to see Taylor, drenched as he was. Just what I needed to break my gloom. I knew that there was a pearl of a story coming and it was made all the more exciting because I just could not imagine what had happened that had made him so blatantly refuse the mundane action of jumping into another man's passenger seat.

A friend's passenger seat at that.

"Well son, you see..." And we were off. We both knew that there was more than a touch of "poetic license" in his stories but that really did not matter–does it ever? In actual fact, experience told me that this particular practice was to be encouraged in him. His imagination ensured that it only added value to his tales.

Anyway, why let the facts or the truth get in the way of a good story?

It transpired that he had been working as part of a two truck convoy system running stone chips for resurfacing work on a quiet country road back home in Scotland. It was approaching his lunch hour when he saw his companion's truck already parked in a lay by and there was enough space for his truck too. So he took the opportunity to take his break and have a catch up at the same time _"...two birds with one stone thinks I, son."_ Parking in behind his colleague, Mike jumped out of his own cab and nipped down the passenger side of his mates' truck.

In one motion, he opened the cab door and started to climb in.

"Then it happened son. As I was climbing up, I said, _"Alright Tam, how's thing...."_ Glancing in, I froze on the step, halfway in and out with my hands on each guide rail and one foot now dangling. For inside I saw that he was sat on the edge of the bunk–between the driver's and passenger's seats– _giving himself a treat son!_ As I looked at him, he looks at me, then we both looked at his cock. It's only then that I see that he's actually on the fucking _money stroke_. At that point, he literally puts his thumb over the end to try and keep it from spurting.

As God is my witness son, that is the truth.

There was me, still hanging in his passenger door and he was just...well... just sat there with his trousers at his ankles, cock in hand and his _porridge_ oozing all over his thumb. That whole scene is emblazoned in my mind son." As he concluded, he cast his gaze solemnly out the window and beyond the rain.

"That image will live with me to the grave."

Oh how I needed this very story. It seemed that Mike was more reliving than retelling the memory and was deeply uncomfortable with it, yet this just made it all the more hysterical to me. I was laughing so hard I was crying. The tears seemed to flow all too freely as one. I knew–but he didn't–that they were a mixture of my own personal tragedy and his comedy. At that moment, I simply could not have cared less. I just savoured the moment.

Another small victory for me.

"So what did you do then?" I had to ask. His answer was completely unexpected although, knowing him, it shouldn't have been. I'd known Taylor long enough to expect the unexpected, especially in the oddest of circumstances–which he often finds himself in–and where he applies his own unique brand of logic.

I'm certain that there is a decent research paper in the logic of Mike Taylor.

"What could I do son? I mean, I didn't want to _embarrass_ the man. We had been friends for years." A wistful look fell about him as he continued. "We aren't friends now right enough. I mean, how do you remain friends with a man after you have seen him wank, far less come?" There was a malevolence in the way he said this that left me in no doubt there was a punch line to follow. Fighting to compose himself, he turned towards me and started laughing as he said:

"That friendship was ruined in the blink of his Jap's eye!"

I could tell it had been a punch line that had been refined over the years of retelling this story but it was my first time hearing it. It felt like a full five minutes before I had stopped laughing enough to let him continue.

"So I sat down and took my full hour break in the passenger seat, staring at a single spot through the front window. Time seemed to stand still son. I can assure you, that was the longest fucking hour of my life. You know when they say that the loss of one sense drastically increases your other senses? They are fucking right son. Sitting there, everything I heard seemed to be deafening. The wet wipes being pulled from the box as he cleaned himself off. Him pulling up his trousers and doing the button. The sound of his zipper reverberated around the cab, thereafter he meekly settled back into the driver's seat.

All in silence.

After the hour, I just said 'Well, see you later Tam.' He mumbled some sort of goodbye although I couldn't hear him properly as I was jumping out as fast as humanly possible."

As a driver, not as a wanker you understand, I find it impossible to comprehend why Tam would not have locked the door and pulled the curtains in his cab when engaging in such a pastime. One of the two at the very least. Such naivety was so baffling to me that I had to ask, "How old a man was Tam, Mike?"

"Och son, he was a few years older than me. In fact, it was only three or four months later that Tam retired."

"Well I can imagine that was an excruciating time for you having to work with him. I guess the embarrassment was too much for him?" I thought I was stating the obvious. How wrong was I?

"Tell me about it son. It was excruciating and really quite draining having to keep avoiding him. Yet it wasn't the embarrassment that caused him to retire. No, he was forced to retire due to severe arthritis in his hands." Taylor's reply was said so seriously and with such a straight face that it was evident that the irony was completely lost on him. That made it all the funnier to me. My laughing prompted him to ask, "What's so funny about that son?"

"Taylor, you seriously don't see the irony in Tam's enforced retirement?"

It only took a second when the penny finally dropped and he cracked up. "You know Son, that was over 15 years ago and I never gave it a thought until you mentioned it now." He reflected on this for a moment, then continued. "His arthritis is bad mind you. I saw Tam only once after he left. It was a good few years after his retirement, at the funeral of a mutual friend, and his hands were all gnarled and tight. All I could do was just gave him a friendly nod. There was no way I was shaking his fucking hand though son, not after what I had seen. I was painfully aware of where it had been. It all came flooding back in an instant–if you pardon the pun."

Taylor brought me crashing back to reality as he quickly changed the topic. "So what's new with you son? Did you have a good break? Give the wife a good seeing to I hope. Your sack must have been heavier than fucking Santa's!"

The implication was both crude and accurate and it forced me into a smile. It was impossible to take offence with Mike as I know that is never his intention. He is just full of life and fun. I also knew that I was in need of a friend just now, one that was completely biased in my favour and who would see everything my way. I didn't need someone telling me it would "work itself out" or "every relationship has its ups and downs".

I didn't need Taylor the work colleague.

What I needed was my friend Mike.

I also realised that I hadn't actually spoken to anyone about the break up. I guess I had just needed the time to let it sink in and get used to the idea of being single again. Now I yearned to talk but not here.

Not now.

This wasn't a conversation to be had at work. "I'm fine. Here, are you around later tonight for a drink? I could use a chat. I just need someone to listen."

I couldn't disguise the plea in my voice.

I was the one now staring straight ahead out of the cab window. I couldn't look at him for fear he would see right through me. I couldn't handle that look. That look of pity. I didn't want pity. I just wanted that reassurance that I hadn't been overly rash and that affirmation that he would have done the exact same thing. Confirmation that my decision had been an enforced one. That there had been no alternative, no choice for me. I needed to find my dignity. _Fast._ Facing Taylor at that moment would have submitted any dignity I had left as I knew I was crumbling internally and barely holding it together externally. I could feel his stare. He was trying to read my expressions, trying to understand the situation.

"Is everything okay son?" The question was out before he realised that it obviously wasn't. To his credit, he quickly let it go and moved on. "Sure, I'll be around for a drink and a chat. Say 8? It's a great excuse for a pint without the wife." He smiled like an errant child. "I best get off and get some work done for a change. I'm not like you, I can't sit around all day doing nothing. See you later son!"

I watched as he opened the door and jumped out the cab, closing the door in one fluid motion. He must have perfected this from his "alone time" with Tam.
2

### The Algorithm Of My Heart

Wednesday 7th January

As a subscriber to the notion of fate, I am obligated to believe that the concept of _falling in love_ is somewhat preconceived and so all that is demanded is patience on the individual's part. My general understanding being that love will find you if you cannot find it. However, like most men, patience is not a virtue that I seem most blessed with. This is especially true at this particular point of my existence where I am feeling completely stagnant in practically every aspect, and so it would seem that life is simply passing me by.

Existing is definitely not as much fun as _living_.

Yet, as a man, I am not supposed to be looking for love. That's not what us men do. We are supposed to be aloof and indifferent to the very notion of love. Love means committing yourself to one person, mentally and physically. But we are men. As such, we are there to play the field and have a woman in every town. The only thing that supposedly scares us is the fear of such a commitment.

So all men are bastards. At least, in my experience, that is the generally accepted maxim within the female sphere. Yet all women love a bastard. This is the generally accepted maxim within the male sphere. Admittedly, I have been a bastard–it would seem all men have at some point–but only in as much as it was measured by those individual females who branded me so. Yet it is never acknowledged that men love the female bastards just as much as they love us.

It has certainly been true in my case.

It's the intrigue of it all and that complete disassociation, that complete lack of control, that we actually enjoy. At least, I enjoyed it anyway. Us men love being in control and when there is a strong willed, free spirited or, worse, a completely indifferent woman who ostensibly agrees to a date with the utmost reluctance, we relinquish that control–however temporarily –and it is _intoxicating_. In my experience, women love to be pursued and wooed almost as much as men enjoy the pursuit and wooing. _Strong women_ is the generic umbrella title conferred upon such ladies, branded almost. However inappropriate that may be is open to question.

When first I met my now estranged wife during our Master's year at university, I was seeing someone else too. In the main, this defines me as a "bastard", although I preferred to think of myself as a "player". Indeed I would argue that it falls under the guise of "sowing wild oats". That's the phrase that makes the practice somehow acceptable, and mothers the world over tell their sons that this is what they need to do before they settle down. The rite of passage into manhood as it were. At least, it's what my mother told me. Women may argue this point–sorry, women _will_ argue this point–but then they become mothers.

Naturally, they just don't want those "wild oats" sown with their own daughters.

However, it is a fallacy to think that we men are completely heartless. I realised that I actually liked the girl that I eventually married so quickly ended all contact with the third party. In actual fact, she was a girl that I had been seeing first but only by a matter of a few weeks. I got the usual tirade of "bastard" texts, emails, and drunken voicemails. "I thought you were different" being the obligatory phrase that she just had to use during every one of these "opportunities". In one particular instance, during which she also branded me a "coward", I foolishly responded. I explained to her that I was merely being cruel to be kind as it was blatantly obvious to me that there we had no future together. Furthermore, after everything that had been said and done–more on her part now than mine–she would surely realise and accept that there was no going back as any trust and respect that had been built was now completely shattered.

I got the following reply:

" _See, I knew you were different. That was lovely, you thinking of me and my feelings and us and our future. Why can't we make this work? We can, you just have to trust yourself to trust me. Call me."_

It took another six weeks of ignoring and blocking her before she finally gave up. We had only been dating, if it could ever have been called that, for three weeks.

It takes true courage and bravery to finish any relationship. As my marital separation was only a week old, I understood that there may be some element of hope that we could fix it and move on. Yet I knew there was no way I could, or would, allow myself to stoop to such a level of indignity. My sense of pride has taken a pounding and is undoubtedly battered and bruised, but it is still there, standing tall and intact, however weakly. It is also getting stronger with every passing day.

All thanks to "Hope".

"Hope" is a very strange feeling that displaces others such as "confidence", "faith", and "trust" and one that I have naturally gravitated towards my entire life. We are old friends, hope and I. Never have I dared to have "confidence" in my academic or sporting abilities, rather I always "hoped" that I would perform at my best as necessitated in any particular circumstance. When things had gone better than I had even dared "hope", then I defaulted to the notion that is was merely my "good luck", and vice versa. "Luck" has always provided me an excuse for all of life's highs and lows and everything in between. Now I wanted to change all that. Now I wanted to control my existence.

Now I wanted to stir the stagnant pool that is my life proactively to feel like I am _living_ again.

So that may well explain why I am now sat in only my boxer shorts in front of my computer, as the rain batters the window behind my curtains, and trying to focus on completing an online dating profile that includes a "personal statement" section. Apparently, its purpose is to allow me to describe myself in as broadly generic terms as possible in order to seem "normal" and "average"–and so maximising my appeal–whilst also trying to ensure that I am unique enough as to stand out. The logic of the concept is irrefutable and yet fantastically ridiculous.

It is also proving so challenging to the point of being quite impossible.

As a truck driver, I work most weekends and so this job commitment removes the more conventional ways of meeting women. Using a dating site makes far more sense in this new age of technology as it allows for an immediate connection without the need to wait for the weekend, or the demand of a decent chat up line. It cuts to the chase, so to speak. The site has posted a statistic that states over 28% of couples now "meet" online, so I am still happily in the minority. However, it is utterly galling to me that I should ever try to be "normal" or "average" to anyone as I have never considered myself as such.

It seems to me to be morally fraudulent.

Online dating. It really is quite an absurd concept yet totally in concert with the modern era where people are too busy with work and life to take the time and make the effort for actually dating. Yet where is the romance of it? You will never hear a love song that refers to such sites. Can you imagine Rod Stewart singing "The Algorithm of my Heart", or some such like?

No? Me neither.

There is also the embarrassment factor. There is that very genuine fear of being recognised and so ridiculed for using the site in the first place. It matters not how, why, or who recognises you, the very fact that they do gives them the upper hand in the ridiculing stakes.

Furthermore, the "Personal Description" does nobody any favours in this regard as it is exactly what it says, _very_ personal. How can you possibly describe yourself positively without sounding vain or conceited? That conjures up the dangerous question–what do I think of myself? I know it is a question that I am not really prepared to consider, far less answer. Worse still, how do I complete it without the fear of those very same words coming back to haunt me?

It certainly presents me with a moral dilemma. I know that my haste to be dating again is a rebound reaction that would allow me to draw a line under my marriage. However, it is a completely selfish action. It would be completely unfair on anyone I were to meet, as it would be done under the false pretence of a potential relationship. I'm not prepared to be a bastard again.

Not just yet anyway.

Methinks it best to give this some serious thought and return to it later. This technological portal to your soul has actually caused me more confusion through the cunning simplicity of its questions. Who ever knew that online dating sites could be so personally intrusive? I happily close the laptop to the online dating realm that has left me more questions than answers to go and get myself ready to meet Mike.

" _The Algorithm of my Heart..."_ Great, now I have that bloody Rod Stewart song playing away in my head.
3

### A "Chat" Becomes "The Talk"

Wednesday 7th January

One of the many delights of staying around Hatfield in north London is that there are quaint little pubs that seem to have originated from the dawn of time. They have the open fires and solid timber beams that span their ceilings. I would say what kind of wood but I am completely ignorant of such matters. I am certain that such ignorance is not mine alone but people rarely admit when they know nothing about something. They are beautiful ceilings nonetheless and so often invoke conversation. In such circumstances, I tend to go quiet and follow the lead of the conversational instigator, nodding and agreeing as appropriate whilst simultaneously endeavouring to change the topic as quickly as possible. If this is unsuccessful, I revert to my default position and head for the bathroom whether I need to or not.

It is just such a pub that is our local.

Thankfully Mike was already there when I arrived and we exchanged the usual pleasantries and briefly engaged in the obligatory insults as Scots do. It settled me and I appreciated it. You see, Scotsmen cannot just be "nice" to each other. We are raised to be combative, especially in conversation. Verbal jousting as it were.

Actually, Scots women are much the same.

I remember once being on a night out with a few of the lads back home and one of them was taking abuse from a one night stand that he had wanted to keep quiet. She wasn't so keen on his strategy and was rather upset that he hadn't called. In the throes of her verbal assault, she simply could not resist playing the trump card for all women in these situations.

" _Well I'm glad anyway because it was so small I could hardly feel it."_

This is both hurtful and embarrassing to any man. However, it is somewhat understandable that she adopted this stance in order to protect her own honour. In such a situation, if the guy has any sense, he will ignore the slur in the knowledge that no good can come from engaging with the antagonist. My friend exercised just such sound judgment.

However, I could not.

Such was his embarrassment that I felt obligated to defend my him. As she was sat smugly with her mates I said, loud enough for all to hear. _"It seems that what he said about you was true. If you can regard him as 'small', then you obviously do need tie backs for your beef curtains."_ You have to be able to take it if you dish it out. Thankfully, they drank up and left immediately thereafter without any further fuss.

Her friends being equally benevolent and exercising a similar obligation.

Rather than taking our usual spots at the bar, Mike and I ordered our drinks and found a quiet corner where he got straight to the point–as usual. "So what happened son? You seemed really excited about going to her folks place for Christmas."

Mike is a great guy and exactly the kind of friend you need when going through a break up. A straight-talking Scot from the Western Isles whose eyes have seen over twenty years more than mine. He has travelled the world over and his face honestly and openly displays all the scars of having done so. His hair is cropped so short that he could so easily be mistaken for a skinhead yet completes such a wonderful look of malevolence. However, he is the exact opposite. Warm and kind with an incredible ability to find the humour in even the most innocuous of situations.

He had left his wife at home so we could have our chat but we both knew she would be regaled with the entire details later. I would have done the exact same and his doing so really meant nothing to me just now. Not now. Now I just needed a friend and here he was.

My friend.

Mike knew the background to my situation. He knew I had only seen Gemma twice in the five-month duration of her EU internship in Brussels. I usually called her "Gem" but reverted back to her full moniker as it seemed to make things that much more impersonal. This afforded me some distance from her, both emotionally as well as physically. I had always thought it perfect calling her "Gem" because that was exactly what she was to me.

At first.

At first she had been dazzling, hypnotising, brilliant, precious, sparkling and wondrous, everything you would find in any valuable gem, and I just had to have her. Not now, not anymore. Now she was "Gemma". Mind you, that was only when I could bear to say her name at all. Even if it was only in my head, saying or hearing her name felt like an ice cold dagger through my heart. As if the mere acknowledgement of her name somehow allocated some of the responsibility of our separation to me.

I could not accept that.

I would not accept that.

I could never accept that.

Now I far preferred to think of her as simply "her". In so doing, it ensured another small victory for me. Small victories were hugely important to me just now and I needed them all, every last one of them.

As you would expect, her plans had been great at the beginning. _"I can catch the Eurostar and see you every other weekend, we could have fun exploring the bright lights and full delights of London together"_ , but then it seemed that she had somewhat miscalculated what was expected from the position. She had certainly grossly miscalculated the cost of living, judging by the credit and debit card statements that were coming my way. I was barely able to keep us financially afloat.

"Are you okay son?" It was strange to be asked the question without a punch line, yet Mike was perfectly serious and looking straight at me. The longer he looked, the larger the lump in my throat seemed to grow and I could feel my eyes welling up. Catching gulps of air with as much dignity as I could muster, I simultaneously scanned the room through blurred vision to ensure that no one could see my face. My predicament. My emotion. I was fighting hard against it all. Trying to be a "man" about it all. Actually, trying to be a "real man" because, as the world knows, "real men" don't cry. We don't have these emotions. These emotions make us weak. Vulnerable. No, we "real men" toughen up at times like these. This is the perfect opportunity to demonstrate my mettle, to simply dust myself off and move on to the next damsel in distress.

I doubt I shall ever be a "real man".

"It's okay son." Mike could see the welling in my eyes, and I could see the confusion in his; "don't worry, just let it all go. No one can see us here and fuck them if they can." He whispered this in my ear as he draped his arm protectively around my shoulder. His head was practically touching mine yet his eyes were now darting around, searching for the slightest glimmer of judgment from those other patrons in the bar. His free hand clenched and ready to defend me from anyone brave enough to ridicule my predicament.

"Maybe a good fight is what you need" he said, only half joking.

A tear slid from the side of my right eye as I started to laugh, feeling foolish but comforted, all at the same time. God, I hated feeling so fucking vulnerable. I took a deep breath and let it all out. It seemed that Mike was with me on every twist and turn and up and down of my emotional rollercoaster. He responded with exactly what I wanted to hear at the times I wanted to hear them. Just as I knew he would. It was cheap therapy and almost enjoyable.

"I know it was wrong Mike, I know I shouldn't have read her email but it had been left open. I am now wondering if it was deliberate, given what I read. I mean, here am I putting any idea of a career for myself on hold to drive trucks in and around London, away from home, just to be within commuting distance for her. I relocated for her. I thought this was for _us_. These sacrifices were for _us_."

Quickly wiping the tears away that were now flowing all too freely, and finally surrendering any semblance of dignity, I continued.

"She had described the internship to me as an _investment in our future_. How it would look great on her CV and that could only mean more opportunities for future employment. When that happened for her, then we could concentrate on me. Hers was an opportunity that was here and now. I just couldn't say no to her, what husband could? Everything she had said made absolute sense. It was a reasoned and logical argument. How could I possibly say no?"

Mike knew that all my questions had already been answered by the mere virtue of my being there, both in London and in the pub. Wisely, he also knew that I now needed a moment to get myself together and so excused himself to get in another round of drinks.

Alone with my thoughts, it was the violent snap and crackle of the real fire that drew my attention to the hearth. I watched intently as the flames seemed to be individually dancing, although all together taunting me in wild celebration at my coronation as the "King of self-pity". I loathed these feelings that were tormenting me. It was then that I realised the dangerous similarities and kindred spirit shared between fire and the female of the species. Nurtured and cared for, they both can provide warmth, comfort, romance, and enlightenment. Untended and ignored, they can be enraged and cause destruction and mayhem with great pain through utter unpredictability.

As he placed the drinks on the table, Mike asked "So what burst the bubble son? Is it really over, there is no going back?"

"No, there is no going back mate. It's done. I read the email, I know that was probably wrong but..." I was still unsure if it was deliberate or not on her part, leaving her email open. However, the memory of it was still so fresh with every single word emblazoned into my memory. Try as I had on a few occasions already, it seems that no amount of alcohol would be enough for me to successfully purge it. The subject line was simply " _Your ASS..._ " and it then flowed into the actual email:

"... _was everything I knew it would be. So tight. I loved your cute little moans and wails as I entered and banged it. WHAT A FUCKING GREAT CHRISTMAS PRESENT! And he still has no clue?! What an asshole! And you thought he was clever? All your weekend 'assignments', he had no idea we were fucking for those whole weekends while he was working? I particularly enjoyed the meals we had that he paid for._

They were exceptionally DELICIOUS!!!

You take care and PLEASE keep in touch or, better still, come back for round 2. Fuck, I am sat here getting hard just remembering our last night and seeing myself over and over sliding in and out of your tight and cute little ass.

XOXOXO"

I had no idea how much I had actually said out loud. My focus was still upon my coronation celebrations in the hearth. I hadn't realised that I had also finished talking although my tears still continued to flow all too easily and showed no signs of stopping. I had been unaware of this too until Mike silently handed me a napkin.

"So I confronted her about it and, predictably, it's all _my_ fault. She launched into a tirade that included reprimanding me for demonstrating no ambition, no drive, no future plans whilst her career taking off. She asks me what I expected? There she was in Brussels surrounded by powerful career driven men and I am a mere truck driver and that's all I will ever be. Worst of all, she told me that she was embarrassed to have me by her side, to introduce me to her new colleagues, at her end of internship ball. She certainly wasn't too fucking embarrassed when she was spending _my_ earnings."

I could feel the anger swell within me. I had been angry before but that had given way after a few days to self-pity. Now I was angry again. Verbalising everything, something so personal, feeling that need to have done so, angered me. No man should ever feel that need to explain that his wife had been having an affair and, worse still, having anal when our sex life had been so one dimensional. It was predictable and methodical. I had tried to invigorate it but she had made me feel like a pervert for even suggesting oral. So I had resigned myself to a life of boring sex.

How foolish did I feel now?

Mike took his cue. "What a _cunt!_ " Ordinarily, I hate the use of the "C" word but, under the circumstances, I couldn't help but agree with him. He was winding himself up on my behalf and it was incredibly comforting. A true act of friendship. "You moved here from Scotland, bursting your hump driving trucks every weekend around London to support her and she's fucking some other cunt?" I saw the reflection of my own anger in my friend. It provided solace and consolation through making me feel that my own feelings were _normal_. "So what are you going to do now son? Where do you go from here?" He intuitively knew to take the conversation forward, forcing me to look to the future.

"Well I've had sex twice in the last five months so I'm thinking that's something of a priority." My machismo pride limped forward and weakly stood up for itself. I explained that she hadn't let me touch her when we had met again at Christmas and this was one of the reasons why I thought the email had been deliberately left open. "So, yes, my sack is heavier than Santa's." We both laughed. Longer and harder than the joke warranted but it broke the doom and gloom and I savoured every last second of it.

My trust in Mike is absolute and, as such, his opinion is important to me. So I thought that this was the ideal opportunity to broach his thoughts on internet dating, testing the waters as it were. "Actually, truth be told, I am half way through completing a personal profile on one of those websites." It felt quite ludicrous saying it out loud. The very idea that I couldn't manage to find a date by conventional means was quite a peculiar realisation. "Did you know that it accounts for around 28% of all relationships now, online dating?" _Why was I using a statistic to explain myself?_ "It is the easiest way for busy professionals to meet and date without having to wait until the next weekend in the hope of that serendipitous 'eyes across the room' moment in your local pub." Again, I am explaining myself with no idea why? Then it struck me, I wanted his approval.

Mike's response was a complete surprise and perfectly logical–wise almost. "You don't want to date son. It's too soon for that and it wouldn't be fair to you or any lassie that is genuinely ready and looking for love in a relationship. You have too much testosterone and sperm clogging up your brain. Give yourself time to get back on the horse son." He took a moment in silent deliberation, staring deep into the fire. Irrationally, I feared he was seeing my coronation celebrations. Considering all that he had just been told, his suggestion was initially puzzling but, on reflection, made perfect sense.

"No, what you want is a 'sex only' site son. Some of the boys have been using a site called "Supasexxx.com", or something like that. Get yourself on there and get laid. Have some fun for a change and take some time for yourself. You can be completely anonymous and comfortable in the knowledge that sex is all the women on there want too. Listen to me, you aren't thinking straight just now son. Just let things take their course with Gem but, in the meantime, get yourself laid and have some fun for a change." It was more of an order than advice but I knew he was right either way. "Better still, get yourself away for a few days and have some time to yourself."

I hadn't even given that a moments thought. Maybe a weekend break was exactly what I needed.

"By the way..."

Whenever Mike says "by the way" it always ends one conversation and almost always starts a ridiculously funny story. Tonight was no different.

Supasexxx.com was firmly locked into my head to be checked out when I got home. So was a quick search for a cheap mini break. It was Taylor's turn to take centre stage and I was happy to pass the baton. Now it was time to try to cheer up and enjoy being regaled.

He didn't disappoint.
4

### An Exceptional Stereotype

Thursday 8th January

It was after midnight when I returned home and flicked on the television as I made my way through the living room into the kitchen. It was an unconscious action that was done more out of habit than desire to actually watch anything. Especially tonight, as I had been teasing myself all the way home with the delights that awaited me on Supasexxx.com. The television provided a white noise that obliterated the silence that normally dwelt within the house, and this would be most welcome whilst I enjoyed my endeavours on the laptop. Who said men couldn't multitask? Then it happened, it penetrated my consciousness and demanded my full attention. One of the most famous lines in romantic comedy.

"... _I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her..."_

I immediately recognised the reflection of myself in the sentence and suddenly felt ashamed. I had hurried home completely focussed upon getting laid. I had never found it difficult finding sex in the past so I had high hopes from the site. Exacting my revenge on every girl that would let me fuck them. A little flirtatious chat and bang, the fucking. Fuck them.

Fuck them all.

It had all changed in that instant. A simple line in a movie made me realise that it was just that. It was _simple_. I was a mere man looking for a girl to love me, cherish me, no matter if I were a prince or a pauper. A girl who would love all of me, warts and all. It was Oliver Cromwell who had coined this very phrase. He had a hideously unsightly wart on his face and when he sat for a painting the artist omitted the wart. Primitive airbrushing. Cromwell refused to accept the picture as an accurate portrait of himself and told the artist to recreate his image "warts and all".

Suddenly, the implication of it all, my separation, the pain, the sleaziness of my current endeavour, all of it hit me hard and I felt my legs give way from under me. I slumped into the chair and watched the end of Notting Hill.

Again.

Everyone has a guilty secret that they are in some way ashamed to admit. Mine is romantic comedies. I love them. That whole notion of everything working out in the end and the living "happily ever after" with your true love and soul mate. There's a purity in this idea that provides comfort and solace. That semblance of a natural order in humanity and evolution. At least, it makes sense to me. Even now.

When the movie ended my thoughts returned to Supasexxx.com and I suddenly felt dirty. Too dirty. It could wait. It was for another time and another place. Another head space. Now it was the idea of the mini break that was more appealing to me–the more I thought about everything sensibly–than the idea of trawling for sex. The idea of Supasexxx.com was, in itself, fairly logical and Mike's theories for why I should join the site were sound. Yet the reality of it now felt altogether too seedy to me. I also felt some overpowering and perverse sense of marital duty to "her". I didn't feel free to explore these avenues. Not just yet. I was undeniably curious though so I decided to focus on the mini break idea before I did anything too rash.

A quick Google search turned up a hunting lodge at the entrance of the Auchtershinnan Estate in the Scottish Highlands. It looked perfect, with stunning scenery and plenty of outdoor activities including shooting and archery. A prudent check on the weather forecast showed that it was expected to be dry, bright, and milder than usual for a January. It was an exceptional deal for the complete lodge with all facilities included, so I fished out my credit card and hurriedly booked it before I could change my mind.

One of the benefits of being a truck driver working through an agency is that you have the freedom to decide when you are available for work. In London, the weekends are naturally our busiest period as this is when the company's full time drivers want to spend time with their families. As such, this is when we are paid the premium rates. Thankfully for me, my mini break started on the Monday through to the Thursday. It was ideal. One could say fate, almost.

I felt a sense of relief surging through me. A break. The crisp, clean Scottish air would do me the power of good and clear my mind. It could only help me put everything into perspective. I found myself wishing I was there already. An escape from the harsh realities of life and the stress of London driving. Parole from the attitude of the natives where they think that all truck drivers are to be subjected to their constant abuse. We are all just stereotypical truck drivers in their eyes. They seem to think that we have no other purpose than to get in their way. Obstructing the roads in our laborious juggernauts and impeding their day. We are merely sent to try their patience.

Unsurprisingly, the very idea of any stereotype is most disconcerting to me as, once again, it implies a certain amount of "normality" or sense of "average" within a defined category. Yet it is subject to universal practice that is, admittedly, usually derived from some modicum of basis in fact.

In terms of the truck driver, I understand and live the stereotype every day. The notion that we are loud, brash, ignorant, rough, and tough, who all suffer Tourette's to varying degrees is, I concede, true to some extent. I certainly epitomise most of the stereotype as a 6'4" Scot, ex nightclub bouncer and former rugby player who weighs around the 300-pound mark, and has no problems or issues with cursing and swearing. Actually, I rather enjoy it. Indeed, there are times when it is fully warranted along with the appropriate gesticulations.

Mind you, I am also of the controversial opinion that Tourette's was invented by a Scot. You see, we just have the perfect accent for swearing. Especially when pronouncing the word "fuck". That, blended with the shock value that it holds when used in the most inappropriate moments, makes it the ideal word for a Scot. Of course, this just plays to the stereotype.

Yet, the stereotypical truck driver is generally abused on the highways and by-ways for impeding what seems to be the most important meeting or event that every other driver in the world needs to be at _now_. Be they young, old, male, female, able or disabled, irrespective of creed or colour, one stereotype for the UK truck driver is seemingly universal.

We all masturbate.

At least, that's what they keep showing me with their hand as they pass. Maybe it's just me. Or maybe they are all confusing me with Tam? No? I guess it's just me then. Mind you, now I'm separated, it would be a fairly accurate and indisputable assessment of what is my only sexual option for the foreseeable future.

However, as with every stereotype, there are exceptions to the rule. As a truck driver with both undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in Law, I like to consider myself just such an exception. You see, gaining a truck driving licence at an early age made sense to me, clever almost. It allowed for flexibility with working hours, including nights and weekends, all whilst maximising my earning potential. I have always prided myself on a strong work ethic and being able to combine full-time study with, effectively, full-time employment was ideal for me. It was also fun. During my university holidays, I would drive trucks all throughout Europe and be away from home for weeks at a time. It was an adventure so what was there not to enjoy?

Not that my education has secured me a career. Rather all it has done is allow me to reasonably claim to be among the most highly educated truck drivers in the UK.

Still, the UK driving public see me as nothing more than a wanker.

I head to bed to make a vain attempt at sleep as I know I am up again for work in just over five hours. Sleep has not been easy found this past week. Here's hoping the thought of the mini break will overpower all my other demons, if only for tonight, and I can catch a few hours rest.

My head hits the pillow, let the battle commence.
5

### The "X" Factor

Friday 9th January

Is there anything more difficult in life than disliking someone who obviously likes you? You know, those people that jumped into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn't looking. I seem to be a magnet for such mutants and I have no idea how or why; I only wish I did so I could adjust my mannerisms accordingly to repel them. However, truth be told, there is endless hours of fun to be had toying with these people.

Morally questionable but fun nonetheless.

When people genuinely like you they tend to be more forgiving and so this allows the boundaries to be fully exploited and stretched well beyond what would be considered "normal" or "decent", all the while they just think you are being funny. This is a gift for someone like me as it provides me carte blanche to be completely outlandish, the more so the better as far I am concerned. In my defence, it's not to be particularly nasty nor malicious but just more for my own amusement, and almost always in the form of veiled insults.

Many a true word said in jest and all that.

One such person works in the agency office and, for some reason best known to himself, he seems to believe that we are kindred spirits. He is a proper London boy, full of the brash attitude and the Cockney accent, whose given name is "Richard" but goes by "Richie". This self serving moniker seems to be a somewhat foolish and altogether misguided attempt at finding a cool derivative from the name his parents lumbered him with, the poor lad.

Not that I am in any position to mock anyone for their name, far from it.

My parents decided that having a child was such a precious and unique experience, to them at least, that I should have a name reflective of such a belief.

Something wholly original.

To that end, they undoubtedly succeeded. They yearned for a name that could not be butchered, mutilated, or otherwise hacked to something short and presentable. They also wanted something, in their own words, that was "somewhat holy" as I had been a "blessing". It would seem that they took the full nine months gestation as a opportunity to consider and discard all the other names in alphabetical order, only to conclude that it was "Zacchaeus" that satisfied all of their needs. My parents somehow heard the name, read the parable and thought it perfect for me. It is painfully apparent that they never gave the consequences a moments consideration, that of my actually having to live with the name. Naturally, over the course of the 32 years since, I have never met another living soul that shares my name. So, as a means of revenge and to save having to fully explain my name to every person I meet, I shortened it to simply the initial "Z".

That is "Zed" as in the British pronunciation of the letter "Z", not as in the US pronunciation "Zee". _Never_ as in "Zee".

It's "Zed".

Thankfully, over time, my parents have come to accept it.

Richie is in his mid 20's and stands a shade under six feet and just over half my weight. I have no idea if it's my size that intimidates him or if he genuinely likes the abuse I give him. Seriously, I have no clue. To be fair, he usually tries to have a comeback but it rarely works out in his favour. I do know that he isn't gay and, as far as he is concerned, I am married so there is no sexual element to it. Yet, for some reason best known to himself, he always gives me the premium rate work and "looks after me" as it were. As such, I never saw the harm in keeping things friendly.

Until now.

The main problem with Richie is that he cannot be trusted. _Anything_ that is said to him, work related or otherwise, goes straight into the ears of the company management. This can be useful when you are looking to have a little fun by playing the game a little and manipulating things in your favour. However, this can also come back and bite you square in the ass. So Richie will always rank as an "acquaintance" rather than a "friend".

Whenever he calls and the conversation goes beyond the usual formalities, you know that he is fishing for information for the bosses. Particularly when he says, _"listen mate, between you and me yeah? A little bird tells me..."_ Such a person is always to be kept sweet, for they are usually dangerous and very indiscreet, with all interaction to be kept strictly to a bare minimum. The perfect example of keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.

It is truly infuriating that he is actually quite likeable.

My phone call was supposed to be short and sweet. A two minute effort to inform the agency that I was not going to be available from Monday through to Thursday. That's what it was supposed to be. As it was January, traditionally a quiet month work wise, I envisaged no problems. How wrong was I?

My call was answered at the end of the second ring. "Good morning, Aeolus Recruitment, here to drive your business needs. Richie speaking, how may I help you?" I swear I will never understand why companies insist on using these idiotic slogans for business promotion in answering a call to someone who is actually phoning them. I mean, what is the fucking point?

It really grips my shit.

" _Tricky Dickie!"_ I favoured calling him "Dickie" as it is kinder than "Dick", although that is what he is most of the time. It also has the added advantage of annoying him. In any event, it is easily explained as a term of endearment rather than an insult. Well, that's what I let him think anyway. "Quickly, tell me, what's 1 plus 5?"

"Eh...eh...oh, oh, I _know_ this..."

I love doing this to people. Ask them a quick and simple question but with the tone of haste and urgency, as if it's somehow important. He finally blurted out "SIX!!!" with a combined sense of triumph and pride.

"Correct, and that's as close as you are ever going to get to losing your virginity. Was I gentle enough for you?" He always falls for it. Only last week I caught him with the most obvious wind up I've ever done. I told him that I was suffering a hangover after drinking a new cocktail, the Mattabooboo. I could barely say it without laughing and was really struggling to hold it together when he predictably asked "What's a Mattabooboo?"

I exploded _"nothing Yogi!"_ then collapsed into a heap. I really shouldn't have though, as my mother always told me never to torment children. After a while, they will inevitably bite back.

"Ah, straight to the abuse, no prizes for guessing who this is." He seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me. "How are you mate?" It was a question that would ordinarily have led into a full on conversation but I wasn't in the mood for a chat. I just wanted to let him, and so the agency, know my availability and get off the phone as quickly as possible.

"I'm fine my young friend. Just phoning with my availability for next week. Or, rather, my lack of availability for next week. Count me out for Monday through to and including Thursday my good chap. That should give you some free 'alone time' to sort out your... _ahem..._ 'love life' and so perfect your left hand technique to the same high standards as your right." My own good cheer actually surprised me and was not reflective of my inner turmoil. Even the mere thought of this mini break seems to be working already, it was a promising omen.

"Oh yes, very good Z, very good." He was beginning to sound exasperated and flustered yet I knew he was merely killing time whilst thinking up a retort. Perfect, just what I wanted. "You do know that I have a girlfriend?"

"Yes, I heard you got a new one for Christmas. Is she still inflated? You have had it for a few weeks now so I guess you need me to pick you up a puncture repair kit? You do know that donuts aren't, in fact, anal moulds right? Just so we are clear for the next time I'm in the office and you offer me one. I just want to clarify that you don't use them for 'practice' and give them your own special 'filling'..."

"Yeah, yeah." I knew he was trying to think of something witty to say but failing miserably.

"Come on Richard. No response? 5 second rule applies, no reply in 5 seconds and you're done." I was actually beginning to enjoy this. He gave up and quickly changed the subject.

"So why are you unavailable? What are you up to?" Thinking there was no harm could come from telling him, I explained that I was off to enjoy myself in the Scottish Highlands and got a little too carried away in my enthusiasm with the lodge, the facilities, the delights that were in store for me. I never paid much attention to all of Richie's questions. "So you have the full lodge just to yourself?"

"Yes, of course. I keep telling you Richie, it's all about style. You think 'Style' and 'Grace' are two contestants on the fucking 'X' factor. Listen to me, I am going to do you a favour and give you a wee life lesson now. You just sit yourself down and get comfortable. Here it comes. You ready? This is it coming, just for you, a wee lesson that is nothing short of profound. As such, it is simplicity itself." I had built it up beautifully and then paused long enough to know I had his full attention, then I concluded.

"All the money in the world cannot buy _class_."

In this, my moment of conceited triumph, I had gotten too carried away and never saw it coming. I should have saw it coming, but I didn't. Richie caught me squarely unawares and I had said "yes" before I had given it a second's thought. It was no more than I deserved.

He might be "Richard" but I was the dick.

"Here Z, that sounds fantastic mate. If I got booked on the same flights and split the costs of everything, would you mind if I came too? You see, I worked my arse off over Christmas doing extra days and on call at nights but they want us to take days off in lieu rather than paying the overtime so I have plenty of leave."

"No worries mate, that would be a proper laugh. Lad's trip away." It was said without thought and certainly without conviction. Surely he was just being polite and filling out the conversation. _Surely_.

"Great, well I shall get going and check out the flights. Talk soon." The line went dead.

_Wait...what the actual fuck is happening here?_ It was only now that I realised he had been serious. Blaming the sleep deprivation, I berated myself for the rest of the day for not having a quick retort that would have let him down gently whilst saving face for us both. I also kept asking myself why he wanted to come along with me in the bloody first place. Surely he would realise this too and think better of it.

Me and my big fucking mouth.

He texted me within 20 minutes of the call and told me he had everything booked, flights and the okay from work, and was good to go. Quite literally. So much for my time alone.

Bugger. What a tangled web fate doth weave.
6

### Motherly Love

Saturday 10th January

As a man, I like to think that I am completely independent and need nothing nor nobody. I am sure that every man does. Yet we are not always just men. We are husbands, brothers, uncles, fathers, and grandfathers. We endeavour to be equally independent in each of these roles. Sometimes interdependent but always independent. However, it's only as a son, that we can never and are never completely independent. Certainly, I know that I will always need my mum. Not my mother. My mum.

I have enough worldly wisdom to know the difference.

I heard tale once of a truck driver who was a friend of a friend. He had just returned from Europe and was clearing HM Customs at the Port of Dover when he was questioned about his passport. The Passport Control Officer was apparently quite young and looked somewhat inexperienced and had challenged the driver as his passport stated that his hometown was "Scotland" and that his home country was "Scotland". Quite understandably, the young officer suspected the passport to be fraudulent and relayed this concern to the driver. Under normal circumstances, such authorities demand the utmost respect. As such the driver's response was not at all what he expected.

"Are you a fucking idiot? You are obviously straight from the training centre. Get someone with real authority down here now to save us both from further embarrassment. You fucking knob."

The officer, taking none to kindly to the response, demanded an immediate apology and went through the motions of cautioning the driver to mind his manners and to respect his authority. Again, he was met with a similar response although, this time, it was said with such anger and volume that it attracted the attention of the officer's superior.

The superior, in response to his enquiry of what was going on, was shown the passport and told of the young officer's suspicions. He agreed entirely with the younger officers suspicions and advised the driver to park up his vehicle and surrender himself into custody. He too was branded a _"fucking idiot"_ and the driver refused to move until someone with real authority came to the booth to remedy the situation.

As tensions rose, the on duty head of the Passport Control Office was called. She duly appeared and was informed of the proceedings and the young officer's assertion–he had seemingly taken confidence from his immediate superior and replaced it with arrogance–that the passport was definitely fake. She promptly ordered both her underlings to return the passport to the driver and that they should both issue unreserved apologies for the embarrassment caused to him. She also asked the driver if he wished to report the incident. The two officers were completely perplexed although they begrudgingly apologised as instructed and the driver was allowed to leave the port.

After the driver had gone, the more senior of the two officers was fuming at being so openly undermined in front of both the driver and the young officer and demanded an explanation. His superior officer waited a moment in the vain hope that he would eventually understand. Seeing that he was so arrogantly convinced he was right, she savoured the moment a few seconds longer.

Then she patiently explained.

"There is only one instance on a passport when the 'city of birth' can be entered as the same as the 'country of birth'. That is because giving the precise city, in accordance with the correct date of birth, allows for adopted children to trace their real parents. You should have known that. You are both arrogant _and_ ignorant." She paused for effect, then continued. "However, most of all, the driver was right on two counts. You did embarrass yourselves and him."

As she turned to walk away, the reprimanded officer couldn't help but try and save face. He was a mid level career officer who had obviously fulfilled his potential. She had never liked him as he was a bully. A bully whom she had covered for numerous times in order to save the dignity and integrity of Her Majesty's Passport Control Office that she so passionately cared for and believed in so deeply. She was waiting for it as she walked away. He didn't disappoint.

"What else was the driver right about?"

"Pardon?" She had heard him perfectly well but knew he wouldn't let it go. Now, halfway across the room, everyone had stopped working and all eyes were upon them. It was her chance to put him in his place once and for all.

" _You_ said 'the driver was right on two counts' and then stated that it was merely embarrassment to both us and him. "Embarrassment', in itself, is only one count. What was the other count that you claim the driver was right about?" He sat back smugly, wrongly believing he was the toast of the office.

"Ah yes, the other count." She made her way out of the office and just as she got to the door, looked back over her shoulder and said loudly enough for all to hear. _"You are a fucking idiot!"_ She had a smile on her face as she heard the office erupt in laughter as the door closed behind her.

So your mum is the woman who raised you, not merely the woman who gave birth to you. These are not always one and the same person. It is understandable that there are some people who have difficulty making the distinction.

Fortunately for me, my mum was also there at my birth.
7

### Pugilistic Tendencies

Saturday 10th January

My mum is like every other mum. She is unique. As with every other mum, she can most often be a pain in the ass but she has always been there with full-bloodied support, even in those rarest of occasions when I am wrong. As a man, I distinctly remember the last time I was wrong. It was a Tuesday in July 1991. Okay, that was a joke.

I would never admit to being wrong so recently.

It had been over a week since the separation and so I was long overdue a call to my parents. I should have called earlier but I just didn't want to lie or be dismissive. I didn't want to farcically say that everything was "fine". Especially when there would be the full on inquisition later when such deviance was finally discovered. Now seemed like it was the right time and Mum answered on the first ring. I only noticed as it was unusually quick.

"Hello son, how are _you_?" Mums cannot hide when they know you need them. Dads can, quite easily. Well, that is my experience anyway. It was immediately obvious to me that Mum knew and it caught me completely off guard. Could it be that I was actually looking forward to telling her about it myself? Dissecting every last detail? No, that wasn't it. I could never tell her about the email. How do you tell your mum about _that_? No matter how close the mother-son bond is, there are some things that are sacrosanct. The thought of that conversation quickly played out in my head. Now I was distinctly uncomfortable and feeling my face flushing red with embarrassment and I hadn't yet said a word. It was most peculiar. I found myself wanting to hang up without so much as a "hello".

Definitely odd.

"Son, are you there? Are you okay?" The panic of overplaying her hand was in her voice and just confirmed to me that she definitely knew.

I took a deep breath but I was completely deflated. "Yes Mum, I'm fine. You obviously know so there's no point pretending otherwise although I am somewhat confused as to _how_ you know?"

It transpired that Gem was functioning at a far different level than me and, somewhat obviously, not for the first time. She had invoked some damage control measures that included calling my parents in a state of distress and telling them that I had walked out on her and she had no idea why. Could _they_ talk to me? Could _they_ reach me? She had begged them to call her if they find out anything. She was worried and all she wanted to know was that I was okay. She really wanted to make the marriage work and now I had gone and left her without any explanation. What could she do? She was prepared to do _anything_. Maybe counselling would help?

I was in a state of shock as I took this all in. _Fucking counselling?_ I was utterly disgusted that she had stooped so low yet reluctantly acknowledged to myself that it was a stroke of genius, as she knew I would _never_ tell them about the email. Yet, I was disgusted nonetheless. Involving my parents? That was a new low and I would never have done such a thing. Both of my parents are the types of people that worry when they have nothing to worry about. This just gave them a focus for that worry and all the stress that would incur.

"We only need to know that you are okay and if it is really over? Anything other than that is marital business and so none of ours and we have told Gemma that. I'm sorry but it was as polite as I could be under the circumstances son. We know it simply has to have been some fault or failing on her part and I'm certain you will tell us if ever we need to know. Otherwise, just know we are here for _you_ , and worried about _you_."

Curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask. "Mum, what makes you so sure that it's her fault?"

Her answer was one only a mum can give.

"Well it stands to reason. I know you, as you are _my_ son. I gave birth to you. I have always been here for you and I have known you all of your life. You may be living away from us but you are never far from me. That's a mum's instinct and it may well be explained and summarily dismissed by some scientific logic or another but it's all very real to me." It was all true and I couldn't explain it either. Mum also recognised that she had taken us into a conversation cul-de-sac and so quickly pressed on with a change of tack that required some input from me. She was worried. "Besides, why else would she phone us if she wasn't the guilty party? You would have called first to ensure that we were fully prepared for such a conversation." We both knew what she was saying was wrong but, like every good mum, she was giving me the option to save face for not calling.

That's what mums do. Even when they know that their child is completely in the wrong, they allow them to save face. This is equally applicable in relationships. Men are stubborn and full of pride. As such, we would rather lose a perfectly good relationship than concede that we were actually in the wrong and I know because it has happened to me.

I was once in a long-term relationship with a great girl, Rebecca. We quickly hit it off and were soon inseparable. One Saturday afternoon, she had received a text message when we were together. She had started to laugh when reading it and told me that she had been contacted by an ex trying his luck. I immediately got jealous and defensive and so over reacted. On reflection, it was an over reaction in a way that was quite shameful really. Rather than taking a drive to calm down, I wanted to know everything that had been "going on". She had tried to reassure me that there was nothing in it and he was just trying it on. I called her a liar and told her it was over. Done.

It was the last thing I wanted.

It's true what they say, pride before the fall. She accepted what I had said and let me go. I never heard from her again. Obviously, we had even more in common than I thought. If Rebecca had given me the option of saving face then I am sure we would still be together. All I had needed was a few days to realise how stupid and futile I had been. If she were then to have sent me a text asking if I wanted to stop being a fuck up and apologise, I would have grabbed it with both hands. She didn't and I am still saddened by the memory. Embarrassed too, actually, when I think about it as I was too stubborn to send the text myself. There is no doubt that I _was_ being a complete fuck up. She should have known that. As they say, life goes on.

Her loss as they say, although it certainly didn't and still doesn't feel that way.

I don't know whether it was the festering resentment from the memory of my relationship with Rebecca, or if it was my mum's reassuring support, or it could have been my anger at the very fact that Gemma had involved my parents. Maybe a mixture of them all. Anyway, whatever the reason, I unloaded. I told my mum every single detail. Why should I be embarrassed for _her_? For _her_ email? By _her_ actions? It wasn't me that Mum would consider perverted.

Well, as her son, please God let her think it's perverted.

And disgusting.

Yes, Mum should definitely think it disgusting.

As I told her, I left her in no doubt that I thought it disgusting and perverse. Thankfully, she took my cue and wholeheartedly agreed. I am not entirely sure if I believed her or if she believed me but we both said what the other wanted to hear. That was good enough for me and I shall never contemplate this particular conversation ever again.

There was an awkward silence when I had finished. I felt drained. Again. My tender and loving mum, such a gentle soul, obviously sensed my emotional frailty. Yet something within her clicked. Something I had never witnessed before. Never even heard tale from her before. She got angry. Angry in that most natural of ways that only a mum can when protecting her child.

"Listen to me son. Don't you _EVER_ let _ANYONE_ draw you down. _NEVER_. You keep your head up and roll with the punches." I immediately recognised the boxing metaphor and understood the implication but I had never in my life seen nor heard my mum display even the slightest interest in the sport.

"Remember who _YOU_ are. _YOU_ are _MY_ son and as long as I draw breath, I am here for _YOU_. _NEVER_ forget that.

I love you. We love you. Your family loves you. _NEVER_ forget that either. Unconditional love son. Unconditional.

Come home son. Give yourself a break and spend some time with your family. Those that love you. You need time to heal. Time to evaluate where you go from here." Her offer was said almost as a challenge. Yet not so much to me as a challenge for herself to fix her boy.

I was in a state of shock. I hadn't expected this tirade of support. I managed to pull myself together enough as to tell her of my plans for my mini break and how I needed some "me" time. She seemed to understand and accept my decision although _"you really should just come home where we can look after you and we would give you all the space you need."_ Then she let it go. She had made her point and she knew me better than to push it. However, I don't think that she would have been so understanding if she knew Richie had invited himself along. She said her goodbyes and then I heard the line go dead.

It seems I wasn't to be allowed to speak to Dad...
8

### Caught Between "Rocky" And A Hard Place

Sunday 11th January

Perhaps I had taken Mum's boxing advice a little too literally by changing my mobile phone ring tone to "Gonna Fly Now" from "Rocky". Not that it made any sense to anyone else but I liked that it reminded me both of my mum's fully committed support and that I should never "let the bastards get me down" to coin a phrase. Also, I liked the whole notion that it was a private joke between Mum and me. In reality, only me as Mum doesn't actually know and, even if she did, the relevance would be completely lost on her.

So an intensely private joke to be shared only with myself–the very best kind.

I had given no thought nor heed to the actual volume that may be reached from my mobile phone when set in the "loud" mode. This issue was compounded when considered that I often prefer to drive trucks without the radio playing, especially in and around ye olde London Town. This is due in no small part to the fact that my concentration needs to be at such a level that I cannot properly focus on the music and so it soon merges into white noise. That and the other fact that it's so difficult to find the actual music in between the adverts, news bulletins, weather reports, and whatever "fantastic" competitions they happen to be running that day.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise that I very nearly had an accident–both with the truck and in my pants–when the punchy tones of what seemed to be the complete Brass Section of the Philadelphian Philharmonic Orchestra came blasting out from my phone. This, combined with the ringing in the earpiece of my Bluetooth headset, ensured that the "Gonna Fly Now" ring tone was only ever used that once. My own joke had backfired on me and I somehow felt betrayed.

I was becoming paranoid.

It was an unlisted number, rather strange for a Sunday afternoon. Instinctively, my first thought was that this must be Gemma calling. That would have just completed my misery. It could also be work related. I answered without fully thinking it through, I just needed to stop the bloody cacophony echoing through the cab. "Hello?"

Surprisingly, an elegant and sophisticated female voice responded. "May I speak with Mr MacLeod please?"

"This is Mr MacLeod" I responded in a tone that relayed my confusion.

"Mr MacLeod, good afternoon. I am Lady Munro of the Auchtershinnan estate and I am so very sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon but I'm afraid that I have some unfortunate news." It transpired that the lodge house that I had booked was now no longer available for our stay. There had been two men from Glasgow who had been staying there until today and, last night, they had both gotten drunk and had a fight. One man had pushed the other through the glass coffee table and so there was blood all over the living room, rendering the lodge house unfit for the purpose of our visit. Bloody typical. Quite literally.

"So I guess this means my mini break is now cancelled your Ladyship?" My exasperation must have been palpable.

"Oh good heavens no. I am ever so sorry to have given you that impression Mr MacLeod. No, what I was rather hoping would be agreeable with you would be if we could instead entertain you as our guests in the main house? We have ample accommodation and this would ensure that you are nearer the facilities being that the lodge house is at the estate entrance and we are some two miles further down the glen."

More agreeable? Was she joking? This was fantastic news! Obviously only to me and not so much to her Ladyship nor the Glaswegian man who had taken the dive through the coffee table. There were bound to be others within the house and so I wouldn't be left with Richie all on my own. I told her that this would be just fine and l very much looked forward to meeting her in person.

"Oh that is most gracious of you. By way of apology for the inconvenience, we shall send a car to the airport to collect and return you. Is it only yourself we can expect or do you have any guests?" I confirmed Richie for a second room at the inn and found myself falling under the spell of her vernacular and silently thought, _"chin up old boy"_ as we said our goodbyes.

Now to change that crazy ass ring tone.
9

### To The Manor Born

Monday 12th January

Ours was a late afternoon flight and everything had gone well enough with Richie offering to pick me up and paying for the car parking at the airport. It was the least he could do, apparently. Well, one less thing for me to concern myself with.

As promised, the estate car was there to meet us upon our arrival and a thoroughly enjoyable drive down to the estate ensued. I parked myself in the passenger seat and proceeded to enjoy a thoroughly decent blether with our chauffeur. He was, after all, a fellow professional driver. He was a worldly wise older gentleman who told me that he would ordinarily introduce himself as "Jamieson" to his normal clientele, but we could call him "Andy".

It was Richie's first time in Scotland and he seemed truly hypnotised by it all. It always makes me proud to see others enjoy my country and appreciate its delights as much as I do. As such, he was unusually quiet for the duration, focussing more on the scenery. This was particularly true as we were passing Loch Ness. I caught him in my peripheral vision staring quite intently, scanning the length and breadth of the loch, searching for the "Beastie" as she is known to the locals.

I simply couldn't resist.

"You know Richard, it's a well known fact around these parts that the monster makes an appearance twice every single day?" I surreptitiously winked at Andy in response to the quizzical look he had shot at me. Not that it mattered as Richie hadn't taken his eyes from the loch and so would never have noticed anyway. Instantly understanding, Andy took my cue and followed my lead.

"Aye, that's true right enough laddie" he said, in a casual yet wonderfully wearied matter of fact manner, the way a grandparent does and that leaves no room for doubt.

"Really? Twice every single day?" Richie had taken the bait and thrust his head between our seats, as if we were co-conspirators about to reveal the secret of the loch.

"Oh aye Richie boy, twice... _every...single...day_." I drew the sentence out as much as I could and left a pregnant pause that was just long enough to build up the punch line, "5 minutes before you get here and 5 minutes after you leave!"

It seems that only old Andy and I thought this funny. Richie's mood took a turn that would probably be best described as a proper "huff" and he never said another word for the rest of the journey.

We passed the lodge as we entered the estate. It was quite beautiful and obviously old. It was easy to see that its original purpose was as a gatehouse to ensure no unwelcome visitors made it down to the main house. It looked more like a cottage from a fairy tale with its quaint little windows and crooked chimney. I knew from the website that it had wonderful views but only now could I properly appreciate just how idyllic it actually was. I felt a sense of sadness to be passing rather than stopping here. To make matters worse, there had been a pub a mere mile before that was now out of our scope. No real chance to drown my sorrows and truly wallow in my own misery.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

My gloom lifted the further we drove down the glen. It felt great to be enveloped within the rolling hills and moody skies that makes my country "home". The incessant drizzle merely added to the ambiance and somehow made it just perfect.

Somewhere deep down inside, my heart began to sing.

As we sneaked around the final lazy bend, the house came into view. There had been no pictures of this on the website and so it was a pleasant surprise to see what could only be described as more like a "castle" than a "house". It had turrets on its four corners and each one rose to a point, way higher than that of the main roof, giving the rather fitting impression of a crown sat upon the splendid structure. Instead of the usual white or weather beaten grey that these buildings tend to favour, this was a softer and altogether more feminine cream.

Somehow it made the house look like a home.

As we approached, Andy told us that this was her Ladyship herself that had opened the front door and was now stood there ready to greet us as we exited the car. My best guess would be that she was maybe early 30's, but experience dictates that I really am hopeless at that sort of thing. However, she had an undeniable beauty combined with a wonderful elegance that made me suddenly feel somewhat self-conscious. She confidently strode forward and proffered a perfectly manicured hand and introduced herself. "Mr MacLeod, I am her Ladyship Penelope Munro but, please, call me Penny. One really cannot be bothered with all the pomp and grandeur of the title."

It was not lost on me that she said this _after_ using the title in her introduction.

She continued. "Please let me take this opportunity to apologise once again for the inconvenience and allow me to formally welcome you to the Auchtershinnan Estate." Her hand worked in unison with her words and swept dismissively in an arc from left to right in the general direction of the horizon. The inference being that all we could see fell under the purview of the Estate.

I tried to quickly skip through the formalities of our own introductions. If her grandiose introduction was intended to intimidate me, I found that it was working, suddenly feeling both awkward and uncomfortable. It certainly put me "off kilter", as my old mum would say. I introduced Richard as "Richie" to save any further upset to my travelling companion, foolishly believing that he would take my lead and let me introduce myself as simply "Z". Oh how wrong I was. After making fun of him in the car, this was his ideal opportunity to exact revenge–no matter how small or insignificant it may be.

As is always the case when I introduce myself as a plain "Z", people are intrigued and so enquire further. It is somewhat understandable and Penny was no different. However, under normal circumstances, I simply stick to my guns and obstinately restate my initial as my name without the embarrassing explanation. So it began, "Your name is 'Z'? A simple 'Z', like in the alphabetical letter 'Z'?" I merely nodded lazily to each of her successive questions, hoping the frown that adorned my face relayed my exasperation. "How wonderfully enigmatic. Forgive me, I had assumed that it was an initial that stood for a longer name when I saw your booking form?"

Well this was awkward. I stood, rocking on my heels and still nodding almost apologetically, pursing and throwing my lips from side to side and fighting the urge to whistle, looking in every direction but hers. The blood rushed to my head and I could feel myself blushing like an acne riddled pre-pubescent teenager. My face felt like it was suddenly on fire and I desperately yearned for the sanctuary of my room. Ordinarily, I would have rudely and indignantly demanded to be shown to our rooms.

However, that was certainly not the behaviour a lady expects from a gentleman.

Lost as I was in the moment, it was Richie who seized the initiative. "It stands for 'Zacchaeus' Penny." His look of triumph made me cringe even more, if that were at all possible. Not content with this small victory, he continued "Don't worry though, I never thought it was a real name either. I had always thought that a 'Zacchaeus' was some sort of tropical fruit." He roared with laughter at his own joke that was, admittedly, rather funny although it only served to further increase my own discomfort.

There was no denying that he had his revenge and it was no more than I deserved.

As the laughter died away and I was about to suggest–more plead–to be shown to our rooms, Penny responded in a way far better than ever I could have hoped for. "Ah Richie, how London must have seduced you with her heathen ways. Unless I am very much mistaken, it's Luke 19: 1-10 is it not?" She looked at me for some sort of clarification. I had no clue if she was correct or not but I was enjoying the crestfallen look on Richie's face at being so openly mocked with a fact. Here was yet another attempt at ridicule that had backfired on him. I made a mental note to give the poor fella a break–obviously not just now–as Penny continued. "If memory serves, 'Zacchaeus' was a tax collector in the time of our Lord. A man short on stature but of considerable wealth, he lay high in a tree waiting to see Jesus. He was actually called down by name by the good Lord himself whereupon he repented for his sins. Something like that anyway."

Turning her attention to me, she concluded "I can see why you prefer simply 'Z', 'Zacchaeus' really is quite a mouthful."

Now, under any other circumstances, I would not have been able to resist the obvious joke. I had to, quite literally, bite my tongue and was actually quite proud of my own unusual restraint. Richie, on the other hand, not so much. He seemed determined to recover some modicum of dignity, even if it meant trawling the depths of the seediest barrel and being completely inappropriate given the present company.

"It says on many a toilet wall that our own Zacchaeus here _is_ quite a mouthful Penny!"

_Oh my dear God in Heaven, take me now!_ I could have died with embarrassment. He really was as much use as tits on a fish. Miraculously, I managed to compose myself enough to fire him a furious look that told him not to say another bloody word.

Not...another...fucking...word.

"I'm sure it does and why would I have any reason to doubt it?" I could not believe Penny had actually said it. Immediately my eyes shot from Richie to her and, in that moment, I am all but certain that I actually caught her take a quick look at my crotch, a wry smile complimenting the twinkle in her eye.

How wonderfully bizarre.

"Did you write it Richie? Jealousy is such a curse you know." She winked at me as she said it. This woman is quite the minx. At long last, Richie took the hint and stood quietly, suddenly finding a fascinating spot on the floor that demanded his full attention. Penny also let it go and continued. "So, gentlemen, here are your choices. We have 8 free bedrooms. 2 are double en suite, there are 2 twin rooms, a double, and the rest are singles. Take your pick."

I didn't need much time to think as it was so obvious to me as to not even constitute a choice. I jumped straight on it. "Well I'm sure I speak for us both when I say we would each like a double en suite if that's okay?"

Penny started to reply. "Certainly Z. Let's show you where..."

Suddenly Richie interrupted her mid sentence. "Here, Z, lets think about this. You see, that's 2 big rooms that we would each occupy. That's an awful lot of work for the cleaner. So, what I'm thinking is, we should just share a twin room. Then the cleaner only has one room to worry about."

It wasn't lost on me that I was back to being good old "Z". However, I had no clue what the fuck he was talking about? The cleaner? I turned to Penny. "There's no issue for the cleaner if we have an en suite each, is there?"

"Not at all. Please, feel free to use the en suites. Rest assured gentlemen, there is no issue with the cleaner nor anything otherwise." She moved to get our respective keys.

For some reason, Richie couldn't, or wouldn't, let it go. "Z, you're just being selfish now and Penny is just being kind. Realistically, for the sake of the cleaner, lets just share a twin and be done with it. No more said." There was a firmness to his tone that I wasn't liking. He was also embarrassing us both in front of Penny, who had turned back with a quizzical look on her face that merely reflected my own confusion.

I needed to take control of this situation and end this nonsense. "Richie, I'm on _my_ holiday, a break, and I want _my_ own privacy so I _am_ having an en-suite. You do what you like."

"Z." His voice had lost all of its earlier confidence and was suddenly...–suddenly what? –was it pleading? There was certainly the hint of a tremor, "for the sake of the cleaner, lets just share a twin. Come on mate, _please_ , be reasonable."

Then it hit me. Richie was a London boy through and through. He had never been anywhere so isolated far less as creepy as this huge house two miles down a secluded glen. This was Psycho meets the Blair Witch Project for him. The stuff of nightmares. All at once I felt sorry for him and it was obvious that Penny recognised his fear too. This was a time to allow him to save face and not play on his insecurities.

Time to be a friend.

"Here mate, I'll tell you what. You are so concerned with the cleaner, why don't I take the en suite and you can have the room next door. That way the cleaner just goes straight from one room to the next. Does that work for you?" It was with the greatest reluctance that he agreed and we were finally shown to our adjacent rooms.

As you would expect from a house of such stature, and with respect to its location, every door throughout the place seemed to be at least two inches thick and made of solid wood. They also had their own locks that were located on the back of the door, rather than contained within it, with keys that were much too large to be of any real purpose. It was absurd to me that they had to be at least two inches long before they even tickled the actual locks. Where were we ever going to keep these? Whilst they were quaint in their own way and a throwback to times long gone, they were completely impractical in this modern age.

Certainly impractical for carrying in my trousers; unless I needed a crutch in my crotch.

The en suite was quite resplendent and fit for any member of the aristocracy. At least, that was my humblest opinion, not that I would have any experience of what they would expect. As I sat on the bed to take my shoes off, I heard the heavy and definitive "clunk" of the lock being engaged in Richie's room. He really was scared. Well, at least he would be safe enough with the door locked.

It must have been a full fifteen minutes later when I was lying on my bed and flicking through a magazine when I heard that "clunk" again. This time it was followed by the patter of bare feet scurrying rapidly along the hall in the direction of the bathroom.

Ah, the delights of having an en suite.

Maybe it's my vindictive nature or maybe it was a festering desire for revenge on Richie for trying to embarrass me in front of her Ladyship. Who was I kidding? He had totally embarrassed me in front of her. Maybe I resented his inviting himself and actually being here with me. So many maybes. All I know is that this is a golden opportunity that I could not resist and one that I was going to have some fun with.

As stealthily as I could manage, I scampered from my room and entered his. The room opened out to my left with the bed as the centrepiece. On the wall that housed the door, there were built in closets with slat finish, with just enough of a gap between to see through. I secreted myself within the unit immediately beside the door and left a gap of around three inches. My greatest challenge from then on was fighting to stifle my laugh. Behaving like a child and thoroughly enjoying myself, I wondered if this was simply my own immaturity or if this kind of prank ever gets old?

It wasn't long before Richie's feet came racing along the corridor and into the room and, once again, as soon as the door was fully closed, he locked it. Although he wasn't yet in my line of vision, I heard everything, including the now familiar "clunk". As he came into view he was walking around the bottom of the bed and over towards the window. Then I witnessed the most peculiar sight, he actually started _talking_ to himself.

Oh my good God!

" _Right Richie, okay, that's you in for the night. The door's locked."_ He cast his eyes back towards the door, pointing at it and checking it was still locked. _"Yes, the door is definitely locked. You are one storey up."_ He was at the long velvet curtains now. He pulled one of them back and peered out into the darkness. _"I'm glad I'm not out there tonight. You can't see the hand in front of your face out there. No, this is perfect. There are no drainpipes for anyone to climb up."_ This seemed more of a question to himself as he looked around the edge of the window frame. _"No, no drainpipes Richie old boy and, anyway, your window is locked. If they want to come in this way, they will need to break the window."_ He walked away from the window and back around the bottom of the bed. He continued, _"If they break the window, think of the noise. That would have Z in here in a second. He would surely hear it and that wee door is nothing for the big man. No, he'd smash that no problem."_ He walked in front of the slat cupboards. _"No worries Richie, you'll be fin..."_

This was my moment. I threw my hand out through the gap and caught the top of his arm, at the same time I screamed _"RICHIE!"_ in my very best Vincent Price voice. His eyes were the size of saucers, with the full whites visible around his pupils. Falling backwards, over the bottom corner of the bed, his arms and legs were flailing about in as wide circles as he could muster. I really have never seen eyes that wide. Whatever he was saying was altogether lost within the strange, high-pitched whine that he was emitting.

I simply collapsed inside the cupboard. I ended up with actual physical pain from laughing. His fear gave way for bravado and his threats followed me as I left his room, "I will get you back, you bastard. Mark my words, I will get you back. You see if I don't. If it's the last thing I do, I will get you back..."

They were empty threats. Even at that moment, we both knew that nothing he could do to me would ever surpass this.
10

### The Lady And The Tramp

Wednesday 14th January

A quiet word after breakfast on the Tuesday morning was all that was needed to let Richie know that this was not a conventional "lads weekend" for me and that all I had been after was some alone time away. In fairness, he took this better than expected. He quickly forgave my prank and even apologised for his uncouth "toilet" gag, he obviously recognised that he had embarrassed himself with this. He is a decent enough lad who seems to have learned a lot during our short time away. Evidently one thing he had certainly learned how to enjoy was the long walks down through the glens and appreciate the tranquillity that it brings. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed his company and found that I now actually cared that he had a good time.

It's not until you have that level of enforced intimacy do you truly realise what a person is really like. Richie is actually a good guy who is just too eager to please. He is caught up in that "career" idea where he believes that kissing ass is the only way to scale the ladder. I gently pointed out that, with our agency being so small, this strategy doesn't actually help one way or another as by reporting directly to the owners, he has already topped out. All kissing ass did was to make the drivers wary of him and so ensure that he is deemed untrustworthy in our eyes. It was a harsh truth that visibly shocked him, being told so bluntly, and I know that the past few days have given him time to reflect and contemplate his own path.

In some way this trip must have been fate for him too.

This being our last night, we had each excused ourselves and retired to our rooms rather sharply after dinner. Thankfully, Richie had garnered some courage and now seemed far more comfortable in his new surroundings. Although, that said, there was still the familiar "clunk" from his locking the room door, now both upon entry and exit. That key went everywhere with him, a valuable lesson learned methinks.

Unless, of course, he was using it as a crutch for his crotch.

It was after 9pm and I was thoroughly engrossed in my reading when my phone began to rapidly vibrate, dancing wildly on top of the solid wood bedside table. It would be an untruth to say it hadn't spooked me somewhat. In all honesty, it scared the crap out of me. I grabbed it but managed to contain my instinct to throw it against the wall. Failing miserably in my efforts at composing myself, my heart pounding in my ears, I saw it was a text from a number that was not in my contacts nor did I recognise.

" _Z, it's Penny. Would you care to join me for a nightcap in the Drawing Room? I have a nice single malt that would be wasted without good company."_

The very fact that there was no mention of Richie was not lost on me. I knew she had my number from my booking but there was no way she had Richie's, and so he could only be extended the invite through me. It made the request all the more intriguing. She considered me _"good company"_? I was undeniably flattered and found myself feeling like an errant boy at boarding school, sneaking around in the dead of night trying not to be caught. It took a full five minutes to tip toe in the darkness from my room and down the main staircase. It wasn't until I saw the faint lights from under the Drawing Room door did I dare to stride out as normal with all the confidence I could summon. Well when I say stride, it was more akin to scurrying.

This really was a creepy old house.

My heart was still pounding in my ears as I rather deftly opened the door and stepped inside. Peering deep into the abyss towards the source of light, a soft voice calls back at me. "Ah, there you are. I thought I must have had the wrong number or, worse still, you were simply going to ignore me." There must have been over a hundred eyes in that room yet, against all the odds, mine successfully managed to find the only other live pair. Penny was sat in an ornate leather chair next to the fireplace with what could only be presumed to be all of her ancestors staring at us from every wall. From what I could tell, there did not seem to be too many looks of approval at my being here. Although there was only the two of us, it felt like I was a gladiator ready to enter the arena, into the throes of a hostile crowd. My hand seemed glued to the door handle as I stood rigidly beside it, ready to run at the first sign of trouble.

"I do like your T-shirt" Penny continued, the Empress completely at ease in her surroundings and utterly oblivious to my own torment.

In my haste, I had thrown on the first clean shirt I could put my hand on. It was a personalised "Superman" T-shirt where I had taken the liberty of replacing the "S" with a "Z". Hardly mature but it appealed to my sense of humour and yet I felt quite childish about it now. Try as I might, all words had abandoned me and I was simply unable of either saying thanks or trying to explain. Sensing my unease, Penny quickly moved on and with a disarming smile asked, "Are you going to just stand there? Dare I suggest that you may be more comfortable if you were to take a seat?" She gestured towards the matching chair to hers on the opposite side of the hearth.

"Certainly..., of course." The words spluttered out as I wandered through the sea of chairs that were strewn around but, on reflection, were in some semblance of order. As I got closer I could see that there was a small table beside each of our respective chairs. On her side sat the promised bottle of single malt which was already missing a quarter of its contents. It was only as I moved towards my proposed chair that I saw the full glass that was to be mine. She already had an equally generous measure in her other hand that had been obscured to me until now.

"I took the liberty of adding only two cubes of ice. You see, this is the oldest and, in my humble opinion, finest single malt whisky the Oban distillery has ever produced. Thankfully, we were quite fortunate enough to secure a case from only 6000 bottles. My dear old father would spin in his grave if it were to be wasted with over-dilution. Please, try it." She sat back and took a sip from her own glass yet her eyes never left me.

I sat and raised the weighty glass to my nose. It seemed that the delicious aroma was immediately demanding the attention of all my senses. It generated such a feeling of warmth and comfort that I was all but lost for a moment, desperately trying to enjoy the solace that it provided. All too soon I was drawn back to reality and, realising that my eyes are closed, silently chided myself for being so rude. Taking a sip, I allowed the cold liquid to trace across my tongue and breach my throat, inhaling deeply thereafter. It slowly meandered down into my chest yet it was my head that was enjoying its rather pleasant effects. My eyes were still closed. Selfishly, I want to savour the moment for as long as I can although time seems to be standing still.

Is this what Brigadoon is like?

"The look of pleasure on your face is exactly why I extended the invite to only you Z. You see, young Richie would have no such appreciation for a single malt of this quality."

Until that very moment, I was completely ignorant to the idea that _I_ had such an appreciation for a single malt. No clue at all. I just knew that whatever this was, I adored it. This is what it must be like to be one of _them_. One of the aristocracy. One of the gentry. If this _is_ Brigadoon, then I want to stay forever. My eyes were open now and all my focus and attention fell directly upon her, trying to understand who and what she was. Why did it matter? No reason I suppose, just curious.

"So, you are a truck driver? You don't give that impression, if you don't mind me saying?" She knew I didn't mind. How could I be offended in these circumstances? It occurs to me that rarely have I ever met anyone with such a smooth tone of voice, it is most calming.

I relaxed back into my seat and replied, "The obvious question from that would be 'what impression did I give you?' Although that would be a bit of a cop out. Although, being completely honest, I really didn't think for a single second that I would ever have made any impression upon you at all."

I truly didn't.

"Why would you think that?" She was deflecting as she took another sip, her eyes never leaving mine, watching me intently over the rim of the glass. It was apparent that she was toying with me although I was completely confused as to whether I was enjoying it or not.

"Well..." I cast my hand around the room "...you have all this. You are from all this, and I am a mere truck driver." A _"mere"_ truck driver? I am not a _"mere"_ anything.

Why did I say that?

"I never figured you as a slave to stereotypes." As she said this, she broke eye contact for the first time. The fire now the object of her gaze, she looked sad and seemed quite offended. "You obviously don't see me as a person. Rather, you see a title and a social standing." She paused for a second, then drew her eyes back from the fire and onto me. When she continued, she spoke very slowly and deliberately, carefully selecting each of her words. "It's easy to make the assumption that I live in some sort of kaleidoscopic utopia whereupon I am protected by my status, safely ensconced within the social elite from any and all pain and suffering that befalls those below us. I am one of _them_ , one of the aristocracy, one of those who are perceived as above the law and who live completely carefree and immune to pain."

She seemed more exasperated than angry and I thought her little tirade was over and so sat in chided silence, thinking of how to appease the situation. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought this speech was rehearsed. Whilst I was lost in my own thoughts, she continued.

"Growing or, at the very least, preserving our wealth is viewed as our primary function. Obviously, being publicly seen to be enjoying it too with our equally elite friends is hugely important. We are expected to marry for the preservation of such status and expand our wealth for future generations rather than for love. The stiff upper lip brigade, where familial duty and honour ranks above the personal desires or aspirations of the individual." She sat forward in her chair to face me.

"That is what you see, is it not?"

There was genuine hurt in her eyes and yet I somehow felt responsible, as if it were my fault. Not for a single second had I considered what my thoughts were of her, either as a person or as a title. In my defence, there had been no reason for me to consider this either way. Yet it quickly struck me that every one of her assertions, in relation to me, had been correct. I had been fighting against my own stereotype for so long that my own perception of others had been lost, only for Penny to prove that I was ignorant enough to utilise those very stereotypes as a blanket categorisation of others. It was easy to recognise that my own behaviour had altered when in her company due to the very stereotype that she has just described, yet why should it? There was no denying that I had become altogether reverential rather than just being myself.

As such, I had demeaned us both.

Ordinarily, I would have made my excuses and gone to bed with a harsh lesson learned, safe in the knowledge that I would never see nor hear from her ever again. However, tonight was different. Tonight it seemed like she wanted more from me, although I had absolutely no idea what.

I was completely intrigued.

Taking her silence as my opportunity, I attempted to explain. "Yes, your assertion is absolutely correct and, for that, I can only apologise. I fully understand and recognise your obviously deep discomfort with a stereotype, having fought against such stereotypical attitudes my entire life. Although it is true that I am a truck driver, it is not _merely_ so. I was wrong to describe myself as such. I should also mention that I have multiple degrees in law."

"Multiple" sounded better than "two" and I hoped that this would leave her suitably impressed. It was my turn to gaze intently at her, searching for any sort of a reaction. Thankfully her face betrayed her and I was determined to take full advantage. "You look surprised? It would seem that we are both guilty of preconceived ideas. Obviously the stereotype works both ways." It proved impossible to not sound smug and so, admittedly, this was not my finest moment.

Yet, rather than take offence, Penny let out a chuckle, "Touché" she said and raised her glass towards me in acknowledgement and then took a drink. I reciprocated her toast.

"Let's start over. Why law?"

It was a relief to be able to converse on a subject that was actually in my comfort zone. "To me, the law is absolutely fascinating and I adore how it protects all of us in its spirit and application, especially when it is utilised properly and, more importantly, to provide actual justice. For example, a moment ago, you mentioned that I was a 'slave'. That reminds me of the great case of _Knight v. Wedderburn_ in the 1700's. The basic facts were that a Scots plantation owner brought his manservant slave back with him to the UK from Jamaica. At some point thereafter, the slave, Joseph Knight, sued his master for his freedom. As slavery did not exist under Scots law, the court had no option but to find in his favour. As such, Mr Knight became a free man. This case perfectly encapsulates why I love the law."

The fire crackled and spat sparks around the grate and momentarily drew my attention. Then it occurred me that my thoughtlessness has struck again and that this was not my best example, given that this was a case where the aristocrat was screwed over. _Fuck_. Thankfully, she never mentioned anything about it and moved on. "So the obvious question would be why are you driving trucks with such a high standard of education?"

"Yes, such an obvious question in fact that if I had a pound for every time I have been asked that very question, I'd have an estate of my own." It got the cheap laugh I was seeking. Her laugh was infectious and light with a disarming naïveté. For the first time since entering the room, I began to relax. As her laugh drifted off into the dimly lit corners, I yearned to hear it again. "I have been described as much like a lighthouse in the desert."

"A lighthouse in the desert? How so?" She asked as I had hoped she would.

"Well it would seem that I am incredibly bright but of no real use to anybody." As she laughed I finished my drink, savouring every last drop of them both. She was still chuckling away as she refreshed my glass. I was expecting an uncomfortable silence after her laughter ended but she surprised me with a question. "What does DNA stand for?"

It completely threw me and I racked my brain trying to remember. "It's Deo-something nuclear acid? I really should know but it's easier to blame the alcohol for killing those brain cells required at this moment." I could only hope that my answer was convincing but why did she want to know?

"National Dyslexic Association!" She blurted out the punch line and I found myself laughing as much at her as with her, not that she knew the difference and nor did it really matter. I mentally noted her joke to tell my friends as it was both amusing and one that would always remind me of her and this unique night. Through my own laughter I saw her as the simply beautiful woman that she is. In that moment, I framed her image and mentally etched it forever into my mind. It was one I would never forget and wish I had captured for real, a photograph to be cherished and kept close to me for she was positively radiant.

Then she threw another question that blindsided me completely.

"So, from your understanding of the upper class stereotype, do you think we love in the same way that everyone else loves?" The laugh had gone and the fire was once again the object of her attention. Stupidly, it made me somewhat envious. It was obvious that she wanted to look anywhere else but at me and she suddenly seemed quite nervous and vulnerable. That look. What was it? So rarely had I seen this look before. She looked...forlorn? Yes, that was it. She looked forlorn.

It didn't suit her.

"I'm afraid that I am the very last person to be able to speak of love with any kind of authority. I'm sorry." Here was I taking to a stranger and yet, somehow, it felt instinctively right to be completely honest. She drew her eyes away from the fire and let them rest upon my chest. If I didn't know better, I would have said she was looking for my heart.

"How so?" her voice nothing more than a whisper.

My life with Gem, told as an anecdote, came tumbling out. As Penny sat in silence, I soon became oblivious to her presence and spoke more to myself than to her. As my sorry tale came to a close, I apologetically explained about reading the email "it was wrong and I know I shouldn't have done it, but..." and then proceeded to explain the crux of its contents whilst omitting the gory details, she could garner them for herself "...and so here I am, mending my broken heart with Richie."

Many a true word said in jest as they say.

It was a few moments before she spoke. Not that I really noticed nor cared for, in my head, I was back staring at the computer monitor and reading that email for the first time–once again.

"So do you still believe in love?" Her question penetrated my thoughts although it took me a second to realise where I was.

"I was taught to believe in love, my mum is a bit of a romantic. My dad too, if truth be told although he would never readily admit to it. I thought I was in love but seeing now how easily I have walked away from it makes me realise that I truly wasn't. It is all but impossible for me to determine whether it was the idea of love that I loved or if it was the person providing this possibility; that 'someone to love' as it were. It really is a rather complicated notion and one that generates more questions than answers for me." The depth of my own answer had surprised me and I took a few seconds to consider what I had said.

"Actually, on reflection, forget all that. Yes, I believe in love but only in the way as described to me by my mother."

"Which was?" Her sincerity was almost palpable as she shifted in her seat and crossed her legs underneath herself. Only now did I notice how big these chairs were, or maybe it is how small she is, it was certainly one or the other. Her glass had been abandoned on the table and she rested her head in her hands, supported by her elbows on her knees. It really was quite remarkable how completely at home she was in these stifling surroundings. She seduced me into believing that we were old friends simply discussing life; thus providing a comfort and confidence to speak my heart and mind without fear of judgment or ridicule.

It was a beautiful feeling.

"Love is when you can look into the eyes of another person and only see the reflection of your own soul. I rather like that idea and believe that it will happen for me one day." In saying this, one of the unruly crowd hanging behind her caught my attention.

"It sounds like you believe in fate. I didn't think that a man like you would." She struck me as genuinely surprised.

"Another stereotype perhaps?" I said teasingly, my eyes too slow to catch hers as she looked back into the fire. The moment gone, I continued "I certainly do believe in fate, and why not? If I didn't, why else would we be having this drink? I had never even heard of this estate until last week and now here I am enjoying myself with, quite literally, the Lady of the manor."

"So you are enjoying yourself? Good. Me too." As Penny said this, she settled back into her chair and placed her hands, one over the other, in her lap. She still sat on her legs. It amazes me how she manages to make even this pose seem so effortless yet graceful. I have no idea how she does that.

"So what is next for you, love-wise?"

"Who knows?" Rather than feeling bitter and consumed with hurt and regret, I just feel relieved. Obviously she is intent on using her career to climb the social ladder and that doesn't really interest me, being honest. I have always been more interested in being 'content' rather than 'happy'. 'Happiness' seems to be such a fleeting emotion, whereas 'contentment' has a more enduring appeal." Penny was nodding in agreement at my distinction between these two ideals. "It seems that I had five months to get used to being single but only now it's official. To be totally honest, I am thinking to join a dating site and see what happens. I am not averse to the idea of giving fate a hand, you know? Although I have absolutely no idea why I am telling you that." I really didn't and laughed in embarrassment at the absurdity of my need to admit this to her–a complete stranger.

Thankfully I caught myself before inadvertently telling her all about Supasexxx.com.

After a few seconds consideration, she surprised me with her reply. "Yes, I certainly understand the appeal and the logic in behind such websites. In truth, I have often thought of it and would have liked to have joined a dating site too. But the risk far outweighs the reward for me. If the press ever found out, the ridicule and shame would be unbearable."

She found her glass and took a long drink.

It was easy to understand her predicament. However, this was about the only chance I was ever going to have at peeking behind the stereotype, behind that aristocratic veil, and there was no way that I was going to waste it. "So what do you think of love?"

It was my turn to take a drink.

Her answer vaulted me from surprised to stunned. She spoke slowly and deliberately, once again every word chosen with care and precision. "Well I can never expect to love, can I? Certainly not in the way you suggested. How would I ever know if they loved me as a person or as a package? As such, I would always be wondering. This is certainly not conducive to love as I understand it. Love is supposed to grow exponentially over time. How could I ever trust anyone enough to let that happen without the fear of losing everything I have and everything I am? Unless, of course, they are of a similar background to myself and that just isn't possible as I know them all." She smiled weakly at what was said in jest but rang true. "Do you understand?"

A shroud of sadness came to rest heavily upon her.

"Yes, I get that." Her explanation made it impossible to _not_ understand. Suddenly my own issues were far less than I had previously thought. Contrary to my stereotypical perception of her, it was I had every conceivable means of finding love available to me and Penny who did not. That preconceived notion of freedom that I had of her–and her ilk–had just been obliterated and now I actually felt sorry for her. Yet still I wanted to know more.

"However, it does still beg the question, do _you_ actually believe in love?"

"I must admit that I have never heard it put in the way your mother describes although it makes perfect sense to me. So, yes, if that is what love is, then I certainly believe in it."

For some inexplicable reason, it was wonderfully reassuring to me that she said this and I felt a sense of contentment and pride in my mother's comforting assessment of love. Although I wasn't at all certain that this is the love that my mum shared with my dad. However, that was a thought I would rather not explore, much akin to the idea of your parents having sex.

"Well Penny, if it is true that you believe in love and so in fate then you have no choice but to accept that love will find you when you least expect it. That is what I believe and what I have to believe. In actual fact, I have the perfect story that proves my belief. However, it takes a bit of time to tell." I was holding my empty glass in both hands as I spoke, almost praying that a refill would be forthcoming as a trade for the story. I needn't have worried.

"Z, we have all night and more than half a bottle. Does that answer your question?"

It certainly did.

"Let me tell you about Douglas McElroy..." I said as she took my glass.

The elation of concluding my story very quickly gave way to exhaustion. Draining the last of the golden nectar, I gently placed the glass back on the table. Whilst Penny had sat silently throughout, engrossed in my tale, her expressions and mannerisms had spoken volumes.

She understood.

Now it was the fire that had her full attention and consumed her thoughts. It was the right time to take my leave yet I didn't want to disturb her. In barely a whisper and with the utmost sincerity, I said "Thank you so much for the invite and rarely have I ever so thoroughly enjoyed myself. I hope that you enjoyed hearing about Douglas and that you find his story as comforting and inspiring as I do. Goodnight."

She was still staring into the fire as she mumbled "goodnight". As I stood to leave, I saw a tear slowly meander down her cheek.

It sparkled like a diamond in the firelight and I left her alone with her thoughts.
11

### Blindsided

Friday 23rd January

It had been just over a week since we had returned from the tranquillity of Scotland to the madness that is London. In that time, Richie had ensured that I had enjoyed one of my more profitable weeks with placements in the agency's better paying clients. There also hadn't been any sight nor sound from Gemma and so all was happy in my little world.

That all changed with a phone call.

"Hi Z, it's Richie. Do you have a minute? I have a couple of things to discuss with you." He was not his usual self and sounded somewhat sterner than normal. It could have been mistaken for "professionalism" but I knew him better than that, although I naively thought this would be all work related.

Oh, how wrong was I?

"Firstly, I have your start time for tomorrow." There was nothing unusual in this, as it was a daily occurrence to be phoned with your start time. Actually, there was nothing irregular in being called numerous times with a variety of start times. We all knew it was the nature of the beast but that didn't make it any less irritating. It certainly generated a perpetual angst amongst us drivers, with the expression "that office couldn't run a piss up in a brewery" being most commonly attributed to their organisational skills. However, at 6am, my allocated start time was earlier than usual. I readily agreed as an earlier start ensures an early finish, and it was the beginning of the weekend after all. I could enjoy a nice dinner and a few drinks with some of the guys as there was always someone up for that on a Saturday night. Yet I could tell from his tone that there was a reason behind this unusually early start time and his pregnant pause indicated that I should enquire further.

Foolishly, I did.

"Well, I have been talking with a few of the lads about your "situation" regarding Gemma. We are all concerned and agree that the best way for you to move forward is to get back dating again."

Spoken with as much authority and confidence as he dare muster.

Naturally, this piqued my defences. I was actually quite taken aback and a little hurt to hear they had been talking about me behind my back. Although it really should not have been a surprise at all, gossip is stock in trade for truck drivers and obviously it was my turn for their attentions. My initial shock quickly gave way to anger. "Richard" I said slowly and deliberately, this was no time to call him "Richie", it was way too serious for that. "Whilst I understand you think you are doing me a favour, I really do not appreciate being the topic of idle conversation. Especially with other drivers that I have to work with and face on a daily basis. Who have you been talking..."

He cut me off mid sentence.

"Z, it's really not like that. Seriously, I have had a couple of drivers, guys I know that you regard as friends, asking me how our trip away was and how you are coping. They, sorry, I should say _we_ only have your best interests at heart. We all know that Gemma was bad news, _is_ bad news and so for you to move on then you need to be dating again. To that end, I have a date set up for you tomorrow night..."

He said this and let it hang, waiting for my response.

"A blind date? You seriously want me to go on a fucking blind date Richie?" The incredulity in my voice was unmistakable, much like my own shock.

"Well that's a good sign Z. Your first reaction isn't a straight 'no', nor have you even asked about her." I could hear the relief in his voice and his word pronunciation changed as he had spoke. It was obvious that this was due to his growing smirk.

"I was getting to the former and so no need to explore the latter." I said, being deliberately smart and antagonistic. He ignored me.

"Well I have already set it up for tomorrow night. Her name is Sian and she is 28. I think you two will get along just fine. I have given her your number and told her to text you tomorrow to finalise the plans but, provisionally, you are to meet in The Crooked Beggar in St. Albans at 7.30pm. You should be well finished your shift by then. Now, I'm really sorry but I have keep this short and sweet as the work is coming out my ears and need to get back to it. Talk soon mate." He hung up on me, giving me no chance to respond. I knew better than to try calling back and, being honest, I must admit to being rather curious and somewhat excited.

I decided to wait and see if she would text.

Saturday 24th January

Sian had obviously decided to play it cool and nonchalant as it wasn't until after 3pm that she texted. Until then, I had simply chosen to believe that she thought the blind date was as much of a wind up as I did. Although, admittedly, I had been frantically checking my phone throughout the day whilst trying to appear completely blasé. As Richie had given me my start time phone call less than a half hour before her text, I was all but certain that she had taken some further prompting. Having slept on it I still could not escape the thought that no good could come from this. It is a harsh reality but, in being honest with myself, I know I am nowhere near ready to offer anything in a relationship.

In fact, the very mention of the word "relationship" has me looking for a spine to run a shiver down.

" _Hi Z, am Sian. Richie give me ur number and told me 2 text u. He says we r 2 meet tonight at 730 in the crooked buggar. U up 4 it? xx"_

I reread the text and caught myself cringing. It may well be academic snobbery on my part–I am, after all, a fully paid up member of the Grammar Police–but I really do hate text speak. There really is no excuse for bad spelling, especially considering every mobile phone has predictive text. _It actually spells it correctly for you!_ The offence was further compounded by the fact that she couldn't even get the name of the pub right.

Maybe she was being funny?

I had my doubts but it was definitely off-putting. Another one for me is horrible teeth. A girl could be perfect in every single way but I would never give her the chance to prove it if she has bad teeth. It is truly amazing how we each have those small idiosyncrasies that can ruin a perfectly good relationship, even before they start.

Well I would certainly hope that this isn't just me?

Actually, I know it just isn't me as a girl friend of mine told me once that she finished with a really nice guy after sleeping with him for the first time. The reason? He had worn green "Y" fronts and there was _no way_ that was ever acceptable to her. Still, given the circumstances, I decided that Sian deserved the benefit of the doubt and so I blamed her grammatical errors on her being as nervous about this blind date as I was.

Already overruling my own instincts? This has "disaster" written all over it.

Anyway, basic manners dictate that it is simply way too late for me to cancel now. For all I know, she could very well be going through exactly the same as me, and so suffering a similar crisis of confidence. After all, I have absolutely no idea of her personal circumstances. In point of fact, other than her name and age, I know _nothing_ else about her. Also, it would be completely ignorant to not recognise that the mere act of sending the text took courage, even if she did have to be gently persuaded by Richie. It was not for me to hurt this poor girl any more than she may have already been. It would be kinder to just meet up, in the full knowledge that nothing romantic can come from it, enjoy our night and make a new friend. Who knows, maybe she has a friend who is more suitable for me somewhere further down the line?

I would be an idiot not to meet such a nice girl.

I took the opportunity to surreptitiously correct her text in my reply, it was the least I could do. Hopefully she would take my subtle hint.

" _Hi Sian, this is Z right enough :) Sure, 7.30 at The Crooked Beggar sounds great. Really looking forward to it, see you then!"_

I thought that was it and everything set. Not for the first time in my life, I was proved wrong and her reply came through within minutes.

" _Perfict. I shall pic u up @ urs @ 715. I alredy got ur addy frm Richie. Lookn forward 2 it 2 xx"_

Evidently my efforts of correction were in vain. I shall try and not let this get to me as it can only be surmised that all such future attempts will be similarly doomed to failure. I was going to text her back that we should just meet there as Hatfield is only a few miles from St Albans, but thought better of it. If the "date" is the predicted disaster I envisage, at least this allows me to have a few beers with a free taxi home.

It was late in the afternoon when I eventually made it home from work. After a shower and bite to eat, I got myself ready–although only in body for not in mind. More by default than design, my couch has pride of place beside my living room window and doubles as an excellent vantage point for the car park. Nervously, I started checking out the window a full hour before she was expected. The television was on but more as a distraction for me, and it was just after 7pm when she drew in. I knew it was her as the only parking space available was under a streetlamp and so it was easy to distinguish the single female occupant. Also, she turned the car lights off but never got out and I could see the exhaust fumes that told me that the engine was still running. Actually, while I was sure it was her, I wasn't _that_ sure and there was no way I was going down to play my hunch, so I just stayed where I was. It was at exactly 7.15pm that her single word text came through.

" _Outside."_

It was at this point that the reality of the situation hit home and I suddenly started questioning myself. In the full awareness that I want nothing from this date and that there will be no others to follow, I am now wondering why the fuck I agreed to this charade at all. This makes me even more nervous. Then I realise that I am checking myself to see if my breath is fresh and if I am wearing too much cologne. Is this my best shirt? Am I overdressed? Should I have worn a T-shirt? Is my hair okay? What am I talking about–I'm fucking bald. It has been years since I have had a first date but I had hair then so it's little wonder that I associate one with the other. I duly berated myself for my uncharacteristic dandyism as I trudged all the way to the passenger door of her car. Opening it, I said "hi" in as confident a voice as I could muster. This resulted in a surprisingly high-pitched screech that, as a noise, I have never heard myself make before. I certainly hope to never hear it again.

I slumped into the passenger seat, deflated and defeated already.

"Hi" she replied with the very confidence that I had been searching for, followed with a disarming smile. Sian was undeniably pretty and, bizarrely, I found that I was instantly thanking Richie in my head. She was wearing a nice loose blouse with flowing dark hair that encapsulated her face and settled gently on her shoulders. There then followed the predictably awkward conversation that everyone has when first meeting and trying to establish common ground. In our case, it was Richie. I have a tendency to talk incessantly when nervous so it was perhaps unsurprising that it had been me who had been hogging the conversation en route to the pub. It wasn't until we were actually leaving the car that it occurred to me that this could be the mother of all wind-ups.

Had Richie and my "friends" bought me a hooker for the night?

The whole scenario played out rapidly in my head as I walked to the pub door. Each step coinciding with the countdown in my head. There they could all be, my so called "friends" standing at the bar when "Sian" and I walk in, and only _me_ thinking this is a genuine date. I mean, what kind of name is "Sian" anyway? Is it not perfect for a hooker? I would never live this down. To be fair, I was deserving of such a prank and, being completely honest, they have played this one perfectly. How could I have been so blind? I opened the bar door and stood back to let "Sian" enter first. If I am going down, I shall go down as a gentleman and take this on the chin.

Revenge, however, shall be sweet.

I followed "Sian" into the bar fully expecting the eruption of laughter and to see the delighted faces of my many "friends".

Nothing.

Sian turned and asked what I would like to drink. _Wait...? What...?_ I was completely confused. _Where is everyone?_ I mumbled "Sorry?" while still scanning the bar.

"I was just asking what you wanted to drink? Are you okay?" She was looking at me with genuine concern. It took me a minute to realise that this was an actual date and she was completely serious. Having waited alone in a car park for over ten minutes on a cold winters night just to pick me up, here she now was offering to buy the first round of drinks. With the benefit of a well lit bar, it was evident that this was no prank for her and that she had went to a great deal of effort in getting ready. She was simply immaculate and not what I was expecting.

Not at all.

When did I get this paranoid?

Trying to clear my confusion, I feebly endeavoured to take stock of the situation. "No, don't be daft. You drove. Besides, what sort of gentleman would that make me? Now, what can I get you?" After asking for a diet coke, Sian excused herself and disappeared to the bathroom. I took the opportunity to down a quick double scotch to ease my frazzled nerves and try to relax, then took our drinks and found a booth for more privacy.

As she returned, I pretended to ignore her by watching one of the many televisions dotted around the place. In reality, I saw every step that she took and conceded that she was most attractive. I would guess she was around the 5'8" mark, size 10 or so–not that I am in any way an expert on women's sizes–and wearing black trousers that look to be tailored to her figure rather than off the peg. She took her seat opposite me, raised her glass to mine and said "cheers", then took a drink.

I have no idea what happened next. Maybe it was the pressure from the realisation that this was an actual date, and not a windup, that somehow reinvigorated my nervousness. Maybe I was simply intimidated by her. Whatever the reason, I just could not stop talking nonsense. Rambling, babbling, prattling nonsense. Over the course of those following few hours, my really bad jokes were interspersed between even worse stories.

It was first date suicide.

"Do you know that I can prove God is a woman?" I asked, deluding myself into thinking this would be a joke that a woman would appreciate. After a seconds thought, I quickly realised that this was a joke that I had only ever told to men who, more understandably, had found it funny. It was sexist and crude, and certainly not first date material. Inside my head, my better angel was begging me– _"Please stop talking"_ –but there seemed to be no way to shut myself up.

"You can prove God is a woman?" It was obvious that she was taking this rather seriously. Now she had me wondering if she is in the God Squad? "Okay, how is God a woman?" As she sat back and folded her arms, I recognised that this is a defensive posture and so she is preparing for my attack. I'm going to be wearing her drink in a minute. If I am really unlucky, it'll be my drink she throws.

"Three reasons." There was no way back now. _Keep smiling Z, just keep smiling. Let her see it's a joke._ "One, women are either pre, post or actually menstrual. They have the perfect excuse at all times for being cranky and miserable. They inevitably blame men at these times for not being understanding, and for all the other evils in the world. As such, any one of these stages provides women with the ideal excuse for not having sex. Only a female God would be so calculating." She was dead faced. No reaction, nothing. Not even the hint of a smile. My smile was fixed and I pushed on rather sharpish.

"Reason two? Multiple orgasms. Women can have multiple orgasms whereby men only have one. Normally followed by a complaint in my own experience." This reason found a faint smile although not one that showed teeth. Good enough for me, maybe not such a bad joke after all.

"Reason three? No self respecting male God would put a man's G-spot up his _arse_!" I sat back in triumph and laughed at my own joke. Not cool. She rolled her eyes and looked around as if trying to see if anyone else had heard me. Thankfully nobody had. A smile was definitely there though, however much she thought she fought it, it was there and that was good enough for me.

Yet this proved a small victory in a battle I had long since conceded.

It was as if I was trying to subconsciously sabotage the date and I had no idea why. Here was a perfectly nice girl, who I now knew not to be a hooker, simply looking for some decent company and I cannot control myself. I spoke about Gemma and I even told her the full and intimate details of the email. Sian sat and politely laughed where needed but contributed very little of anything else to the conversation. Not that she had much of an opportunity.

If it were possible, her silence in my rare lulls seemed to spur me on even more. She never took the initiative to take the conversation forward, or in any direction for that matter. Fuelled by even more alcohol, I was still desperately begging myself to shut up. I was now discussing how many children I would like. What the actual fuck was I talking about?

Just _shut the fuck up! Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!_

I had no idea who or what had taken over me but I just could not make it stop. This poor girl. This was obviously a nightmare date for her and it was all my fault. Then, miraculously, I managed to regain some semblance of control.

"Look, I am really sorry. I have absolutely no idea what I am going on about. Even worse, I have no idea why I am going on. This was supposed to be just a few drinks but obviously it has turned into the worst date ever for you. _Please_ believe me, I am truly embarrassed. I tend to ramble when I'm nervous and this is my first date in years. You would think I haven't ever spoken to a woman before the way I am going on here."

A vain attempt at humour.

Her response shocked me. "I've had worse." She said, stated as a matter of fact. "Do you want to go home?" Her question sent relief to every fibre of my being.

"I really do think that might be for the best, if you don't mind?" In my intoxicated state I had been all too presumptuous that there was still the offer to drive me home. "Although I would fully understand if you would rather I take a taxi?"

"Not at all, let's go." She grabbed her purse and stood with a speed and agility that surprised me. I clumsily slid along the bench seat and extracted myself from under the table. Upon reaching my full height I looked to see the back of her head weave through the recently assembled crowd of new patrons, she was almost at the door. Her deft manoeuvres were impressive although it suddenly hit me that she might have thought better of her offer and she would be gone by the time I made it to the parking spot. It would be completely understandable given my nights performance. Still, I made my way to her car anyway, I owed her that much.

For the second time this evening, she was sat alone in the darkness with the engine running.

The journey back to mine was short but seemed to take forever. It wasn't even yet 10pm but the night was ruined, a new record for me. I just wanted out from the confines of her car with its deafening silence and into the relative safety and comfort of my own home. She pulled up into the same spot where I had entered this farce less than three hours ago.

There is scant consolation in the knowledge that my disastrous prediction was accurate.

I squirmed in my seat as I replayed in my head all that had transpired this evening, although here I was still living it. Hopefully she will want to forget this "date" as much as I do but there is no doubt that this will haunt me forever. I mumbled "thanks" and "goodnight" and got out the car, seeing my home and wishing I had never left it.

Then it happened.

The engine died, then the unmistakable tinny sound of a car door closing, followed by the all too familiar noise of a central locking system engaging. Confused, I turned around to see her walking towards me. Now I am completely baffled. _What is she doing? Where is she going?_ Logic took over my addled brain and I surmised that she must know someone else that lives here. We walk in silence as my brain refuses to produce any words for me. _Where was that restraint for the last three hours fuck nut?_ We are now side by side although rather than move on, she is keeping in step with me. _What is happening here?_ I have absolutely no idea what to do so just kept walking. It does not help that the crisp winter air is now coursing through me and blending with the alcohol in my system.

I am no longer tipsy but drunk.

It would seem that I have exhausted my word allocation for the day as my brain still refuses to give me anything to say. _Now? When I actually need it?_ I have spouted nothing but utter nonsense all night and yet this is the moment my brain decides to abandon me? _Say something. Anything! PLEASE!_ Now I am completely lost, what should I do? What can I do? Each step is taking us closer to my home. To my sanctuary. I do not like this, not at all. Drunk and confused is not a great combination. I am ambling along, shuffling as slowly as I can, but cannot bring myself to ask Sian what is going on for fear of being...of being....of being what?

Then it occurs to me that I am actually in fear of being _rude_.

Sian follows as I turn into the entrance of my building so there is no longer any doubt that she is coming up to my place. _But why?_ Even I don't want to spend another minute with me this evening. It must just be for a coffee. She just wants a coffee and she certainly deserves one. I could certainly use a coffee and try sobering up to get a grip on this situation. It's only now, whilst fumbling for my keys at the front door, that I realise that still neither of us has uttered a word since the pub. I was nervous before but undoubtedly more so now. My mind is racing trying to make sense of all this. She has hardly said anything all night. Then again, that was mainly my own fault. Whilst they were admittedly limited, she did have some opportunities to speak. Maybe, just maybe, she is so shy that she needs the seclusion of a one on one situation to actually open up. Am I now going to get her life story when all I want to do is curl up in bed and, in a sadistic twist of irony, actually end this living nightmare that I am solely responsible for?

It was as I unlocked and opened the door that I felt a soft but firm hand on my back, pushing me inside from behind. _What the fu...?_ It is a "fight or flight" moment and so I attempt to turn in an effort of availing myself of the situation. Instinctively my hands come up to help defend myself. Yet it is another hand that has found the back of my head and pulls me somewhat aggressively downward where there is a tongue waiting to be plunged deep into my throat.

Why is Sian kissing me?

Never in my life have I experienced such a bizarre situation. I find myself reciprocating the "kiss" even although I am not entirely certain that this is the best description for it. On my side, it felt like I was being given some sort of medical treatment. She could very well be a paramedic as this is close to mouth-to-mouth and I feel like I'm breathing through my asshole. I move my head back for air and try, for what feels like the hundredth time in the last four minutes, to take stock of the situation. My first thought is to clear us from the door so I can at least close it. Nobody, and I mean nobody, would want nor need to witness such an _assault_. Mind you, witnesses might help me for what is all but certain to be a police enquiry by the time _this_ , whatever this is, by the time it's over.

I manage to close the door by falling back against it. Sian relents from the kissing so I tilt my head up and take what seems to be my first breath of clean in minutes. I close my eyes and inhale deeply through my mouth and taste the heady mixture of whisky and lipstick. It's as I exhale that I realise that she has unzipped me and actually has my cock in her mouth.

How did that happen? My head and body are now at war with one another as I can sense myself getting hard in her mouth but yet I also actually feel that I am being seriously violated.

Then the question hits me. Do men ever say "no" to sex? We are naturally programmed to search for sex and here it is, quite literally, on my doorstep. She stands up and takes my cock in her hand, as she starts to walk she says "Come on baby, let's take this to the bedroom." I wasn't entirely certain what she meant by "this", but what I do know is that SHE is leading ME to my own bedroom and all I can do is follow.

Her actions certainly speak louder than her grammatically incorrect words.

What happened thereafter shall forever be etched on my soul. What made it worse, if that were indeed possible, was the mixture of my own embarrassment at the evenings events, blended with my drunkenness to ensure that I actually gave the performance of my life. Try as I might, I just could not climax. She could. Oh, and how she could. My night of misery was completed by the fact that merely touching her brought her to orgasm and she didn't just squirt, she actually left puddles all over my previously lush memory foam mattress.

This was a memory both the mattress and I quickly wanted to forget and so it was replaced within 24 hours.
12

### Penny For My Thoughts

Sunday 25th January

It wasn't until later in the afternoon that I noticed the all too familiar icon of an unopened envelope on my phone. In my hungover state, and in my haste to get to IKEA, I hadn't noticed the text. Actually, truth be told, I had been ignoring my phone. So much so that I had deliberately left it at home when I went shopping in the irrational fear that it could, in some insane way, convey to either Sian or Richie that I was mobile and ready to talk to them. Crazy but true. So it was with a mixture of fear and trepidation that I opened the message.

" _Hi Z, how are you? I hope you are settling back into the wild and heady ways of London. Just a quick text to let you know that I found your 'Super Z' T-shirt. It was under the bed. Would you like me to send it down?"_

I really do wonder about myself sometimes. I found that I was delighted, not with the fact that Penny had texted nor even that she had found my T-shirt, but more so with the fact that her text was grammatically perfect. It is an unnerving realisation knowing that I really am quite so strange. In reading it again I noticed that the text had been sent at 11.18pm. What an odd time to text on a Saturday night, especially when she has had my T-shirt for over a week. Then my thoughts turned to what I was doing at that precise moment. More accurately, who was doing me. Without giving it a seconds thought–do I ever?–I selected the "call" option and heard Penny answer on the second ring.

"Hi Z. Well you certainly know how to keep a girl hanging. How are you?" she seemed genuinely pleased to hear from me.

"I'm fine, thanks" I lied. "Thanks for your text. I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner but last night was a little mental. Actually, a big bit mental. Anyway, it would be great if you could send back my T-shirt and I am so sorry to have caused you the bother. I shall, of course, be happy to pay you for the cost of postage."

"Mental? How so?" she blatantly ignored everything else I had said to focus completely on the one word.

"You really do _not_ want to know" and I certainly didn't want to tell her. I took the opportunity to try and turn the conversation around, "So, what works best for you, cash or money transfer?" No matter what her preference was, I had already decided that cash in a nice "Thank You" card would work perfectly.

My attempts were always destined to fail, curiosity being one of the most fundamental instincts in human nature. "Of course I want to know, this is most intriguing although one would not wish to appear rude. That would never do. I had rather been hoping that we could have had another nice chat last night but, alas, it was not to be. If I am to be ignored for something that _you_ describe as 'mental' then I can only admit that my curiosity is most definitely piqued, as they say."

As who say? Certainly nobody that I knew.

Clearly she wasn't going to let this drop. How do I get myself into these situations? Mine had been a lifelong endeavour trying to learn how to engage brain before using mouth. I was still wrestling with the basics. Yet she did say _"another nice chat"_ and there seemed to be no haste in her tone for this conversation to be over. Actually, thinking about it, I could do with getting last nights events off my chest. A female perspective would certainly help too. However, I knew better than to wade in. I needed to let Penny think she was teasing this information from me rather than my unloading it voluntarily. That would allow me to retain some element of dignity rather than compound my own embarrassment.

"Okay, I shall tell you but only because you have insisted and so on your own head be it. You have been well warned and, believe me, my obvious lack of good judgment in telling you may well be the result of the residual trauma that I am experiencing. The whittled down and well censored version goes like this..." I was in mid flow when she interrupted.

"Oh for goodness sake Z, _just get on with it._ " Her exasperation betrayed her fascination and had me second guessing myself again, wondering if this really was a good idea to tell her. She was a proper "Lady" after all. Oh fuck it, what did I care? I hardly expected this call so it doesn't really matter if I never hear from her again.

"Okay, here goes. After our 'bonding' there in Auchtershinnan, Richie took it upon himself to set me up on a blind date." I let this hang in the air for a minute as I gathered my thoughts on how best to proceed.

She failed to supress her laughter. "Richie? Richie organised a blind date for _YOU_?" She was laughing harder with each word, struggling to actually say it.

"Yes, he did. What's so funny about that?" I said, somewhat defensively.

The laughter stopped and she was suddenly quite serious. "Z, the last thing you need is someone like Richie setting you up on a blind date. I am sorry but it is impossible to imagine you and Richie mixing in the same social circles. Indeed you all but admitted as much when you were here, he being the unwelcome companion who took the liberty of inviting himself.

In any event, even if I am mistaken, 'Attraction' is such a fickle mistress that she demands stimulation and satisfaction on many different levels. Physically, mentally, aesthetically, socially, the list is endless. The idea of you finding your soul mate through a blind date organised by young Richie is ridiculous in the extreme. One could say, quite _mental_. Tell me I am wrong?" The joke was aimed at me but the question was stated more as a demand of approval for her assertions, completely confident that she was correct. Although there was a compliment hiding in there somewhere, I chose to ignore it.

"That comes dangerously close to being another stereotypical observation my good Lady?"

"Oh come now Z, there is no need for that. I intend no offence, merely an observation. Look at Richie's uncouth and unbecoming comments regarding lavatory graffiti. It was obvious that you were as uncomfortable as I was myself. I would go further and guess that you had not spent much time with Richie either before or since your visit here, with no plans to do so anytime soon? So, please, play fair."

"I didn't realise we were playing at all," a rather pitiful and pathetic response to her gentle scolding. I didn't want to upset her any further so quickly moved on. "He has a good heart young Richard and all he was trying to do was, in his own way, look after my best interests and, for that, I am grateful. Actually, the reason that I describe the night as 'mental' was all through my own doing rather than the fault being attributable to anyone else." It was said in all sincerity although I have no idea why I am still defending both Richie and Sian whilst exposing myself.

"So why do you describe the evening as 'mental'?" She had relaxed again and seemed genuinely interested. At least I think it's genuine. It may not have been but how would I know any different? All I knew was that she was on the other end of my phone and we had yet to talk about my T-shirt and she was determined that we have this conversation before any other. Admittedly, I was rather enjoying myself and it was great to hear from her again.

Still, she persisted and prompted me further, "Did everything not go as planned?"

The smooth calmness of her voice is so seductive, and with such a soothing tone that is so comforting, that it elicits my trust in a way that I am helpless to comprehend. I only intended to only disclose the pertinent details of the evening but to my surprise, found that once I started, I just couldn't stop. Every last excruciating detail of my own shameful behaviour poured forth and included the full blown events at home thereafter, culminating with the explanation of my failure to respond to her text until now. She maintained her silence for much too long after I had finished. "Hello? You still there?" I asked, immediately hoping we had been cut off nearer the beginning than the end of my confession.

"Yes, I am still here. How fascinating."

That was all she had to say?

"Fascinating? Really?" It certainly wasn't the reaction I was expecting. Where was the sense of judgment?

"Definitely." She took a second as if to gather her thoughts, then continued, "If you can forgive me Z but this is as close as I will ever get to a blind date and so I have thoroughly enjoyed living the experience vicariously through you. I do hope you don't mind?" she said it as if this was now our secret.

"Of course I don't mind. Why would I mind? If anything, I am hoping that you can help me to understand what the hell happened. It seemed like my brain had melted and someone else was talking for me." I was peering through my fingers as my hand now covered my face, trying to contain yet another fresh flush of embarrassment.

"Well it is quite obvious to me that your performance was perfectly understandable." _My performance? What an odd use of words._ Ignorant to my thought, she continued, "Considering your relatively recent separation, combined with the fact that you had no sincere intention of seeing Sian again even before you met her, then you were being cruel to be kind. That much is obvious. You were pushing her away for both your sakes. Women, intuitively, can see this. It is what makes you men even more enchanting and endearing to us ladies. You see, we covet most what we do not understand, and you men are wonderfully enigmatic."

Now I was even more confused. She had provided me with more questions than answers. " _Really?_ I had never thought of it that way. Why, then, do I feel so... so... so _dirty?_ " I had taken two showers today and also thrown away the soiled bed linen. New bedding had also been acquired in my IKEA excursion.

Yet I still felt dirty.

Penny responded without hesitation. "Another easy question. I really would have thought you would have been able to determine this for yourself but it is understandable that you cannot, given that the memory is still fresh and the experience all too real. Being an outsider, it's altogether easier for me to see. As a man, you are expected to pursue sex, the proverbial 'sexual predator' if you will. You obviously did everything, albeit on a subconscious level, to subvert this from happening. Sian obviously had higher hopes from the date than you and so your actions took the sex decision away from her. It was no longer her decision as to whether she should have sex with you as you obviously did not want sex with her.

This is quite understandable when it is considered that you are still in a marital mind set. As such, you are feeling 'dirty' as it were, for many reasons. Firstly, you consider yourself to still be married and so you feel dirty, as you were 'unfaithful' to this relationship. Warped, I know, but nonetheless true. Secondly, from your description of events, you were an unwilling partner and, as such, Sian technically _raped_ you. You feel dirty for this but yet have to fight your own nature as you are designed to pursue sex and, by your own admission, she was a very attractive girl. Ergo, you feel dirty."

I was completely stunned. What she said made far too much sense. "I would hardly think I was raped. I mean, I did enjoy it and it certainly made me realise what I have been missing. Also, she was incredible. Far better than I have been used to, sexually, and she left when I was asleep and never stole anything. That's got to be a bonus?" I tried to change the tone with a small joke as I was deeply uncomfortable with the idea that I had been raped. Granted, I had never thought of it that way but this was Penny's description.

"So are you seeing Sian again?" I was relieved at the change of subject although was certain I could detect an element of judgment in her question.

"No, I really don't think so. Of course, I never say never but I think that my embarrassment far outweighs any benefit from having guaranteed sex; no matter how good, bad, or indifferent it was."

"Good, I do not think that would be such a good idea." The gentry really do confuse the crap out of me. Why was she so bothered anyway?

"So you have never had a blind date?" I was definitely intrigued and happy to shift the focus of the conversation away from me for a change.

"Where could I have a blind date? Everyone in the UK aristocracy knows who the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes are and so there is no mystery for a blind date. Indeed, it is only in the most recent of times that they have been left to find their own partners. Arranged marriages, whether stated so publicly or not, have been very much the norm. I was most fortunate in that I am an only child and my parents rigidly agreed that my happiness was of paramount importance and that no such burdensome social restrictions should hinder me." It was stated as a matter of fact but yet there was no hiding her pride of her parents.

_And rightly so,_ thought I to myself. It struck me just how little I knew of her world and yet she had revolutionised my opinion and instilled in me a new found respect for her and her ilk. "It would seem that your parents were both thoughtful and loving. Given the peer pressures you describe, one could almost say visionary."

"Indeed. Although I would have preferred to have had an altogether more normal life. It is difficult to shake that feeling of responsibility that one feels when holding such an auspicious title as 'The Lady Penelope of Auchtershinnan'. I always strive to hold myself to such a standard as to make my parents proud of me. That would include all those sundry considerations in my choice of husband whilst also being true to oneself in my selection. This in no way allows for blind dates in a pub as such a discovery would be fodder for the media whilst also bringing shame onto the family. One must keep up appearances even though one understands the folly in such actions. Forgive me being so blunt and sounding undoubtedly judgmental but please do not, even for a second, think that I would not enjoy such an endeavour. I can guarantee that I would. It would be nice to be 'normal', if even just for the littlest while.

In the meantime, I shall listen to your tales and enjoy them from afar. If you don't mind of course? I would perfectly understand if your discomfort prohibits my wish."

It seemed, for the most part, she had been talking to me as the title rather than the person. I paused to consider the magnitude of what she had just said, albeit in such a factual manner. Never had I before considered how fortunate I was to enjoy such anonymity in my own personal pursuit of happiness. How could I deny her the opportunity to share in my experiences? I actually found myself feeling sorry for her. "I certainly have no issue whatsoever in regaling you with my exploits. However, there are two conditions."

"Ah, yes, the conditions. There are always conditions. It is plain to see that you may be a friend but the lawyer is always there, lurking under the surface." She was teasing but she was also correct.

"I suppose that is true. Anyway, the first condition is that you are equally honest with me. As you have just described me as a "friend", this should be of no issue to you. Secondly, everything that we discuss remains private at all times. These are conversations between you and I alone. Agreed?" This came out way sterner than I expected.

"Definitely. In actual fact, I was going to suggest the very same two conditions to you." She said with a chuckle.

"Anyway, I have to go." I had unintentionally parked in the very same spot that Sian had used the previous evening and, as the realisation hit me, I felt the same deep discomfort all over again. All I really wanted to do now was empty the car and take my new mattress and bedding into my house. Maybe move the car into another spot while I'm at it. "Feel free to give me a call if ever you are bored or else you can wait until after my next experience as a reluctant sex object. Although that could be a while!" I said this in fun but I was already looking forward to hearing from her again.

"Ha! Okay, I daren't risk it. We shall talk again sooner than that, I'm sure. I really have enjoyed our chat and you certainly have cheered me up. Let me know if you hear from Sian again. Or Gemma. Either or would be equally interesting. It is a tangled web you weave Mr MacLeod. Goodbye for now." I could still her chuckling as the line went dead.

It was only as I exited the car that I realised that she still hadn't arranged for my T-shirt to be sent to me.
13

### Black Friday

Friday 13th February

In law, often the most untrustworthy evidence is that of the eyewitness. Statistics have proven that the human recollection to eyewitness events is only 62% accurate. Unsurprisingly, this figure drops significantly when there are multiple eyewitnesses. The reason for this is that people see things in a uniquely biased perspective and, as such, the same situation shall be recounted differently in accordance with the individual's perception.

A police friend of mine gave me the perfect example of this. She had been called to the scene of a particularly horrific road traffic accident where the male driver had been decapitated. Whilst his body was still strapped into the car, his head had been catapulted through the windscreen and came to rest further on down the road. The family had heard the news and raced to the scene. They were fully informed that the accident had resulted in decapitation but they still demanded the right to identify their relative immediately. In accordance with their wishes–and in the interests of sensitivity, and full knowledge that there was no doubt of identity–my friend placed the severed head on a towel and as deferentially as possible, raised it to show the family.

"No, that isn't him" said the man's mother. The rest of the relatives seemed subdued and so only added to my police friend's confusion. There she was, standing with the dead man's head atop a towel in her upturned hand, looking repeatedly between it and the family.

"Are you sure? Please understand, we have every reason to believe that this is your son and so need you to be quite certain." My friend asked this as sensitively as the situation allowed. She knew that there was no doubt of the identity but such was the mother's insistence that it wasn't her son, it caused my friend to question how the mother could be so definite.

"I am positive that is not my son. The reason is quite simple." She had stated defiantly. Clinging to her last shred of hope, she declared: "He was taller than that."

Proof positive that tragedy often invokes the greatest comedy.

However, life is not a court of law and there is not the same requirement of proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Far less so in fact. Actually if, indeed, at all. Yet there are some circumstances that are irrefutable, no matter who has witnessed them. Gemma's email was one such instance that I had read and witnessed for myself. It had been over six weeks since we had last spoke and here, the day before St. Valentines Day, she had sent me an email that had me now questioning my own recollection of those events that led to our separation. Worse still, she had me doubting myself and what I knew to be true

Dear Z,

I have tried to be respectful and give you the time and the space that you obviously need to calm down and see reason. Why have you not contacted me? I am prepared to sit down and address all the problems in our marriage and work everything out. You obviously need a greater challenge than truck driving and I am prepared, as I always have been, to support you in this.

Now is the time for you to move on and forge a career and so you should pursue your PhD. You have enough intelligence and ability for this. It would provide a proper career with job security that would ensure a sound financial future for our children.

I return to Scotland next week to resume my own PhD so shall be back home then. I look forward seeing you there where we can discuss our marriage rationally as adults.

Love

Your Wife x

My instinctive reaction was to immediately respond and unleash the fury that had manifestly grown in concert with the reading of every single word of her email. No mention at all of her infidelity, no mention at all of our argument, no mention at all of any of the major issues that needed talking about. On the contrary, she takes this opportunity to highlight how it's _my_ fault for not contacting _her_ and the usual, and entirely predictable, demeaning of my profession. A profession that she has never had any issue with spending the earnings that it has generated. Spending, as I discovered, that included meals with _him_.

Yet this was all _my_ fault?

Even now, rather than being in any way contrite, she thinks it best to be pushy, cajoling, and manipulative. "Encouraging" me down the path of further study and qualifications in the pursuit of a career that she wants for me rather than the one that I might want for myself. This was an all too perfect example of attack being the best form of defence.

Yet, bizarrely, it is her lack of grammatical errors that are driving me crazy. Everything just had to be perfect, as usual. I used to love that about her, that she was as fastidious as me. She has just succeeded in irritating me further by having me now wondering if I am bi-polar or, at the very least, OCD.

Now I am completely unsure if my anger is aimed at her or myself. One thing is for certain, I am angry. My fingers are poised over the keyboard and words and sentences spinning and tumbling around in my head. I want to respond but know that now is not the right time. Anything I write would be venomous and vitriolic and, whilst undoubtedly satisfying, could bite me on the ass later.

Yet I need to vent.

I need a friend.

I need Penny.

It had been over two weeks since we had spoke and, try as I might, I could find no reason to call in the interim. Evidently, neither could she. I felt a tingle of excitement as I heard her phone ring.

"Hello Z, well you certainly know how to keep a lady in suspense" she said with a chuckle, obviously happy to hear from me. It seemed to me that she emphasised the word "lady" but I could be mistaken. More likely paranoia on my part. Her tone really was most disarming and I felt myself relax even as I told her of Gemma's email. Surprisingly, she insisted upon hearing it verbatim. "So what are you going to do? She is, after all, your wife and you are still officially married. Is it not worth fighting for?" Her questions seemed to lack any real sincerity.

"Penny" I said her name with an authoritative emphasis to ensure she knew quite how serious I was, "my marriage is _over_. I can never forget and so how could I forgive? We have no children and so nobody shall be hurt, other than us two–and I have done my hurting." I said this but knew that my hurt was more of a "work in progress" than completely finished, but at least the majority of it was complete. Well, I hoped so anyway. My pause had been just a shade too long so I quickly continued "Anyway, maybe we would have had a chance if we were just living together, but not after being married."

"What a curious thing to say. Why would it have been different had you been living together rather than the more altogether serious commitment of being married?" She was genuinely perplexed and seeking some sort of clarity.

Time for me to impart one of my pearls of wisdom. After all, it would be selfish to keep it to myself. "I have lived with someone before and there is a completely different psyche and attitude in that relationship when compared to being married to someone. In my experience, all people, like it or not, have a preconceived idea of what they will and wont accept from their respective husband or wife.

This is altogether different from simply living together.

Somehow, everything becomes more serious when you are married. When I lived with someone before and, say, went for a drink with friends after work, this was entirely acceptable because what else could be said? We were friends as well as lovers and my partner accepted that she was neither my mother nor my wife. Similarly, if she had chosen to do the same, then what right did I have to complain?

However, when I did this as a husband, suddenly my wife believed that marriage afforded her some sort of preconceived right of control. 'No _husband of mine_ shall be staying out with his friends and drinking _our_ money.'

Do you see what I'm saying? Does this make sense?"

"Hmmm, I think so. It's certainly an interesting analogy. So, why does this apply with you and Gemma?" It struck me as odd that she said "Gemma" rather than "wife", although I have no idea why.

"Well, how can I trust my _wife_ to not cheat again? If we were just living together, we could each simply take our things and go. As we are married, it's altogether more serious. As such, I cannot do that and just quickly move on."

In explaining this to Penny, the seriousness of my situation hit me. I started to talk to myself as much as to her. "I mean, who would want to be entangled with me in this situation? A separated man is still a married man until divorced, irrespective of what the law or anyone else says. Time is what is needed for me to get through this and be ready to start a new relationship. When I can once again feel that I have something to offer. It is somewhat easier to move on given that we lived through the enforced separation for practically six months whilst she was in Brussels. Although, on reflection, it is painfully obvious that she saw this more as a marital sabbatical."

There was no doubt I was failing miserably to disguise my disgust and disappointment.

"Yes, her actions certainly spoke volumes. So what will you do regarding her email?" Penny really has such a comforting way about her. Not at all mothering, but somehow just talking with her made me feel less alone with someone that actually cared. I understand not what her motivations are for such kindness and generosity, both of time and spirit. I only know that I am so thankful she is there for me. It's both soothing and confusing as to why I instinctively feel I can trust her implicitly. Maybe it's my stereotypical understanding of her class that they naturally know how to be discreet and keep secrets. Whatever the reason, I am just grateful.

I started to reply "I have no idea..." when my phone bleeped. "Sorry, give me a second, I'm getting a text." I had started to read the text and was so immediately rapt in its contents that I inadvertently blurted out _"Well, fuck me..."_

"I'm afraid that would be physically impossible given our respective locations." Penny's voice invaded my consciousness.

What did she just say...?

"I'm sorry?" between the text and Penny's statement, I was momentarily stunned. My focus shifting from one to the other, unsuccessfully trying to ascertain what was actually going on.

"You said 'fuck me' and I merely pointed out the logistical difficulties in such a suggestion." She was teasing me and I would have ordinarily enjoyed it and delighted in stewing on its implications, but the text had shocked me in the truest sense of the word.

"Actually, I really am sorry Penny. Please forgive my language." I was about to continue but she interrupted me.

"Z, I have heard profanity before and it really doesn't offend me in the least. Actually, for the most part, I find it quite amusing. It also makes you seem more natural to me given that you are constantly trying to be so careful in your word selection. This is part of the 'being brutally honest with each other' that we agreed to be, is it not?" She certainly made a point and, on any other day, I may have tried to argue but not today. Today had been crazy enough without trying to argue whether it was okay for me to curse. "So do you want to tell me about the text?"

"I am not entirely sure." I meant it. I really wasn't sure. "That said, we both know I would just tell you about it later anyway so may as well tell you now. This is very strange and most definitely odd." I had just said the same thing in two different ways, this days cannot be over quickly enough.

"It's from Sian."

"Sian? Your rapist?" she blurted out through unsuppressed laughter. "What can she possibly want other than to abuse you more?"

"Please don't call her my 'rapist'. It really makes me feel emasculated, not to mention the fact that it is a most disturbing thought, however true it may be." It really was. "It's in textspeak which, as I am sure you know drives me crazy, but the basic gist is that she has a family wedding tomorrow and she has accepted with a partner but has no-one to take. As going alone would be embarrassing, she is asking if I would please go with her. Apparently there's a free bar and an overnight stay in a country hotel and she is happy to drive. She needs my answer ASAP." In the midst of my compounded dilemmas, a wry smile had formulated in response to my pleasant surprise that Sian had spelt "ASAP" correctly.

I really can be an asshole sometimes.

Given Penny's initial reaction, her response really surprised me. "Do you have any other plans for tomorrow? It is St Valentine's Day so the perfect day for a wedding. You should go. At least you know there will be sex for you. Certainly for her." Penny seemed to be enjoying my discomfort with Sian a little too much.

At least we had moved on from my situation with Gemma.

"I don't have any plans. I was going to work but could change that easily enough. I would like the opportunity to show her the real me rather than the gibbering fool that I was last time." This could be interesting and certainly more fun than working.

"Yeah right, you are just thinking of the sex." Penny was teasing me but I couldn't deny that was an appealing factor. On reflection, I had actually enjoyed being the subject of such wanton desire. It was certainly a new experience for me and at least I would have an idea of what to expect over the weekend.

"I keep telling you, I am a gentleman and, as such, what would it say about my character if I were to go merely for the free meal, free bar, and free sex? I would counter such a lewd suggestion with stating that this simply highlights my chivalrous qualities in helping this particular damsel in obvious distress. Her time of _need_ if you will." The joke was deliberate although my sentiment was almost genuine. I was also attempting to convince Penny as well as myself that there was some sort of nobility in my actions.

In between her chuckling, Penny muttered "Yeah right". She could be wonderfully dismissive. "Do let me know how you get on. I simply must know how this turns out."

We said our goodbyes and I texted Sian to say that I would happily be her escort and finalised the details. I also decided to enjoy the weekend before replying to Gemma.

If I only knew what I was letting myself in for, Black Friday indeed.
14

### The Wedding Crasher

Saturday 14th February

It was only in the crisp and dry February sunlight that I could fully appreciate how gorgeous Sian actually was. It was especially difficult to admit to myself given how ugly our last encounter had been.

As usual, she had been early to pick me up and so we had arrived at the wedding–over 70 miles away–on time and in relative silence. Given how intimate we had been before it was surreal to be acting like the strangers we were. Indeed, the only conversation of note was her confirming the plans for the weekend. It would seem that we were to play the happy couple for her family's benefit and, thereafter, we had a room booked at a local hotel. She intended to stay only as long as decency dictated and then we would slip away and take things from there. I took that to mean another exhausting night of complete and unbridled debauchery.

I couldn't wait.

However, something altogether different happened. In the meeting of her family and the subsequent celebrations, I found that I was actually enjoying myself. It turns out that Sian has an absolutely brilliant family who were most welcoming. In the midst of our charade, I was overcome with feelings of guilt that we weren't quite the happy couple that they thought us to be.

I really have been scaling the steepest of learning curves since my separation.

Sian's parents were childhood sweethearts who were so tactile and loving with one another that it made me feel somewhat ashamed for my contemptuous attitude towards the very idea that first loves could actually be true loves. If there is any truth in what they say, that if you want to know how the daughter shall look in thirty years then look no further than the mother, then Sian was destined for eternal beauty. They could have been sisters. A rough guess would have placed her mother at over 60 but looked at least 15 years younger and a figure that Sian's peers would envy.

Her father was a tall and elegant man who had impeccable manners and who was quite fleet of foot on the dance floor. He was also incredibly funny. I was outside catching a breath of air when he caught me unawares. After the usual pleasantries, he started to ask the usual fatherly questions that I was most ill-equipped to answer. It would seem that making me feel most uncomfortable is a family trait. Thankfully, Sian came to the rescue the moment she saw her father and I talking alone.

I am certain that was as much for her own benefit as it was for mine.

The night was wearing on and the bride and groom had departed when Sian caught up with me and asked for a quiet word. As the wedding reception was all but over, her parents had decided to take a chosen few relatives back to their home to continue the party. As their daughter, it would be frowned upon if she refused to go. Did I mind? It was then that I came to the stark realisation that I had absolutely no control whatsoever whenever I was around this girl. It was obvious that my saying "no" would only embarrass us both. Not that I wanted to say no. On the contrary, I was actually quite happy to continue the party. So, ever the gentleman, I readily agreed. Her face lit in delight and I knew that my reward would be later in the privacy of our own bedroom.

Oh, how wrong was I?

The party went on until the early hours of the morning. It was as people started to disappear into the night that Sian informed me that the hotel had a midnight curfew and so we had no choice but to stay at her parents place. As we hadn't actually checked into the promised hotel, I began to realise that there had been no reservation and that this had been the plan all along. It would also explain why she had ensured that I always had a drink in my hand. Now, I was too drunk to care where I slept.

Her parents house was a homely little bungalow that has her bedroom directly opposite that of her parents. I was dead on my feet when I stumbled into bed. Sex was the furthest thing from my mind although that didn't stop her trying to squeeze some life out of my little man.

Alas, to no avail, and she soon gave up.

During the night I awoke with the overwhelming desire to pee. As the bathroom was along the hallway, I had no choice but to leave the bedroom. It was too much of a risk to take in my naked state so I opted for Sian's pink housecoat that was hanging behind the door. I had to put it on back to front to hide my modesty and, as deftly as possible, I made my way to the toilet. I thought it best that I sit to pee as this was the easiest option presented by the housecoat, combined with the fact that I was still drunk and half asleep, and so I was on autopilot for this whole undertaking. It would also be a quieter pee as I wouldn't have to try aiming for the side of the porcelain.

An important consideration for any man when first visiting their girlfriend's parents.

After what seemed an age, I finished and flushed. I washed my hands and sat down on the seat for a few minutes to ensure that I hadn't disturbed anyone. Convinced that all was fine, I left the bathroom and made my way back into Sian's room. Stealth like, I dropped the housecoat of the floor and slipped under the covers. She was in the foetal position and I snuggled in tight behind her.

It was only then that I realised I was hard.

Obviously, my cock was more awake than the rest of me. It found its way into the groove of her ass, with the tip snaking up her lower back. She obviously felt my excitement and needed no more encouragement, her soft hand expertly working its magic. I reached around and put my hand down between her legs to find that she was just as ready as I was. She let out a soft moan as she guided me into her. Just as she released her hand and I was about to push myself deep inside, I heard my name being whispered from the bedroom door.

I turned to see Sian in the doorway.

"Z, come to bed" she whispered again as she picked up her housecoat and threw it at me. Completely confused, I looked beside me to see Sian's mum smiling back at me and, on her other side, Sian's father sleeping in blissful ignorance. _It was only then that I realised that I was still inside this woman!_ With an embarrassment that I am certain lit up the bedroom, I backed out of the bed and crept out of the bedroom with the housecoat just about covering my modesty.

Inexplicably, I was still hard.

When I climbed into Sian's bed, she was already fast asleep. Or, at least, I hoped she was asleep. I didn't care to check.

In the morning, I awoke to find the bed was already empty and I could hear movement around the house but I was too afraid to move with the memory still fresh of my sleepy antics. Finally, bravery mixed with desperation forced me out and I got dressed. Entering the kitchen, I found Sian was there with only her mother. I looked at them both for a read of the situation. There was nothing. No one would look at me. _Great._ How fucking uncomfortable am I?

"Good morning Z," her mother said as she was tending the breakfast in the frying pan.

"Good morning" I replied, as best and as confidently as I could muster.

"I take it you would like these eggs unfertilised?" Then both Sian and her mother burst out laughing.

I could only join in as the relief swept over me.

It wasn't until we were in the car on the journey home did Sian mention it again. Well, when I say mention it, only after I asked if everything was okay and if her father was aware of what had happened. "No, Dad slept through the whole thing. Everything is fine, Mum thought you were Dad and is as embarrassed as you are. However, I told her it was an honest mistake and she should give you a break. She was happy to do that but she just couldn't resist having a little fun this morning. She has a devilish sense of humour my mum."

I couldn't disagree with that.

We had just joined the motorway when Sian continued the conversation. This was a most unusual and altogether unexpected development as I was expecting silence for the remainder of the journey home. "To be honest, I was hoping that we would have had sex this weekend but it seems it wasn't to be."

She looked at me and saw I was struggling for a response. She really is quite blunt and forthright with her wants and desires. Such forwardness is completely new to me and I still have no idea what to think about it. Recalling what Penny had said about actions speaking louder than words, the fact of the matter was that I was here on what could only be best construed as a warped second date. Given that we had sex on our first "date" then there was no logical reason why Sian should not have expected sex on our second, I certainly did. So where was she going with this?

She continued speaking and broke my train of thought.

"So..., here is what I was thinking. It's a long way to go before we are home. I have just passed a sign that said the next service area is 27 miles away. You probably don't know this but a huge turn on for us girls is to watch a man masturbate. So, why don't you put the seat back and have a little play until we reach those services? That will really get me going and, by then, I will be bubbling and ready for action. We could run inside and dive into the disabled toilets and you could take me quickly from behind and we would be back on the road within 15 minutes. The perfect way to break up the journey. What do you think?" As she said this, her hand had found my crotch and was gently rubbing some life into my disgraced member. It was made worse by the fact that I was still wearing the dress trousers from the day before and so they weren't as constrictive as jeans.

What did I think? "I think you are crazy." I really did. Never have I known anyone like her before and it just makes me even more confused because I have no idea whether I like it or not.

Frustratingly frustrating.

"Yeah, I've been told that before. Come on, don't make me feel bad for suggesting it. You can't say it doesn't turn you on? I can feel you getting hard." She wasn't wrong.

"Well, yeah, I suppose it does." There was no denying that I was turned on and I really didn't want to make her feel bad for the suggestion as I knew how mortified I would feel in her position. Now was one of those times where I needed to be a gentleman and so I should agree just to save her embarrassment.

"Come on then." She reached across to unzip me and her hand darted inside. In one swift movement, that same hand held my full glory in the morning sunshine and I was loving every second of it. It then struck me that, as I hadn't had a shower, her mothers juices were still on my tip.

The very same tip that she was now happily drawing her thumb over.

This knowledge somehow just made this whole situation even more erotic, as if it were some sort of kinky threesome, but not really. Another brain fuck for me. Yet I could feel myself building up to an explosive conclusion right there and then at the very thought of it.

Thankfully this was averted as my concentration was broken by the all too familiar noise of the rumble strips on the hard shoulder. They sent a vibration through the car and I instantly opened my eyes to see that we were veering into the hard shoulder. She could so easily have went the other way and into the other lanes of traffic. Whilst I was happy to play along with her little fantasy–to be honest, I was passed the point of no return–but we needed to make sure that we actually made it safely to the service station to ensure its fairy tale ending. "Okay, you just drive." I replaced her hand with my own and put my seat back, dropped my trousers and lay back.

Now, something all ladies may or may not know, but there is a tendon that is directly connected to a man's eyes from his penis. This tendon only operates when he gets aroused and so, the harder a man gets, the tighter his eyes close. This correlates that when he slowly gets hard, his eyes slowly close. In this, I am no different. No longer could I see the threatening heavy grey clouds that intermittently blocked out the February sun as my eyes were fully closed, albeit still facing heavenward.

I was aware that Sian had started dirty talking to me at this point although there really was no need. The cinema in my head was playing the new feature: _"I Know What You Did Last Night"_ and it was just getting to the good bit. This was where I had just entered her mum and Sian was just about to join us although, this time, her father was nowhere to be seen. Sadly, the only real penetration was her voice tearing through my imagination and dragging me back to reality.

" _Oh that's it baby, get hard for me. That is such a turn on, you have no idea how wet I am. I am dripping baby, all for you. I can feel it, I'm touching myself and thinking it's you. I want you to fuck me. Really fuck me. I am so fucking ready for you. I want you deep inside me..."_

She was getting carried away and so was I. Really carried away. In fact, I got too carried away, and proceeded to explode so hard that the first wave of fluids to leave my body immediately made a dramatic return by filling my right ear. The second squirt, I later saw, hit the ceiling of the car.

I was completely drained and quietly relaxed back into the seat with my cock still in my hand, gently stroking my other head in approval. The car had gone silent when I had climaxed so it could only be surmised that she had enjoyed the show. There was no way of knowing how long I had lasted but, between my fantasy and her dirty talk, we must still be 20 miles short of the services.

As my cock softened, the tendon relinquished control of my eyelids and they slowly opened, a smug smile of self satisfaction adorned my face. At this point, my head was facing out of the passenger window although I had been lost in the moment and so had been paying no heed to the outside world. Happily cocooned in the car, swathed in my own ignorance, completely trusting of Sian.

Had I learned nothing from this girl and her family?

My senses slowly returned as my bigger brain began to take back control from my hairy brain, when I suddenly realised that we were in the overtaking lane. Looking up through the window I saw what must have been a hundred faces staring back at me from an old folks tour bus, obviously out on a day trip somewhere. It seemed that every single passenger was staring down at me, frozen in shock as I was, with my cock still in hand and trousers at my ankles. Each male face portraying their own unique look of shock and disgust, with each of the females apparently finding the whole episode hilarious.

Two of the ladies, one with purple hair and the other bright red, actually gave me the thumbs up!

It would seem that my big finish was all too quick for Sian and this was her revenge. In spite of my repeated requests that were tantamount to begging, she refused to leave the shadow of the bus and so only prolonged my humiliation. She also thought it funny to ask me, _"So why does premature ejaculation take so long to say?"_

Ironically, it was the bus that took the exit for the services as Sian had obviously decided that our moment had passed. She took me straight home without uttering another word. Indeed, she never even responded to my sullen "goodbye" and drove away as soon as I closed the still tinny car door.

My weekend's misery was complete when Penny called on Sunday evening to wallow in my discomfort. Apparently she had been thinking about nothing other than my predicament the whole weekend and could not wait a second longer to find out what had happened. She absolutely squealed with the delight of a child as I explained each excruciating detail.

"Spare nothing now Z, complete honesty. Remember?"

Remember? How could I forget? Now she knows that I am, quite literally, a voyeuristic wanker.
15

### Wishing I Was Lucky

Wednesday 18th February

It really is strange how seeing one thing can lead you to thinking of something completely different. Today, for example, I saw a mother berate her child for running off. They were getting out of their car and the mother had stood the child to the side as she took out the stroller. As she did so, the little girl saw her chance for a run. The rain was pounding the pavement and there was no protection on her head as her jacket hood had fallen down. The child's glee had made me smile as she tore away for freedom with look of sheer joy on her innocent wee face. In the middle of that busy car park, she was blissfully unaware of the dangers to herself nor the anxiety and stress her actions were causing her mum. Her mum who had now abandoned everything and was racing after her. It was over in seconds but this was undoubtedly a lifetime in her mum's eyes.

The relief on her face in that split second when she recaptured her daughter was one reserved exclusively for all mothers everywhere.

That's when I realised that I had been so wrapped up with my own life and its problems that I had completely ignored my own parents. It has been weeks since we last spoke and I know they will be beside themselves with worry. It was only now, after seeing a child run away from its parent, that I see that this is exactly what I have been doing myself. Yet there is no better time for such an epiphany seeing that I need advice in how to deal with Gemma's email.

How absolutely shameful.

It is an unenviable juxtaposition for my parents, trying to find that right balance of giving me space to cope whilst also being so desperate to help. They would never contact me for fear of such action being misconstrued as "interfering". As with most parents, the good ones anyway, they would rather give me the space to come to them when they are needed. I suppose I will never fully understand this particular dilemma until I have children of my own. Indeed, it has taken me over thirty years to have even considered what parents go through when worrying for their children. I never needed to before and I suppose I don't really need to now. Certainly they aren't expecting me to be so considerate. They never have. I wonder if I am the only child that has come to this conclusion on their own. I imagine not but I would guess, statistically, I am in the minority and this realisation pleases me no end.

A steep learning curve indeed.

Parents have a way of cutting through the nonsense and honing straight on the point. It's why we love and hate them in equal measure, I suppose. Sometimes the harsh reality is not what we want. This is most often an opportunity for us children to berate them for "not understanding". Yet I now know that all they want is to ease their child's suffering and pain as quickly and efficiently as possible. Again, this much is understandable. In my case, however, I seem to enjoy wallowing in my own misery for a while to fully consider and so exhaust every possible outcome before making any major life decisions. In my current predicament, it was more akin to flogging the dead horse before finally shooting it.

This is just my way and my folks understand and respect this. They always have although it could hardly have ever been easy for them. I can only hope that, in this regard, my parents are unique inasmuch as they are the same as everyone else's.

I shall confine our conversation to Gemma's email. This would take up enough time and let them feel involved in my life. This keeps us all happy. The last thing I needed now was any moral judgments on my own behaviour. As it was, my parents saw me as the prince of the piece and Gemma the wicked witch, why burst that bubble? I had their sympathy and that is good enough for me, for I still reigned supreme as the self styled "King of self-pity".

I sat down in my sentinel's seat that allowed me the optimum view of the car park, although I was far more interested in watching the rain that was pounding rhythmically against the window. Wearing jogging bottoms and an old rugby top, I grabbed the cotton throw over from the couch, pulling it tight around me and called home.

Ironically, I had a look more befitting the wicked witch than the prince.

On hearing my voice, my mother asked me to hold on a second. It seemed that Dad was to be allowed to partake in this particular conversation given that Mum had taken the time to put me on speakerphone. I read them Gemma's email and found that the tone of my voice grew louder and harder with the slow and deliberate pronunciation of each passing word. Anger was to blame for this–even although I already knew what was to be read–yet still I could not suppress this most basic of emotions. When I finished reading, I offered nothing more by way of opinion and chose to remain silent. It instinctively felt right to allow them to fully absorb the implications in order to advise me accordingly. As such, it was Mum who spoke first. Her reaction was pleasing if completely unexpected. It is only in times of trial and triumph that you fully see people for who and what they really are.

My tactile, gentle, and loving mum?

Underneath it all she is a champion.

"Is she _fucking_ kidding? Not a single mention of her indiscretions, her infidelity? Not a single ounce of remorse?" Dad tried to calm her down but that only made her worse. "No, I will not calm _fucking_ down. That is _my_ son. _Our_ son. Are you happy to just sit there and listen to this... this... _SHIT_?"

Dad was now in the firing line.

"I'm sorry Dad. Mum, if I had known it would upset you this much I never would have mentioned it. I just want you guys to know what is going on and, being honest, I could really use some advice. I am so betwixt and between that I need to know if you think my marriage is worth fighting for. Is this one of the 'downs' that married couples go through?"

A reasonable enough question I thought.

It seems, yet again, I was wrong.

"No, this is not a fucking 'down', this is a marriage knock out." I really have no idea where my mum keeps coming up with these boxing metaphors. Is it wrong that I find them highly amusing? Under the circumstances, it is quite inappropriate and I am so glad that they cannot see my smile that she has generated. Her anger at my situation has completely replaced my own. "No son of mine is _ever_ second best to _any_ man. _Ever!_ "

"Dad, what do you think?" I was really getting rather concerned with my mum's reaction, not to mention her blood pressure. Asking Dad might calm her down. His reaction was equally as surprising as Mum's.

"Do you still love her son? If you do, then follow your heart. If not, then let her go. Whatever you decide, we will support." This was obviously not what Mum wanted to hear.

"No, we most certainly will..." was all Mum could say before Dad cut her off.

"Yes, we will. Whatever _you_ want son, _we will_ support." It had been years since I had last heard my father use this tone. It was menacingly authoritative and it stunned my mother into silence. He had decided that this conversation was done and so concluded with, "Well keep in touch and let us know how things go. She will always be made welcome here if you decide to remain married. Whatever you decide, keep in touch. Your mother worries, as do I. We love you son. Goodbye."

It was now that I began to see what my parents saw in each other. They had a mutual love and respect that I knew I would, and now could, never have with Gemma. For _her_ to be happy with _us_ , all my decisions would have to actually be _her_ decisions. No matter what _I_ said or did, no matter what "career" _I_ might have, it would never be good enough for her. I could live with my decisions but she could not. She would never accept any responsibility for her negative actions whereas I would always be defending mine. This was not the recipe for a happy relationship. One full of mutual love and respect. As all these thoughts settled in my head, I came to realise that it was actually over. My torment of the last few days in trying to draft the perfect email response quickly subsided. The email would be easy enough to write now.

Dear Gemma,

I have taken my time to fully consider our future as a married couple and can only conclude that there is none. As such, I shall be seeking legal representation in order to ensure our divorce is concluded as expediently and efficiently as possible.

I suggest that you do the same.

I wish you all that you wish for yourself. A clean break and a fresh start allows us both to move on and find the partners that I believe are destined for us. I wish you luck in that endeavour.

(I wished him luck too but I kept this to myself)

As it is my home in Scotland, I am happy to allow you to stay there in the short term but please try and find alternative accommodation as quickly as possible. In the interim, I shall remain in London so that there is no chance of us meeting each other, accidentally or otherwise.

Take care,

Z

I blind copied the email to Penny. I figured it was easier than trying to explain what had transpired between my parents, and I would have just read her the email anyway. This way she knows exactly what has gone on without the need for me to actually verbalise it. In hitting the "send" key, a sense of both relief and grief surged through me. Relief that it was over and grief for the death of my marriage.

After the message was sent, my screen defaulted to my inbox and I sat back and simply stared out the window for a few minutes, trying to take stock of the enormity of my actions. The rain was incessant but yet strangely comforting. The noise from my computer brought me back from my thoughts and the email response was far quicker than I had expected. Actually, I hadn't even thought of a response so hadn't expected anything. It was from Penny.

Are you okay? Call if you need me.

Call anyway.

Soon.

P x

How does she always seem to know just what to say? I shall call her, and it shall be soon.

Just not now.

Now I was alone with my thoughts and that is exactly what I wanted and needed to be.

Turning my attention back to the window, I saw through my pain that it was no longer raining. As my chest heaved, the tears came and my heart broke.
16

### Deaf, Dumb...And Dumber!

Friday 20th February

It had been two days with no response from Gemma. This was not what I had anticipated. Knowing her, she hated to fail in anything and that would include her marriage. I knew to expect something, but had no idea what to expect nor when to expect it.

There had also been no contact from Sian. That, in itself, was a relief but she had made me realise how important sex was to me and how much I had missed it. I missed the intimacy, the warmth, the most basic natural urge to copulate with another human being.

Someone other than my hand.

I used to be impulsive and carefree, something of a player. What I really needed was a drink and to be out in the world. London is on my doorstep for fuck sake, there is nowhere better to go out and have fun and enjoy yourself. I quickly called Ed before the notion wore off me. He readily agreed to come out to play–he always does–and so plans were hastily made and we met in the pub within the hour.

Ed is a great guy. He is slightly older than me and never married. He is entirely too sensible for that. Also, he has never had an alcoholic drink in his life. This is hugely advantageous for people like me when going out with him as he is always happy to be the designated driver. I once asked him why he has never taken a drink and it transpired that his uncle and aunt were alcoholics and so he associates alcohol with misery and hardship. Not a bad lesson learnt if you ask me. Mind you, I fully appreciate the virtues of a controlled alcoholic intake.

Not that tonight's intake was going to be in any way controlled.

There comes a point in every night where you end up chasing the party rather than being firmly ensconced within it. This often coincides with the moment that all logic, rhyme, and reason are abandoned too. Tonight was no different for me. We had landed at the local nightclub and were thoroughly enjoying the delights on offer when I was suddenly aware that I had lost Ed. If I had been sober, then this was the point when I would have just gone home. However, I was getting horny, and being drunk in a crowd of beautiful people gave me both Dutch courage and an element of hope. As long as there is even the merest sliver of hope, and an open bar, it is all but impossible for me to think rationally.

Wherever Ed was, I was certain that all my faculties were with him.

Selecting my optimal spot for the evenings predations, I made myself comfortable in the corner of the bar. There were two reasons for this. Firstly, I cannot dance to save my life. Us Scots aren't built to dance. If I were to dance, it is a sure fire guarantee that it will rain the next day. Secondly, leaning back against the wall and wedging my waist under the bar and my arm upon it, were the only things saving me from falling. I was also now drinking water in my shot glass, my drunken logic being that I was still looking mean and moody drinking what would appear to be straight vodka. In the cold light of day I can understand that this may not be the look that everyone else might see. However, that mattered not to me then.

As with every decent nightclub, it was rather busy. I found myself a barstool and decided that sitting would make me seem more suave and debonair. To be seen sitting alone in my little corner would only add to my enigmatic persona and so the barstool was ideal for my particular requirements. It was in my self made eyrie that I was approached–well, she more accidently bumped into me if truth be told–by a wonderfully buxom girl who exercised the best chat up line in the world upon me.

"Oh hello" she said.

"Hello" my witty retort. How intriguing, I was enjoying the verbal foreplay already. She was wearing heels so high that I was quite certain they were in a different postcode. As such, she stood at what must have been the better part of six feet. I decided to take this conversation to the next level.

"May I buy you a drink?" I asked with a smile on my lips and a twinkle in my eye.

"Vodka and cola, no ice." she responded in an equally flirtatious manner.

I took the drink and turned around to pass it to her and turned back to pay the barman. As I was handing over my money, I saw her hand place the glass back on the bar. Empty. Gone. Vamoose. She had downed the drink before I had even paid for it. Very impressive. As I turned to tell her so, she grabbed my collar and kissed me full on the mouth.

Naturally, I responded in kind.

She pushed me back, breaking the kiss. "Let's get a cab to your place. I want to fuck." Where had these girls been before when I was single? Sexual predators, these women are the future. Certainly they are _my_ future. Well, at least this one is. It wasn't until we were in my place that she spoke again. It was then that I realised why she was a woman of so few words.

"Toilet?" she demanded more than asked. I showed her where it was but it was immediately apparent in the way she asked that she was dumb. Not "dumb" as in stupid, but "dumb" in the way that she cannot speak properly. I hadn't noticed in the club as it was simply too loud. It wasn't until she came back into the living room that I discovered that she was deaf too.

Man, can I pick them?

What was I to do? Does deaf and dumb qualify as disabled? Is she really fair game to fuck? Am I taking advantage of this girl? So many questions and there is not one sober thought in my head. Every single instinct I have is screaming at me to fuck her. I have no clue if I am wearing beer goggles but she is looking _very_ attractive to me right now.

Totally fuckable.

_Totally_.

It's then that I remember that we are only here at _her_ insistence. It was she who wanted me to fuck her. She had actually said so. At least, I thought that's what she had said. She could have been yawning for all I know. Whatever, she was here now and she definitely wants to fuck me. What kind of gentleman would I be to refuse the request of this kindly buxom maiden? That question I actually do have an answer to. I would be no gentleman at all. Therefore it is only my duty to this poor lady to engage in sexual intercourse for her own benefit. I shall take the hit for the greater good.

_Her_ greater good.

I led her to my bed chamber with my virgin memory foam mattress adorned with its freshly laundered linen. This poor girl has no idea that she is to be regaled with me performing at my sexual peak, this naïve young woman destined to enjoy all the delights of the human flesh. She is getting it and no mistake. I entered my own bedroom with the swagger and arrogance to match any professor in a lecture hall. This was my realm, my domain.

Or so I thought.

No sooner had the door closed than she grabbed me, kissed me, then pushed me backwards onto the bed. Before I had fully settled into the bed, she was already undressing me and had me naked in under 20 seconds. No mean feat and quite remarkable. There is a growing suspicion within me that she may have done this before. She is already performing fellatio upon me whilst simultaneously undressing herself. This is simply wonderful and I am rapt in awe at her skills.

That was when things took a turn for the worse.

Whilst I have always been a most grateful recipient of oral sex, rarely has the contributor wandered off the area at hand, as it were, in search of pastures new. Only on a handful of occasions have my balls been called into play. This was proving to be another of those rare occasions as she was now sucking my balls. She seems to be fully focussed in the task as she has yet to look up. I only know this as I am looking down and wondering if I should let her know that she is sucking too hard. It really is sore. Seriously. Then I realise that something is not quite right.

I instinctively know that there is something wrong, but what is it?

There is a fact of nature that women may not know but every man, from a very early age, certainly _does_ know. When a man gets hit in the testicles, from a glancing flick to a full blown kick, there is a delayed reaction. A small delay but a delay nonetheless. It takes a few seconds for the brain to prepare itself for the most excruciating and unbearable pain that is soon to follow. I can tell you from this experience that this delay is prolonged through the effects of drunkenness.

She had _chomped_ on my balls!

I knew it was futile to try and tell her to stop. Instinct replaced chivalry and, with no other viable option, I grabbed her by the ears and pulled. It was the only protruding appendage available given her position. She screamed in her own pain, although it was the most bellowing guttural sound I have ever heard that escaped from her. Much like someone screaming in slow motion in the movies. I immediately replaced her mouth with both my hands, hoping my cradle would ease the pain.

It did not.

"Sorry" she said in a voice more from the nose than the throat. She regained her composure and came around to the side of my bed. In my crouched position she started to kiss my exposed back. I was in no fit state to stop her. The pain had subsided somewhat when she gently forced me onto my front and was kissing and massaging the small of my back.

Nothing good could come from stopping her so I let her continue, safe in the knowledge that all of my sensitivities were safely protected.

Her hands were all over me, her tongue and mouth licking and kissing what seemed to be all of my back and legs. Then she started working each of her hands on the cheeks of my ass. I had no idea my ass was so sensitive and it was quite a magical feeling. I felt myself relaxing again as the pain subsided from my testicular area. As her hands started rotating each of my ass cheeks, I felt her tongue tracing its way along the full length of my crack.

It's very strange the thoughts that go through my head at the most inopportune times. At this point in time I should be completely enjoying myself but all I cannot help but wonder if my ass is actually clean. I scramble through my drunken memories of the evening and remember that I had a shower before I went out and I have had no use for this orifice since. Just as this relief was sinking in, my attention was brought screaming back to the situation in hand.

In her hands, actually.

It's only now that the complete absurdity of the situation hits me. I have no clue, none at all, of this girl's name. Here am I, laid face down in my own new bed, and with absolutely no way of communicating with her. Worse still, I am still drunk and so my senses are suitably dulled. On top of which she has now separated my ass cheeks and, with a deftness of tongue that would render even the greatest of politicians crippled with jealousy, she is physically _licking_ my ass hole.

Worst of all, I believe that I am actually _enjoying_ it.

She gently pulls at my hips in a backwards motion. She is showing me that she wants me– _fucking me?_ –in the doggy position. She is still licking my ass hole. Why not? I have no idea what her plan is but it's plain to me that she is certainly not the maiden I originally envisaged. I really should give up on the idea of stereotypes. There is a deeply uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability being in the doggy position. I have never thought of that before. My ass hole is completely exposed and it makes me think that this is one of those few times when someone else can look and see what I never can. I mean, how can you look at your own ass hole. I wonder if mine's is nice? The only way I can ever expect to inspect it for myself is if I become one of those Chinese gymnasts. Unless I use a mirror. When would I ever do that? Indeed, why would I ever do that? Hold this effort. I really am spending too much time pondering my own hitherto ignored ass hole. A more pressing concern is what is she thinking to do? No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when...

" _OH FUCKING HELLO???"_

She has shot her tongue up my ass!

" _MY FUCKING ASS?"_

What the _holy fuck_ is happening here? Is _nothing_ sacred anymore? It's writhing around inside my ass hole like an untended garden hose with a fully opened faucet. Only she has a tongue that must be longer than Gene Simmons from KISS! Oh the irony, a deaf and dumb girl with a tongue a whale would be proud of and, among it all, I cannot help but admire her resourcefulness.

She has certainly found another use for her otherwise redundant tongue.

I am thoroughly ashamed of myself yet I really don't want her to stop. Why don't I want her to stop? This is disgusting. I am disgusted. Yet this is so enjoyable, I have never experienced a feeling like this before. Is this what gay men do? Do they use their tongues and penises this way? What have I been missing? Am I now gay?

Wait a fucking minute...

There is _no way_ I am gay. I know that for damn sure. Yet she is now tongue fucking my ass, probing it straight in and wriggling out. It is quite exquisite. One thing is for sure fire certain, I am definitely not going to be kissing her anytime soon.

I will also certainly not be returning the favour!

Now my brain is properly fucked. She has reached around and is playing with my cock with her free hand. I have no idea where to focus. She is massaging something in my ass with the tip of her tongue. Ironically, it is simply delicious to me. Is it possible that this is my G-spot? No sooner am I contemplating this when I am suddenly aware that I have come. Oh, and how I have come. She is still working her tongue in my ass and I am still coming.

Am I ever going to stop?

How much fluid do I have?

It was after 5am when she left, still nameless. I caught myself from asking for her number. Ignorance was the only sensitivity I had left to offer. What use would she have for a phone? I wasn't merely dry by the time she had finished using me, my last two orgasms were simply smoke.

I was on my way out the following afternoon when I bumped into my next door neighbour. Instead of the usual nod and "hello", he actually stopped me and asked "Hey Z, is everything okay with you?" What made it worse was that he seemed annoyed. I really didn't want to engage with him, especially over my situation with Gemma, so I brushed it off with the customary "Yeah, everything is fine. Thanks." and I continued walking to my car.

"You sure?" he persisted.

"Yeah, why?" Time for a little defence. I really have no time for this.

He threw his thumb in the general direction of my house and said, "It sounded like you were murdering someone in there last night. You _sure_ everything is okay?" As far as I could tell, he was genuinely concerned. He must be serious as he waited for an explanation, and this was not the weather for idle chitchat.

I had to laugh. Sometimes I am so bloody thoughtless. Okay, make that most of the time. Being a man ensures that there is no further explanation required for this condition. Last night I had been so wrapped up in what was happening to me that I had never considered her nor, it would seem, my neighbours.

This is merely another accepted symptom in the burden of being a man.

However it came as a monumental surprise, with a delightful twist of irony, to discover that she was a screamer. Not the "When Harry Met Sally" sort of screamer. No, not in that way.

Rather she screamed like Chewbacca.

Only louder.

As Oscar Wilde once said, "I can resist anything except temptation", and her screaming had presented way too much of an opportunity for me not to have fun with. She was going to be screaming anyway, so why not? I have long since accepted that I am destined for hell and I am okay with that knowing that's where my friends will be. So knowing she was deaf only appealed to my own sense of mischief. When it had been _my_ turn to take _her_ doggy style, she was screaming away in blissful ignorance as I was shouting _"YEEHAA, TAKE IT ALL BITCH!"_ mixing it up with a few _"RIDE 'EM COWBOY!"_ along with a number of other choice phrases, just for good measure.

I had actually sang _"The Deadwood Stage"_ –the song from the movie _"Calamity Jane"_ –and synchronised my rhythm, nearly falling completely off the bed when it got to the _"Whip crack-away"_ part!

It wasn't just sex then. It had become an exercise in venting every last ounce of frustration that I had stored deep within me, within the relative safety and comfort of my own home. All on my own terms. There was no real insult intended towards my playmate, who was completely unaware of my cathartic antics, as was every other woman in the world. Every single other woman that I had also been fucking at that particular moment. Fucking them all. Every single one of womankind who had, collectively, fucked me over.

It was wonderfully liberating.

Or, at least, it had been. Now I know that we had woken my neighbour. His mannerisms suggested that I was supposed to be feeling guilty and embarrassed about it but, in reality, I was actually quite pleased with myself. It made me feel more of a stud than the actual fact of the matter for, in truth, I had been the student and she the master.

Anyway, whatever. Fuck him.

Penny is going to love this. I hope so anyway. If not, fuck her too. I am newly single and answerable to nobody anymore. Only myself. I know that this pain, hurt, anguish, and heartache will pass but not soon enough. I yearn to be reconciled with the beautiful, wonderful, enigmatic members of womankind, although I would never admit it.

Least of all to myself.

Yet here I am feeling dirty all over again and all because of this prick. I told him I was fine and that he shouldn't concern himself. I also foolishly apologised and escaped into my car. Yet there was a time, not so long ago, when this guy, or someone just like him, would have been congratulating me on my performance and angling for the details. Was she a looker? What kind of figure did she have? What size were her tits? Normal men conversation.

It was what guys did.

Not this guy. He looked at me with disgust, like I was a slut. That fucker, my neighbour, that prick right there just fucking judged me.

This is ridiculous.

Why is it that it is me who is feeling dirty from these one night stands? When did the rules change and these feelings come into play? I am the man, I should be the one who feels gratified and satisfied. I am the abuser, not the abused. The predator, not the prey. Maybe it is time for me to take control of my own fate for a change. My abuser certainly taught me one thing, I am far more sexually naïve than I thought and not so much with the worldly wise.

I can also see that there has been some sort of sexual revolution that nobody told me about.

I guess there is no other option but to join Supasexxx.com if only for personal research. It would be instrumental in educating me to understand what women now want and expect sexually. This would allow me to broaden my own horizons by expanding upon my own, painfully basic, knowledge. Even a fool such as me can see that the days of women accepting whatever men have to offer, sexually or otherwise, are over. It is this beautiful and wonderful modern woman, nameless and faceless, fragile yet powerful, who is forcing me to join this sex site in order to ensure that I am never again sexually embarrassed.

_Ever_.

This new modern woman also seems to be a bit of a bitch.
17

### PussyQuack69

Sunday 22nd February

I was experiencing some unforeseen difficulties in my efforts at logging into the Supasexxx.com website. It was just after 9pm and it had been over two hours since I had enjoyed my Chinese takeaway and sat down at my computer. I had followed every link and lead in my mindless endeavours of surfing the net–not normal behaviour for me–and yet I still could not find it within myself to actually type in "Supasexxx.com" into the address bar.

I have absolutely no idea why.

I sat back and gazed aimlessly at the screen in a futile attempt at evaluating of my own dilemma. Living alone rules out any reason to fear being caught by a flatmate, or anyone else for that matter. In any event, the door was locked. Just in case. Yet whenever I attempted the simple task of typing in the site name, my head suddenly swivels to every corner of the room as I irrationally scan around to see if anyone is watching me.

The curtains are not only closed but overlapping to ensure and protect my privacy.

Where was my earlier bravado? My cavalier _"fuck 'em all"_ attitude? It seems to have deserted me and departed on _"The Deadwood Stage"_. I am sat here trawling through articles that are of absolutely no interest to me, all the while pretending to myself that they are. Why do I care about what fucking celebrity is dating who or, worse still, what they are fucking wearing? I mean, who cares about this shit? Do people not have lives of their own? It takes me all my time to actually care about what I want to wear, me being the man with the "Super Z" T-shirt for fuck's sake, far less worry about anyone else.

Yet this is now seemingly important stuff for me to know.

In the midst of my personal crisis, the phone started to ring and I shat. Panic gripped me and I instinctively slammed the laptop lid closed with an irrational fear of being caught. Like the caller can magically see through my unanswered phone and know what I'm doing. Once again, my own behaviour and reactions baffle me. It never used to be like this. My nerves are frazzled and yet there is no doubting the sense of relief that I feel for having this new focus, even if it is just for a moment.

Bizarrely, I take another look around the room to confirm that I am alone before answering.

This rude interruption is not what I need right now. Feigned anger overwhelms me but I managed to compromise with myself that I shall immediately log in to Supasexxx.com once this call is over. I am almost convinced of my own sincerity. In my confusion and, again completely out of character, I eventually answer without looking at the caller ID. I am more interested in scrutinizing my now closed laptop, ensuring that it cannot betray me.

Some things simply must remain private.

"Hello?" I attempted to speak in as confident a manner as could be mustered, although it is immediately apparent that my throat is dry. I quickly swallow and replace the initial hoarse croak with an altogether more acceptable "Hello?", one that actually sounds like me.

"Hey, what's new?" replied Penny in her usual airy tone.

I really have no idea what came over me. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the burden from carrying the monumental weight of the cloak of shame that apparently came as a free gift with my curiosity in Supasexxx.com. Most likely, it was a combination of them all. Whatever it was, her simple enquiry resonated deep within me, obligating me to tell her everything.

" _What's new? Well if you really must know..."_

I held nothing back. It wasn't a tirade but more a statement of the facts. I told her every single intimate detail about my one night stand and my resultant attitude thereafter. Maybe I do need some counselling as I just cannot keep anything private from this person and I have no clue why.

"... _so there was me, standing in front of my judgmental prick of a neighbour who is waiting for me to explain myself, and all I am thinking is 'fuck him'. Then, inexplicably, my thoughts turned to you and how much you would like hearing about my conquest. Although it wasn't really my conquest as much as I was hers. The knowledge that you would realise this made me think 'fuck you' too and, for that, I am really sorry Penny."_

Why can't I just stop talking? It used to be so easy. This is a new and deeply disturbing development for me.

Why ever would you be sorry? You never actually said it to me so there is no offence given and so none taken, but I completely understand why you thought there is. It is the fear of me, your friend, judging you. I have those self same thoughts when I think my friends are judging me too. It's only natural Z." Her understanding gave me the confidence to continue.

In for a Penny and all that.

"Well, speaking of 'natural'..." I then went on to tell her of my chat with Taylor and his insightful suggestion of Supasexxx.com. Its easier to tell her by deflecting all my shame towards Mike, and should she be as disgusted as I am with myself, then he can be easily blamed. "You see, he doesn't think I am ready for a committed relationship but more that I am ready for a purely sexual one. After my latest experience, I tend to agree with him. That is the sole purpose of sites like these. Statistics show..." I was about to tell her that the revenues that these sites generate are, in some cases, as high as that of the more mainstream dating sites. This would suggest that there are likeminded people, such as myself, out there.

However, Penny interrupted me.

"Did you see that Supasexxx.com has had 881 new members today alone? That is mightily impressive. I was expecting the girls to be all old, fat, and ugly but that is certainly not the case from what I can see here. Especially from the 1873 members currently online."

Not for the first time, Penny had shocked me.

" _You are actually looking on the site now?"_

"Of course, how else would I know what I just told you. Oops, my mistake, 884 new members now although I am not one of them. Not yet anyway." Said with such an air of mischievousness that it was all but impossible to tell if she was joking. I quickly realised that nothing would surprise me about her.

It was also a wonderfully liberating realisation.

Yet I suddenly found myself feeling very protective of her. There was another feeling too, something different but familiar, but what exactly? _Was I jealous?_ Surely not. I quickly flipped up my laptop lid and seemed to wait for an eternity for the screen to kick into life.

Without any further hesitation, I logged straight into the site.

"Okay, I'm on it too." My initial reaction was one that surprised me. "It really is quite professional, more so than I thought it would be." The site had its "Supasexxx.com" banner logo displayed in the top centre of the page. At either side, equally sized, were the logo banners for "AnalSupasexxx.com" and "OralSupasexxx.com" with unnecessary pictures of models in the respective poses for such endeavours.

Surely the words were descriptive enough?

"What did you expect? It is a professional business and, judging by the number of members I see here, quite a profitable one. Although I would guess that there is a parent company and so membership of one would ensure basic membership of all. A sex sites pyramid as it were. I have no doubt some of the members on here would not be averse to fulfilling that particular sexual fantasy." I could hear her clicking away in the background so knew she was still exploring her way around the site. She had been talking to me but it was obvious her concentration was elsewhere.

"I suspect you are right. Although, given my size, I would be more for the bottom of any such pyramid than the top." I scrolled down the front page and saw the _"Members Online"_ section with pictures of women and men in various stages of undress. Predictably, the male members seemed to favour displaying their alternative "heads". Without thinking, I verbalised my thought. "Surely some of these pictures have been doctored."

They must have been for some of these guys were just _huge_.

"Hmmm, hard to say really." The pun was lost on her. "Although they are _very_ off putting for a girl. I mean, a penis is not an attractive appendage. Not forgetting the testicles that are housed within the 'hairy brain'. No, the whole area is, aesthetically, quite repulsive. Most girls will tell you that if you were to ask them.

Yet one is somewhat helpless to one's rudimentary urges and desires towards the opposite sex, however illogical they may seem. There is no doubt as to the pleasure and satisfaction that the penis provides.

In any event, men seem to be completely obsessed with the idea that their size, in itself, is what makes them sexy. Of course size does matter, but certainly not to the extent that men believe and it's definitely not what makes them sexy. It's all about a man's confidence, his presence, his gait and his attitude. These components are far sexier to us ladies than the size of his penis.

Ironically, the penis is quite a small consideration in the grand scheme of things. Don't get me wrong, size _does_ matter, but it works both ways. A man can be too big. Mind you, looking at some of these girls, it would seem that you could drive a bus through them."

She was perfectly serious and it was obvious she was completely immersed in the site. She had no idea how much funnier this had made her sound and I had a chuckle to myself.

It was also quite comforting to hear her thoughts on size although there is absolutely no reason why it should matter to me at all.

Not. At. All.

My mind drifted to thinking how many millionaires had been fortunate enough to share her bed, and her body. As she was single now, it was obvious that they must all have been pompous assholes.

She continued speaking and broke my train of thought.

"Also, men do not realise that, to a woman, a penis is most like a car. Look at the percentage of a man's wage that he will waste on a car. Yet this is a purchase that they cannot fully enjoy it for fear of wasting its future value. Did you know that the average car is only used for between 3-5% of any given week? Therefore, logically, it is this same percentage amount that the average man should spend on buying and running a car. Yet statistics show that the actual figure well exceeds 10%.

It is much that same with his penis. You do know what _'Dr Phil'_ says don't you? If you have a great sex life, it takes up about 5% of your time. If your sex life is unsatisfactory, it takes up 95% of your time, and that is because it becomes a preoccupation and so you cannot stop thinking about it."

It was a very disturbing comparison. Worse still, it made perfect sense.

I rapidly drew my attention back onto the site and saw the section showing pictures of the _"New Members"_ and, further down at the bottom, a final _"Hottest Members"_ section. The amount of faces looking back at me was astounding. I noticed that in the corner of some of the photographs were numbers with a camera symbol. Obviously, this denoted the amount of pictures uploaded onto their profile. I clicked onto one in the hope of seeing these hidden gems. I was redirected to the _"My Profile"_ page where I was informed that I could see nothing further until I had registered.

"Have you joined yet?" Penny asked.

"How odd that you ask, I have just been redirected to a page that prompted that very question. No, not yet. You?" Surely not.

"Just completing a basic profile now. This is most fascinating Z, and fun. Thank you." Her keystrokes were audible in the background.

"No problem. You aren't worried that you could be found out by the media? This would be manna from heaven for them." I was genuinely concerned for her now. This is the moment the joke could go too far and I didn't want to risk our friendship, fragile as it was. I could manage the embarrassment by simply relocating and already had plans afoot to shift some of it onto Taylor. However, Penny's would be a scandal of totally different and devastating proportions.

All for what, a curiosity that was mine?

"Z, please, give me some credit. My profile is as basic as it needs to be for full and free access. So, none of my credit card details are provided and I can enjoy complete anonymity as anyone that works here has access to the computer. I have spent my whole life ensuring that I can cover my tracks when needs be." She had gently chided me. "Although thank you for your concern."

"So what else are you thanking me for then?" She surely was very puzzling to me.

"I had never known that sites like this existed and, now that I do, I can observe human behaviour at its most basic and natural level. It's like "people watching", but online. Nothing is more basic and natural than sex. Sex is something that we yearn for, an intimacy that we all need. That feeling of being desired just for our bodies rather than the whole rubbish that comes with a relationship. Yet this is more than just a sex site. Every single person on her has an agenda and it is intriguing to me and so I want to look into and explore that." So much for her fleeting interest.

I have created a monster.

A monster just like _me_.

Only less perverted, thankfully.

She happily continued, unaware of my thoughts, "What is rimming? I was scanning down the sections in the _"My Profile"_ page when I stumbled across this term with a check box for _"giving"_ and _"receiving"_. There were similar boxes for _"anal"_ and _"oral"_ but I had no need for an explanation of these." Her sterile dissection of the site was actually helpful in making me feel less stupid for not knowing, far less understanding, some of the phraseology.

"I have no idea and was actually wondering that myself." I had, until recently, considered myself quite worldly wise in sexual terms and acts but Sian and Nameless had both proven me wrong. "Hold on, I shall search it." After a few seconds she continued, "It says on Wikipedia that it is ' _Anilingus'_." The word was completely self-explanatory although Penny tried to continue with the full quotation, but I had to stop her.

I was actually blushing but I was confused if it was for her or myself.

" _Whoa, I've got it. Please, in the name of all that is holy, I beg you to stop."_ I took a second to compose myself before continuing, "Penny, please believe me, I really am uncomfortable enough given our current scenario without having you compound that further. As you now know, I have experience of this but I was completely unaware that they had a name for it." I said this as I checked the _"Rimming - Receiving"_ box in my new profile whilst leaving the _"Rimming - Giving"_ box empty.

Penny had no need to know my sexual preferences.

"So, what did you check?" she asked. _How could she know?_ Surely this is just my paranoia.

"What do you mean?" I asked as innocently as I could.

"Well now you know what it is, and you have had experience of it "first tongue" if you can pardon the expression, did you check the _'Receiving'_ box?" She really had no idea how hilarious it was to me that you had to check the _'Receiving'_ box to state a preference for your own _'receiving box'_! She also had no modicum of consideration for my potential embarrassment.

"Come on Z, you can tell me, brutal honesty is what we agreed to."

I knew that would come back and bite me on the ass.

If it's honesty she wanted, then that is exactly what she would get. "Okay, yes, I admit it, I checked the _'Receiving'_ box." For some strange reason, I felt the need to defend myself. "Well I really don't care what these girls think of me, we are all looking for the same thing after all so why not be honest about it? At least, that's my thoughts on the subject. One thing is for certain, I am certainly not putting my tongue anywhere near somebody else's hoop."

There was no denying that my own disgust was entirely hypocritical.

Penny response was, once again, most surprising. "I get that. After all, you told me that you actually enjoyed the pleasure of having the nameless girl's tongue caressing your prostate, ergo your G-spot. I also understand your obvious discomfort with the situation, considering that she was a stranger and you were in such a vulnerable position.

Particularly given that you were in your own home.

Yet there is the juxtaposition of your own curiosity from the pleasure you were deriving being outweighed by your natural instinct to defend yourself from such vulnerability. So, yes, I can see why this would be appealing for you to explore further given that you can only be on more formal terms with anyone you meet through this site. It is obvious that you will have to contact each other and so communicate through messages on here. This will establish a relationship, albeit a deliberately dysfunctional one, and all with an upfront honesty to be found in your already stated sexual preferences contained within your respective profiles.

This information was absent from your initial contact and subsequent interaction with your nameless girl."

Penny was both cold and clinical in her assertions. It was really quite disconcerting how uncomfortable she made me feel. Giving such measured credibility to what I understood to be my own inner perversions made it seem somehow acceptable, as if this was perfectly normal. It made it less dirty yet it simply wasn't to me.

I _wanted_ it to be dirty.

I _needed_ it to be dirty.

Angry tears of unadulterated frustration had formed and escaped down my cheeks. It's a harsh realisation that this portal into a completely new world of sex is not normal for me. The toys, costumes, and equipment that are displayed here actually _scare_ me. These people who have voluntarily posed in these photographs of their own depraved activities completely fascinate me. Yet I am disgusted by it all and so disgusted with myself for relating with it on _any_ level. I _need_ to feel this way because, only then, can I be assured that the simplistic sex that I know and practice is, by comparison, "normal" if not altogether boring.

Yet, for me, it has always been enough, both completely satisfying and thoroughly enjoyable.

Penny's voice penetrated the silence as she continued in yet still blissful ignorance to my plight. "Actually, it really is most unfair to keep referring to this poor girl as 'Nameless'. Please, choose a name for her so we can at least refer to her as a person." It would seem that my referring to her as "Nameless" had caused Penny some upset and frustration although there was no obvious reason why it should. Not to me at least. Whatever the reason, she seemed to lose some of her normal composure.

"Okay, let's call her 'Laura'. That's as good a name as any."

I had given absolutely no thought to this choice at all but rather adopted the "Screen Name" of the person whose profile I had inadvertently stumbled upon. It was an impulsive suggestion but one I immediately regretted as it now makes the whole experience that much more personal to me as her face now had a name.

Suddenly she was a person.

I quickly diverted my attention back to the computer screen. This particular "Laura" was actually very attractive and it seemed somehow impolite to not at least look at her other pictures. After all, she had gone to such great lengths to dress up and pose for them. Trying to do so resulted in me being prompted to complete my own profile first before such access would be permitted. The first box wants me to adopt my own "Screen Name". As a further enticement, it has written underneath in bold red italics, _"Check your 'Screen Name' availability!"_

Curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask. "What did you put as yours?"

"My 'Screen Name' is quite predictable really, I chose 'Thunderbird-1' as I am, quite literally, 'Lady Penelope'." She was talking to me but it was obvious that it was the website that held her attention.

"That is genius, I love it." I honestly did. It was brilliantly funny and had made me laugh. One minute I'm crying, then I'm laughing? What the fuck is going on with me? My emotions are erratic at best and completely unpredictable.

I really need to get a grip of myself.

"Yes, I thought it was quite cute." She agreed with a giggle. It was such a lovely noise. "From what I am seeing on the male pages, I would suggest that you choose something rather crude but uniquely funny." _No pressure there then._ "Think something like 'PussyMaster' and a number and you will be fine."

I near fell off my perch.

" _Excuse me?"_ was all I could manage to stammer, my words fell over themselves with my shock very much apparent. The idea of Penny knowing what a pussy was far less using the word was incredible to me.

Yet another lesson for me against her stereotype.

"Oh Z, stop being such a prude. I am a girl after all. I am also a single girl so one must amuse oneself. Porn and sex is appealing to us all you know. Actually, on second thought, Gemma wanted you to pursue your PhD, which would have made you a doctor. So why not something like 'PussyQuack69'?"

"Perfect." I could think of nothing better and so quickly registered my new 'Screen Name' in the hope that the conversation would move forward. No good could come from any further exploration although I was really glad of how our friendship was developing.

I didn't want to lose it now.

"You won't be meeting anyone from this site will you?" My question was more a hopeful statement but, for some reason, it was important to me that she didn't.

"Oh good heavens no. Why would I ever do that? Leave myself open to such ridicule. No, I am not that desperate. Not yet anyway. You seriously wont either, will you?" Her question seemed to be one of equal concern. How baffling. Why should she be interested, far less care?

"I thought I might but my initial impressions from the site are not good. Also, looking at some of the 'lady parts' on display, I am quite certain that these unfortunates have diseases for which they don't have names for yet." It was said in jest but I was actually serious. Some were really fierce and frightening to look at.

Not sexy at all.

Not. At. All.

It was then, at that precise moment, that it struck me. This was the exact same genitalia that Penny had. _Why hadn't I considered that before?_ I couldn't quite get my head around the most fundamentally natural fact that, underneath it all, she was the same.

Just a girl, looking for a boy to love her...

Yet not to me.

Never to me.

My thought was broken with her still laughing at my joke. "Yes, I can see what you mean. I am on the ladies pages now and some do look like road kill."

It was me who was laughing now.

"One could never expect to find ones 'Douglas McElroy' on here." Penny's statement was one of stunning simplicity but the severity of its impact upon me was breathtaking.

"No, I guess not." I replied, now completely deflated. What started out as fun had instantly been replaced with the realisation of my own hope in the power of love. It was my own story, the one I had told her to raise her own flagging spirits, that had been turned against me in the simplest of sentences.

It was then that I noticed the time. We had been chatting and exploring the site for over an hour. Rather than my original plan of immersing myself into this hidden world of sexual debauchery on my own, I had been led astray along its path by this Lady seeking a knight.

I bade her goodnight and dragged the little self respect I had left to my bed for yet another night of mental jousting.
18

### Orgasmic

Monday 23rd February

Another night of fitful sleep was made all the worse by the 4am phone call cancelling my day's shift. I admitted defeat to the God's of slumber just before 6am, taking a shower whilst the coffee machine worked its magic. The delicious aroma wafting through the apartment was the only positive in an otherwise terrible start to the day.

Surely things could only get better.

In the absence of anything more constructive to do at that time of the morning, I sat at my computer in the forlorn hope that there may be something to pique my interest.

Surprisingly, there was. I had a new Friend Request on Facebook.

There was no profile or background pictures, actually no pictures at all. There was nothing on the Timeline Page but the name, yet that told me all I needed to know. In accepting the request, I found that I held the dubious honour of being Penny's only friend.

Other than that, there was nothing else worth engaging with save the usual posts for a Sunday evening, mainly gripes about the end of the weekend. I checked out of Facebook and into my Gmail. My spam filters are set to maximum and so I was momentarily stunned by the sheer amount of traffic in my inbox.

Fourteen new emails from Supasexxx.com.

The emails comprised of eight "New Message" notifications: three "Flirts", one inviting me to check out the "New Members", one informing me that "Nicole" had added me as a "favourite" and, finally, a "50% off membership" offer. Natural curiosity obligated me to follow the link to my "Messages" page.

Not that I really wanted to look.

Much.

I pretended to myself that my motivation was one more of annoyance at these people having the sheer audacity to contact _me_. How dare they, this was simply _outrageous_. I was only going to the site to be suitably appalled given the scarcity of my own profile–these people knew nothing about me–and so I would withdraw my profile in disgust.

I would enjoy the moral high ground.

I feebly tried to convince myself that I had no idea what I was hoping to achieve when signing up to this site, whilst also suitably berating myself for ever doing so. It was all Penny's fault anyway, goading me into it as she did. She is incorrigible. Her and Taylor, two peas in a pod. Yet I knew this was a lie and found it easy to shift the blame.

Shift my shame.

In truth, I knew that my purpose for joining was the hope of finding sex. Actually, I still hoped to find sex, that much hasn't changed. I had successfully managed to convince myself that it was my duty to explore this new sex, the one without complications.

The one with the toys, attire, and scary looking equipment.

Secretly, through my feigned disgust, I was truly delighted with the response. As I navigated to the site, the adrenalin coursed through my veins and I felt so wonderfully _alive_. It has been so long since I felt like this, am I too old to feel naughty? Obviously not given the butterflies in my stomach and the exhilarating sense of shame. Yes, that is how naughty has felt always to me. Yet why should I be ashamed? As Penny alluded to, sex is the most natural and basic of desires and I have merely found a communal meeting place for people like me. Well, maybe not exactly like me but close enough for what I am seeking at this point in my life.

Or so I thought.

My first message is from "Sylvia, 72, Watford". A quick check of its date and time stamp shows that it was sent within an hour of my signing up. I must have just missed it by minutes. The subject box states _"wanna fuck, now, tonite"_. Curiosity prevailed in the fight against every single one of my other sensible instincts and I click on the message to read it. It was intriguing to see what a woman of her years would possibly write to me. However, my excitement was temporarily quelled as the site redirected me to the payment page where the options consisted of a week, month, or yearly subscription. Without properly thinking–actually without and thinking at all, it seems that I may have now lost this ability–I go back to my inbox and retrieve the special offer code and take advantage of the 50% discount for a full months membership.

I am now a fully fledged member.

What the actual fuck am I doing?

It would seem that my original attitude of superiority and aloofness is misplaced. It is the variety of women, both in terms of their age and location, that have messaged me that is particularly astounding. In both my roles as a nightclub bouncer and truck driver, I thought I had seen, or at least heard, it all but this is something completely new to me. Women of all shapes and sizes, of all ages, and in every type of relationship imaginable, trawling the same site as me, hunting for sex.

Yet not sex as I know it.

"Sylvia's" message is straight to the point. _"Hi, I like your profile..."_

_Really?_ This is completely illogical to me as I don't have any pictures uploaded yet, nor a personal description, merely my own sexual preferences.

"... _have a look at mine and if you want to meet, call me. I don't use condoms, no need at my age. It's been so long since I got laid, I make Cliff Richard look like a player!_

Remember, there's no woman like an old woman...

Sylvia x"

Her mobile number concluded the text. This woman is old enough to be my grandmother–great grandmother, actually–yet here she is asking me for unprotected sex. All whilst destroying my wholesome and saint like image of Sir Cliff Richard. There are some things that are just sacrosanct and that certainly includes Sir Cliff. This granny had obviously not read the _"Respect"_ manual on life.

The only logical explanation in her defence is that she suffers from some sort of dementia.

Furthermore, her message is clearly evidence enough that age does not necessarily bring wisdom, and that stupidity is eternal. If she had cared to conduct even the quickest of searches on the internet she would have discovered that, statistically, the over 55's age group far exceeds the national average for passing and contracting STD's.

Yet, for reasons far beyond my own capabilities of comprehension, I followed the link to her profile. Her personal description stated:

I'm a granny to 7 kids but my hubby has gone off the boil. Actually, his cock had died and is just waiting for the rest of him to catch up!

I was bit wilder in younger years but I haven't lost the urges I had all those years ago, happy to get used by men or women not interested in safe sex at my age.

local meets best because I can't travel, chat me up and take my knickers off–if I'm wearing any! Hahahaha!

xxxx

There were two profile pictures and, much to my own disgust, I found myself actually admiring them. She was obviously trim and wearing well, her stockings and suspenders were elegant and classy. Sexy almost. The first picture saw her posing on her back, holding her ankles, and looking "seductively" at the camera.

In the second she was astride a chair with crotchless knickers completing the ensemble.

Seeing her photos reminded me of a story that a beautician friend of mine–Caitlin–once told me. When she had been a trainee, she was tasked with giving an older lady her first "Brazilian". Following her instructions, the old lady went into the room to prepare herself. However, there was some sort of communication breakdown for when my friend entered, the old lady was naked from the waist down and on all fours, much like a dog.

The sight caused Caitlin to fight courageously against regurgitating her lunch.

A quick clarification ensured that the lady was settled into the proper position and ready for the procedure. However, being a trainee, Caitlin had managed to inadvertently spread the wax a little too liberally, although this only came to light when she peeled off the first strip. The old dear shot up so quickly, and screamed so loudly, that both her top and bottom false teeth flew out.

Apparently it gave Caitlin the most terrible fright.

' _Z, I shat myself!'_

When the lady eventually calmed down, Caitlin and her supervisor managed to convince her to allow them to inspect the offended area. It transpired that the wax had been spread onto the old dear's "lip" –or "labia" to use the proper medical terminology–and the strip had caught it when it had been applied. In fear of prolonging the painful experience, the old lady decided that one swipe was enough and left with her lady garden looking like a photographic negative of Mr T.

"Sylvia's" lady garden looked more like Lionel Ritchie's afro from his Commodore days.

Looking back at her pictures, I caught myself thinking that I hoped my future wife was this attractive at 72. The fear from such a thought had my hand racing for the mouse and I hastily returned to my other messages. I never deleted "Sylvia's" though. I decided to keep it for future reference. Nobody, and I mean _nobody_ , would ever believe me that Sir Cliff had been so recklessly slandered in such a way. Keeping her message simply served as my proof.

How bizarre that I should be so valiantly defending the honour and integrity of a Knight of the Realm.

Screening my messages resulted in five being deleted without my even bothering to read them as their locations ensured they were completely unrealistic for a genuine meet. No point in teasing myself, or them. Not that their opinion mattered. They should have known better than to send the messages in the first bloody place. I can only imagine that they each sent the messages in the comfort of knowing that nothing could come from it. Teasing themselves with no real desire to change their current situation, just an overwhelming need to feel _wanted_ again.

To feel _craved_.

To feel _sexy_.

Yet, to my mind, they were a reflection of my old self. Stuck in relationships but too afraid to leave for fear of being alone. It's always easier to stick with what you know. Always easier to find reasons to stay. Always easier to fall down the slippery slope of finding or, worse still, accepting fault with yourself rather than climbing strong and free from the shackles placed on you by others. Others who pretend to love, care, and cherish you whilst, simultaneously, seeking to destroy you.

The only thing more tragic than a person losing their self confidence is someone taking it from them, for not everyone is beautiful but true beauty resides within everyone.

My process of elimination, based on proximity alone, resulted in just two messages of genuine merit. The first of which wanted to webcam only. This seems really redundant as a pastime to me. What actual pleasure can either party derive from this unless, of course, one is being paid? Just as I was beginning to believe that my initial instincts were correct, I read the final message.

This was an altogether more interesting proposition.

According to her profile, "Angela" was 29, 5'10" and she was obviously wild as she had checked every single box in the "Sexual Preferences" section. Her profile contained only a single picture, although it was enough for me to want to see more. However, it was her "Profile Description" that had really piqued my interest:

Hey there!

I'm a horny lady who is looking for to expand my sexual horizons and satisfy a very healthy sexual appetite. I love it a little rough and really do like to take charge!!

As an unhappily married nurse, I regularly go to the gym to work out my "frustrations". I like to take care of my body and so I'm looking for encounters with people who look after theirs too!

I work at odd times, which doesn't suit my marriage or sexual appetites. I am just looking for a fuck buddy. I have no intention of altering my marital status.

Oh, and a final point boys. I HATE text speak. Predictive text means there are no excuses for bad spelling. Use it or else you shall be blocked.

It seems we are kindred spirits. Her personal message to me was equally blunt:

" _Hi, I have the next two days off and really want to fuck. My husband is out working so I am home alone during the day. We live under 10 miles apart. Send me a text and lets meet for some fucking good times xx."_

Her number had been added at the end.

As with all good research, sacrifices are required and having sex with "Angela" was one that I was fully prepared to make. Sacrificing my dignity and compromising my integrity all for the sake of my future relationships. They would be thankful, all those future spouses. I needed to know how to satisfy them sexually and "Angela" was obviously as broadminded as they come, to coin a phrase.

I quickly entered her number into my phone and typed a text reply.

" _Hi, is this Angela? Obviously I got your message and wondered if you are serious as I am free today if you are interested?"_

Before I could change my mind, I sent it. My heart was pounding and I couldn't sit still. The thought of such an illicit meet, to be so blatantly used and abused for sex, was delicious. All in the name of research. Oh the sacrifice, I was feasting on the very thought of it. It was only a matter of minutes later when I got her reply.

" _Of course I am interested, that's why I messaged you! How quickly can you be here?"_

This must be fate. All my stars are aligning for once. Within 10 minutes I had her address and the directions directly to her door on my mobile phone. I hurriedly dressed and raced through the morning's drizzle to my car. I was now a little damp but felt the familiar swelling at the thought of her being so too.

It wasn't yet 9am.

The address was a tenement house set in a crescent that loops off a main road. It seemed a pretty nice area with excellent transport links for a daily commuter. Given the time of day, it was hardly surprising that there was plenty of room for parking. Most people would be at work or out on the school run. Either way, it was quiet enough for my liking and I pulled up just short of the house. I peered through my windscreen, between the sweeps of my window wipers, to see all the curtains and blinds still drawn throughout the house.

She certainly enjoyed her privacy.

I ran from my car through the rain to the door, the weather affording greater anonymity for us both. Not that I really cared what her neighbours thought–that was her problem. So focused had I been on getting here that I hadn't taken the time to think that this could actually be a ruse. I could be walking into a trap with men inside ready to beat and rob me. Not that I had much worth taking and she didn't even know my name. Yet, much to my own surprise, I really didn't care. I was thinking with my semi erect penis and, as they say, _"a standing cock has no conscience"._

I rang the bell, hands free and ready at my side. I would go down fighting.

The door opened slightly and one eye on half a head peered back at me. "You the PussyQuack?" she asked confidently, not a single sign of irony or shame. I felt the blood rush to my head. Both heads. Suddenly the absurdity of the name hit me. It was meant for an online profile, not to actually be said out loud.

"I bloody hope so or this is going to be one awkward fucking conversation." I said through an embarrassed smile. My bravado fully intact if not my dignity.

She laughed and opened the door to let me in. "Yes, that is very true. You like?" As soon as the door was closed, she let her bathrobe fall to the floor. She was naked with the exception of a pair of black lacy holdups. My cock was straining against my zip as I reached up and cupped her full breast in my hand. She gave me no real chance to respond as she kissed me hard, her tongue suddenly jousting with mine. This was over in a matter of seconds when she broke away and took my hand to lead me into her bedroom. "I feel so overdressed." My childish joke relayed a confidence that I certainly never felt and I quickly stripped off.

She never laughed.

Without saying a word, she pushed me back onto the bed and took me in her mouth. Between her licking and sucking, she told me in no uncertain terms that she loved to give oral but hated to receive it. That was just fine with me although I had never known of this before. Yet it soon became apparent that her idea of 'oral' was much the same as "Laura's". It was strange, but nice, to now have a reference for comparison. I knew that my time for this new all encompassing 'oral' was at an end when she put a condom onto me.

On reflection, this was the time when the wheels started to come off the wagon.

As she got up to get in the saddle, as it were, "Angela" took this opportunity to inform me that she cannot have sex facing a man. Any man. This included her own husband. She explained that she hates to see a man's face during sex. Like, _really_ hates it. Apparently it puts her off, seeing a man enjoying himself at her expense. It makes her feel like a prostitute. Surprisingly, these little nuggets of information were all things that she had omitted from her profile.

This was my "GET FUCKING OUT" moment, but I missed it.

Well, rather chose to ignore it.

Admittedly, I did think this somewhat strange but she had adopted the reverse cowgirl position and had guided me into her, so what else was I to do but enjoy? In any event, I was having sex so I really didn't care. What she failed to tell me was that this meant she _only_ liked that one position. After a while, I just lay there and watched her ass continuously pounding and gyrating up and down my cock. Now, don't get me wrong, it was a lovely sight.

At first.

However, it's a sorry sign when you start looking at the décor and thinking about what you would change. Just as I was starting to get really bored, she suddenly got more vocal. It was then that I saw her hand reach down to start playing with herself. "Do you mind if I orgasm?" she asked between her gasping and moaning. Why would anybody ask that? _"Mind? Of course I don't mind. Was she joking?"_ She had me feeling like a fucking super stud.

What she hadn't told me was the consequences of such an orgasm.

I was up on my elbows and watching her reflection in the bedroom mirror, enjoying the full display of a woman in her sexual prime using and abusing me. It was fantastic. What a great way to start the week and fill out my day. She started to inform me, in intermittent bursts, _"I'm coming...I'm coming!"_ It was obvious she had found a rhythm that suited her so there was nothing more for me to do but stay hard. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever actually come myself. The condom must have been super thick, as I could, quite literally, feel nothing from being inside her.

She had no such troubles judging by the noise.

All at once, she yelped and lunged forward, grabbing my ankles tightly, her nails digging into my flesh. She drove her buttocks deep into my waist and I could feel her clench and throb around my cock in what could only be presumed to have been her orgasm. There was a definite wetness on my lap. I could hear the squelching and it was getting cold where my thighs were exposed to the air. It was at this point that I realised she was a squirter. I grabbed her ass and raised my hips as I pushed myself deep inside her, trying to enjoy the friction while I could and, hopefully, prolong her orgasm. At least, that's what I wanted her to think. In reality, I was trying to use what was left of the friction to come myself.

Then it happened.

If I were forced to guess, I would say that I must have hit her G-spot. I couldn't say for definite because there was nothing to feel through my wrapper. Not that I could be certain as I cannot ever recollect hitting a G-spot before. Yet another sexual experience that has eluded me until now.

My research was going well.

Suddenly she gasped deeply and seemed to tense every muscle in her body. Her head was buried between my knees and I could see our copulation in its full glory. She proceeded to shake quite violently then lurched forward and bit into the duvet while emitting out a low guttural scream.

Then, she physically _shat_.

Only, not in the conventional sense. Hers was an explosion of diarrhoea that shot out of her ass faster than a bullet from a gun. Unable to control myself, my jaw dropped open in shock and horror as I watched this stream come straight at me. It was one of those times where my brain reacted faster than my body and I could see what was inevitably going to happen but I was still all too powerless to stop it. My head screamed at me, desperately pleaded with me– _close your mouth!_ –but I was too late.

I nearly choked to death on the majority of her deposit.

As it hit the back of my throat, my natural reaction was to swallow. I felt the warm lumpy liquid run smoothly down towards my stomach. Gasping for breath, what was still in my mouth dribbled out and escaped onto my body. My stomach heaved and I retched but nothing came up. Retching again, I looked for a towel or something to be sick into.

Still nothing came up.

After a few more minutes of retching, it became painfully apparent that my body simply refused to return "Angela's" present. Inexplicably, I managed to summon the strength to compose myself and take stock of the situation.

It was only then that I noticed she was gone.

Standing to get dressed, I could feel the diarrhoea getting dry and crispy on me. Then the smell hit me, and my knees collapsed. Sitting back on the bed, gasping and panting, fighting to contain myself from retching again.

Only now I could taste it!

That taste shall haunt me forever.

Yet still my body refused to yield. Composing myself for the second time, I noticed that the linen closet was ajar. Selecting a towel from the bottom of the pile, I wiped myself down as best I could. The badness in me ensured that I folded it back up and replaced it just where I found it. I hope it takes her weeks to discover out what I have done. Better still, I hope her husband finds it first.

Let her explain _that_.

My clothes were thrown on faster than they had been discarded not yet an hour ago. In order to not draw any further attention to myself, I silenced my keys by holding them tightly in my hand and made my way out of the bedroom. It was only then that I could see that the bathroom door was closed and all but certainly providing "Angela" sanctuary. There was nothing else to be said so I crept past and slipped out her front door.

Her back door wasn't an option.

Never was I so thankful for a downpour. The rain embraced me as I wandered slowly back to my car, looking to the heavens and enjoying every last drop. Taking refuge in the drivers seat, my clothes were soaked through and clung tightly around me. Only then did it become apparent that the rain had betrayed me by rejuvenating the remnants of "Angela's" anal orgasm. I drove home with every window open but the stench was unrelenting and the taste.

Oh, dear God, that taste.

Even now, hearing the term "sickness and diarrhoea" makes me gag, everything being all too vivid for me.

It was only after my second shower that I began to feel somewhat clean on the outside. Still, my paranoia ensured that I would have a third before bed. Maybe even a fourth, the smell and taste still seems to be lingering. My misery was complete with the realisation that in today's tryst I had broken my promise to Penny, not to meet anyone from the site.

Now I had double the reasons to be angry and bitter with myself.
19

### The Highlander

Saturday 28th February

My week had been spent desperately avoiding everyone I knew and ignoring all texts and phone calls for fear of blurting out all the grisly details of my rendezvous with "Angela". Try as I might, there was no way of stopping the whole scenario replaying on a continuous loop in my head. To make matters worse, my shame was complete by my own irrational paranoia in thinking that everyone I looked at could see the full feature in all its Technicolor glory by merely looking into my eyes. So now I was also avoiding eye contact with absolutely everyone. I'm sure that some day, a day far from now, I will be able to laugh at the whole experience. Some day. I am almost definitely certain of that.

For now, it would be a secret that belonged to us, "Angela" and I.

My miserable week was complete when told by the office that the only shift available for today was a 5am start at SuperShopperz. Of course, this was also a "stand-by" shift where I am there on the off chance that one of their own full-time drivers calls in sick. This is normal practice at larger supermarkets, covering their bases as it were. There was to be three of us but they refrained from telling me who the other two drivers were. This is also a prudent ploy on the agency's part as, if they were drivers I really didn't like, then I would just refuse the shift and take the day off.

This was also common practice among the drivers.

A stand-by shift is one of the hardest for any agency to cover as nobody likes waiting around for a job that may never materialise. It doesn't help that we are only guaranteed to be paid for a minimum 8 hours because we all want the longer hours. Longer hours equalling more money as they also attract overtime rates. However January and February are our quietest months and so the choices are simply this shift or no shift, and it really is that simple. Having already had a shift cancelled this week, not to mention the fact that I welcomed any distraction from being home alone with my "memory", I took the shift.

Thankfully, it proved to be absolutely the right decision.

I walked out of the light snow and into the transport office to report for duty a full 20 minutes before I was due. Insomnia being the sole reason for my promptness as I still just could not sleep. If this keeps up then I shall have to go see the doctor. I am loath to use an appointment and so deprive someone who is in genuine need of medical attention for something this trivial, but this is getting serious. However, I shall give it a few more days before doing something so drastic. Or I might just buy a bottle of Scotland's favourite drinking water on the way home. A drunken sleep isn't all that peaceful or relaxing but it will knock me out for a few hours. That's maybe all I need.

I hope so anyway.

"Did you shit the bed?" Trevor, the transport manager on duty asked by way of reference to my early arrival. Thankfully I realised quickly enough that the question was a joke and so caught myself from saying _"No, but she did and how the fuck did you know?"_

I found myself looking anywhere and everywhere except directly at him.

I also forced myself to laugh at his "joke". All truck drivers, especially agency drivers, will attest that Transport Managers have incredible power over our everyday lives and can be great allies or complete bastards, all depending on their mood. I find it's always best to be on a constant charm offensive with them, even at 5am in the morning. I took a seat and made myself comfortable, waiting to see who my companions for the next 8 hours were going to be.

As usual, Taylor's laugh was to be heard long before he appeared.

Even at this early hour, it reverberated around the room the instant he opened the door to the transport office and it raised my spirits immediately. The other childlike laugh that accompanied his was no stranger to me either as both he and Ed ambled up and reported in. Trevor said to them both "Take a seat with your mate" and nodded in my general direction. They both swung round and their faces lit up when they saw me.

For one shocking moment, I Illogically thought they were reading my thoughts and watching my mental horror show. I really need to get a grip on my own reality.

"Alright son, what's new?" Taylor said this as he took his seat directly opposite me, Ed sidled in beside him. They both had their backs to the transport desk. I knew their ploy although, to be fair, it is more instinctual than deliberate. Any work to be served up would, in theory, be given to the driver that they can see without having to refer to the duty roster. In this instance, it was me. Not that it made much difference, I had made the mistake of being the first to report in so I would be first sent out anyway.

"As you can see, I'm just living the dream." I said with an equally sarcastic smile. "No doubt, like you two, I could have done without this shift today. Here's hoping all their own drivers are fighting fit." I meant it. Having Taylor and Ed to keep me company would ensure that this shift would fly in and it would also be fun.

I needed fun.

"I just asked son and Trevor says everyone has turned up so we should be out of here by 11am." Even although we are guaranteed 8 hours, if there is no work after 6 we are normally sent home. Taylor took a sip of coffee from his thermos cup as he said this. These cups are becoming increasingly popular with drivers.

"You know the old joke about the thermos flask don't you?" Their blank expressions told me they didn't. "No? A man is in work with his new thermos flask and his workmate asks what it does. Ah, see, it's amazing. It keeps hot things hot and cold things cold" he replies. The next day, the man sees his workmate with his own new flask. "Ah, you bought one then I see. So, what have you brought with you?" His workmate replies "Two cups of coffee and some ice cream!"

The three of us laughed so loud that we got our first warning to keep quiet, always a good start to a day. Mind you I was more laughing at them than with them. Not that it mattered, I was just glad to be laughing. We headed out into the cold for some "fresh air".

This is Taylor talk for a smoke.

Ed is a quiet man at the best of times but when we three are together he goes practically mute. I wasn't much in the mood for talking for fear of betraying myself and so it seemed that we were both quite happy for Taylor to take centre stage. He did so with unfaltering aplomb. I really have no idea where he gets his stories but they are always entertaining and today proved no different.

Apparently, just a few days ago he had been talking a friend of his back home who mentioned that he had been having major problems with his heating. He had called Scottish Gas and they arranged for their engineer to come out and fix it. Now–according to Taylor's pal–the man was described as, "the stereotypical Highlander son. Bright red hair, big bushy beard that snaked down and weaved together with his chest hair, and wearing a work shirt that struggled to button."

As he had suspected, the engineer merely confirmed that the problem was with his boiler in the kitchen. He had taken the liberty of bringing a replacement with him and so immediately set about making the switch. It was no small effort and he had been working at it for most of the morning and now it was coming up to lunchtime. Unsurprisingly, by this time, Taylor's mate was feeling rather peckish and decided he could no longer wait to eat. He also didn't want to leave a stranger alone in his house. So he casually strolled into the kitchen and told the engineer he was going to make a plate of tomato soup and asked if he would like one too. It was more a case of simply being polite than being an actual genuine offer.

"That would be great," said the grateful engineer.

That's when the wheels came off the wagon.

Just as the soup came to the boil, there was a blowback from the boiler that managed to set the engineers beard _on fire!_ "So the engineer turns around son. My mate is completely confused as to what is happening and so momentarily stunned. All he can see is this guy dancing around his kitchen, panicking and screaming that his beard is on fire. Without thinking, my mate grabs the pot from the stove and _throws it into the face of the engineer!_ Can you imagine that son?

He said it looked like the man was covered in blood. The poor man. His beard catches fire and all he's thinking is to put it out only to turn and get scalded with boiling soup.

Talk about it not being your day."

We were laughing so hard and causing such upset in the transport office that Trevor sent us away to the canteen for breakfast. Walking outside, Taylor continued "Aye son, my mate says that the big engineer then turned wild and chased him all over the village. He said it was like running away from a zombie. He was going to kill my mate. He never caught him mind you, thank God, but he is terrified to phone back Scottish Gas to complain that his boiler still hasn't been fixed for fear that they send the same big fella back." I was still happily chuckling away to myself with the vision of this scenario as we made our way to the canteen for a long and lazy breakfast.

It was nearing our home time when it suddenly all kicked off at the transport desk. Trevor was debriefing another driver from our agency when an issue came to light. An issue that, in isolation, was actually quite funny. Yet, as with most transport offices these days, it was blown completely out of all proportion.

It transpired that Marc, our agency driver, had been delivering to Whitechapel in the north side of London. Rather than using the map that the company can provide on request, he had opted to use his satnav. It was an easy enough delivery and hardly warranted the use of such sophisticated technology but Marc had a tendency to rely upon it, such was his want. Now whether it was tiredness or just simple incompetence, only he knows. However, everything had been going fine until Marc went through the Blackwall Tunnel.

He realised all too late that his satnav had frozen.

The Blackwall Tunnel is something of a logistical anomaly insofar as its height limit southbound is 15'6", more than enough for a standard truck, but it is only 13'3" high northbound. As such, Marc had no option but to continue on to the M25 and detour over 40 miles back through the Dartford Tunnel. Therefore, he was over an hour longer for his journey, late for his delivery, and his embarrassment complete by being reprimanded by a transport manager who has never driven a truck in his life, shouting at him in front of his peers.

There really was no need for such behaviour. Trevor obviously does not grasp the concept that mistakes can happen and this was not deliberate. Yet he wouldn't let it go and banned Marc off site. As an agency driver, when you are banned off one site by a customer, you are placed on a list that means you are banned from ALL of their other sites. As this was one of the agency's biggest clients, Marc's earning potential was now severely restricted.

It was a gross over-reaction but Trevor obviously relished the attention and power judging by the snide grin on his face. Marc walked away with as much dignity as he could muster. I shouted at him to give me a call for a pint later. He turned, smiled at me, and boldly stated, "Will do mate". Taylor shouted that he and Ed would tag along and get his number from me. Marc was now the d'Artagnan to us Three Musketeers.

Furious, Trevor ordered us all home.

Result.
20

### D-Day

Saturday 28th February

It had already been a long day when I arrived home and it wasn't yet noon. On opening the front door my attention was immediately drawn to the missed delivery card from the postman that had landed halfway along the hall. I sighed wearily as I picked it up, instantly berating myself for yet another one of my drunken shopping sprees.

When will I learn?

It is only when these cards come through the door that I discover what my drunken self has been buying for me. Usually it's utter rubbish that I will never use, like the complete box set of _"The Dukes of Hazard"_. He really does have a wicked sense of humour, my drunken self. Hopefully this time it is something that I actually want or, better still, could use. Some sort of self-hypnosis program that completely wipes selected memories would be perfect.

Now that would be money well spent.

According to the card, my delivery could now be collected from the sorting office although it was only open until 12.30pm today. There was no point delaying the inevitable so I simply turned around and headed back to the car. The girl behind the counter was not at all what I had been expecting. She was young and pretty with a lovely smile. Not quite the image that is conjured up when thinking of a "Postmistress" which, to me at least, is an older lady who wears tweed and rides a sensible bicycle with a basket on the front.

Where do I get these bloody stereotypes?

Anyway, the lovely young lady handed me a plain white envelope that had no distinguishing logo or decals, yet I immediately recognised the printed handwriting and my blood ran cold.

It was from Gemma.

Fucking great.

The perfect end to this week.

I threw the offending letter into the passenger seat and tormented myself as to its contents for the duration of my short journey back home. Deciding that there really was nothing that I wanted to hear from her, I threw the envelope onto the coffee table and drew myself a hot bath. It seems that my feet are my body's thermostat and they had been like blocks of ice all day so this was my chance to finally get a heat inside me.

It was well into the afternoon before I managed to muster up enough courage to actually open the envelope. It was remarkable the satisfaction that I had derived from ignoring it. It was as if it were Gemma herself that I was forcing to wait until I was ready.

This would be done in _my_ time, when it suited _me_.

I sat on the floor in front of the fire and looked inside. On top of the folded pieces of paper was a luminous yellow post-it note. On it, Gemma had simply scribbled _"please sign and return"_. I could see that she had also included a stamped addressed envelope. The cynic in me realised that the stamp and envelope she may have provided but there was no doubt I had actually paid for them. The folded pieces of paper were official court documents. They had the previous days date on them and were already signed by Gemma. A cross marked the place for my signature.

They were divorce papers.

The warm tears were rolling down my face before I even knew I was crying. My shoulders heaved up and down as I sobbed uncontrollably. My nose was suddenly blocked and so my mouth gasped for air. I felt the saliva gelling between my lips and it wavered as I exhaled. My indignity was complete with the bungee snot bubbling and dropping in a concentrated effort from my nose. It only returned to its original point with great efforts of inhalation on my part.

I used the sleeve of my housecoat to wipe my face and hide my shame.

The papers fell onto the floor as I collapsed onto the couch. Curling up into a ball, I made myself as small as possible. _How had it come to this?_ Staring into the fire, looking but not seeing. Never in my life have I felt so desolate or alone.

What had I done wrong?

The knowledge that I would have done nothing different was of no consolation to me right now. Where was the strong man, the man's man? _The real man?_ All valid questions for which I had no answers. They say that time heals all but I really have no motivation to go on. Go on to what? To try and trust again. To leave myself vulnerable and open to hurt like this? Again?

Never, I would rather die.

I wanted to die.

Right here and right now, just slip away.

That is _exactly_ what I wanted to do. At this time and this place, just curl up and die. What would I be missing? Worse still, who would be missing me? My parents through a familial obligation, through that natural tie that binds. That was about it. Sure, friends and other family might get upset for a day or two but then they would move on with their lives. Without the burden that is _me_. Gemma would move on too. If I died right now though, without lodging these court papers, she would move on with all of my possessions.

No, today was not the day to die. If, for no other reason, than to ensure we are divorced and so guarantee that my parents get every last penny that I own.

Yes, that was reason enough to live. To die would just give her, quite literally, a wealth of satisfaction.

That is completely unacceptable to me.

It is easy to recognise that I am on the cusp of that horrible abyss that is depression but I am struggling to understand why? I mean, it was me who broke up with her. I have too much self worth, too many morals, and far too much principles to simply forget all that has gone on. Worse, I could never allow myself to be in that place ever again, that place where there is the merest threat of someone cheating on me again.

Moreover, I couldn't let either him or her _win_.

Trust is akin to virginity. Once they are gone, it's all but impossible to get them back. Indeed, virginity is one of the very few things in life that you can _never_ get back. No matter what your mother says, you cannot simply go back to where you left it and find it again. Trust is the same for me. When trust is gone, so is any strength in a relationship, as this is the fundamental basis for the relationship.

Any relationship.

There is a domino effect where, through trust, comes respect. When you can trust _and_ respect someone then that, I believe, forms the strongest of relationships as this provides the most fertile basis for love to flourish.

Indeed, to me, this is the only basis upon which love can flourish.

However, it is an important distinction to note that you can also respect someone but not trust them. Such respect usually–but not always–manifests itself through fear. Love can never exist in such circumstances and, without love, what is the point of the relationship?

As all these thoughts swilled around my head, my instincts kicked in and I began to realise what was happening. I had failed to recognise that Gemma knew me as well as I knew her and so this was exactly the reaction that she was expecting. The shock tactic that empowers me to kill our marriage and so it was my responsibility to end it.

As such, I am ultimately admitting that the failure of our marriage was _my_ fault.

It was irrelevant that we both knew different. She would save face by telling any and all that would listen, that it was _my_ choice. She wanted to fight for it. She would win the game of family politics. Yet there was no way I could not take her back, lie next to her in bed, make love to her knowing what she had done. I was incapable of forgetting or forgiving. I knew that. I also knew that I had no choice here. Her tactic became obvious with her inclusion of the return envelope with _my_ home address. This gave _her_ the power to lodge the papers with the court at her own convenience and so conclude our divorce when _she_ wanted–or maybe not lodge them at all.

She could blame _me_ but be happy in the knowledge that the final decision would be _hers_.

It was a power play and her way of determining if I was serious. She had underestimated me once again and this gave me an inordinate sense of satisfaction. I had no intention of empowering her with such a decision. Instead, I would simply sign and send the papers directly to the court. I would, however, replace my home address with that of the court on the envelope she had provided and use her stamp to send them.

Another small victory for me.

Although I hardly feel victorious and I can only hope she feels worse than me but I doubt it. She would throw her energies into her studies and anything else that keeps her occupied. I was always fourth on her list of priorities anyway whereas she was always number one on mine. Gemma valued her family, money, and career more than me. I had always known that, but had believed my status would change once we were married. Foolishly, I had hoped that I would be elevated into the "Family" category.

It was yet another painful lesson learned.

I quickly signed the papers and sealed them in her envelope. As I did so, I realised that this couldn't wait to be sent for, as long as it was in my possession, there was always a chance of changing my mind. It was the slimmest of chances but a chance just the same. It was not one that I could allow. It was as I was heading for my bedroom to get changed when the phone rang. Guessing it was the agency with my next day's start time, I grabbed my Bluetooth and stuck it in my ear and answered.

It was Penny.

"Hello stranger, how's things?" her tone was much the same as usual, light and airy. She never seemed to have a care in the world. Yet I now knew different.

"Hi, it's nice to hear from you..." it really was, "...but you have caught me at the worst possible moment. I am really not in a good place." For some ludicrous reason, I pulled my housecoat tighter around myself. Evidently, I am convinced that my phone has some superpower that allows her to see me when she calls.

"Would you prefer me to call another time?" Her voice was filled with concern and I knew she just wanted to help. "I am more than happy to listen and I have plenty of time to do so. I only ever call you when I have such time."

It struck me as an odd thing to say.

Just then, my knees buckled under me. As I fell to the floor, I suddenly felt helpless and weak. Confused, I had absolutely no idea what was happening to me. Whatever it was, it undoubtedly mixed with my already raw emotions and, try as I might, there was no stopping my breakdown. Gasping and panting, trying to draw breath between sobs, it was uncontrollable. All of my emotions demanded my attention, all at once. Sorrow, relief, despair, grief, envy, loneliness, desolation, depression, all jumbled together in some sort of mental tombola. This led to sheer frustration and a physical pain that I have never experienced before.

Scared, I found the corner and held my knees under my chin, violently trembling and sobbing uncontrollably.

" _Just let it out, let it all go."_ As Penny said this, I swear it felt like her arms were folding around me. Her voice is always so soothing and caring–like velvet. It really seemed like she was here with me. Then she said, _"I understand."_ Something inside me clicked. _How could she possibly fucking understand?_ She had _no fucking clue_ what was going on nor how I felt. If she thought she understood, now was the time to prove her wrong. Right _fucking_ now.

I unloaded.

I told her all about the letter, the papers with Gemma's strong and confident signature already etched upon them, my smugness at using her envelope to post them directly back to the court. Then I went on to tell her of my own feelings of isolation and failure. I concluded with a snide and deliberately combative comment of "So now you _really_ understand."

Surprisingly, she chose to ignore it.

She allowed a few moments of silence to pass and so ensure that I had finished before she said anything. "How do you feel about it all now, are you certain that divorce is the right decision for _you_?" was all she asked. Yet it seemed that she asked this question in a rather rushed manner, almost overly concerned with what my answer might be. Her usual calm and aloofness was replaced with an anxiety that she had never shown before.

Maybe I was just over sensitive or seeing things that weren't there.

"Divorce is absolutely the right decision for me. I know that I am experiencing the grieving process for the death of my marriage but this knowledge does not make it any easier." I was calmer now and had gathered myself up from the floor and had made it to my bedroom. As I slipped on a pair of jeans and shirt, I caught a glimpse of myself in my mirrored wardrobe. The effects of my earlier breakdown were there to be seen on my face. I suddenly felt foolish and ashamed. I want to be strong. I need to be strong.

Anger swelled within me.

Anger at my own weakness.

"Good" she replied, a little too quickly and dismissively for my liking.

" _Good? Good?_ How can my misery be, in any way, _good_ Penny? I am fucking hurting here and you think it's _FUCKING GOOD?_ " I knew I was being unreasonable and blowing it out of all proportion but I needed to vent and she was the only other person here.

"Z, please, calm down. You surely know what I meant" she tried to speak calmly but I could hear the hesitation and concern in her voice. It was obvious she hadn't been used to being spoken to like this before. She didn't seem to know how to handle it, or me. A sign of weakness that, at that moment, I found myself determined to exploit.

Why should it just be me being miserable?

"Well, as you demanded honesty, I guess there is something else I should tell you..." I went on to explain absolutely every single excruciating detail about my tryst with "Angela". All my other emotions were now replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief at absolving myself of this burdensome "sin" that I felt I had committed against Penny. Yet it wasn't really a lie as this was our first conversation since. Even so, I found that I wanted her to be hurt by this information. Yet I couldn't understand why myself.

Why did I want to hurt my friend?

All she did was listen in silence.

After I finished, there was no comment nor judgment about it, nor any mention of me breaking my word. Instead, just concern.

"Z, it is obvious that everything is still so very raw for you. Take it from me, I know. Just give yourself some time to adjust. Go out and blow out, phone a mate and get drunk. Get all of that pent up aggression, hurt, pain and frustration out of you. You know where I am if and when you need me. I will _ALWAYS_ be here, 24/7. Until then, stay aware and take care my friend." Her tone was so soft and calm.

Caring almost.

Then the line went dead.

Suddenly I was exhausted. I lay down on my bed and sleep quickly found me.
21

### Mistress Fiona

Saturday 28th February

It was after 8pm when I awoke from my soundest sleep for weeks. Thoroughly refreshed and reinvigorated, I found that there was seven missed calls and five text messages on my phone. They were a combination of Ed, Taylor, and Marc all asking me to meet at the pub. There was no word from the agency so I guess tomorrow is another enforced day off. Having already showered earlier, I simply changed into a fresh shirt and jeans, grabbed my coat, and drove the five miles to our designated meeting point.

The snow was falling heavier now and lying on the ground. The perfect night for sitting in a warm pub with a cold beer. It was time to follow Penny's advice and abandon the car and drown my sorrows with my friends. I would either get a taxi home or crash at one of the guys' places. Whatever, that was a decision for later.

En route, I dropped off the signed divorce papers into the post box.

The three amigos had a good start on me when I arrived and so this was a night for playing catch up. Perfect. It was only my third or fourth time in this particular establishment and it always struck me as a place for an older clientele. However, it would seem that my initial impression had been incorrect for there are lots of younger people here tonight and the place is jumping. Understandable given the cheap prices but I knew it was going to be a good night when the DJ turned up and started playing all the cheesy 80's and 90's tunes. It maybe sad but it is my kind of music.

Okay, it is sad, but it's still my kind of music.

When it was my turn to order the drinks up, I valiantly fought my way to the bar and was surprised when the barmaid ignored those in front of me and asked what I wanted. Ordinarily I would have highlighted that there were others in front of me but, tonight, I really didn't care. So I selfishly placed my order, fully aware of the few disapproving glares coming my way. One of the joys of being my size, and in the company of equally big and aggressive looking men, is that trouble tends to look for easier targets. As such, nobody said a word. I paid my bill and the barmaid gave me a nice smile and cheeky wink when she passed me my change.

This night just seems to be getting better and better.

She was the ideal barmaid in that she was around the 5' 8" mark with long blonde hair that framed her pretty face. She was also not shy in displaying her ample cleavage, tastefully enshrined within a black silk blouse. Adorning her neck was a gold chain that held a nice crucifix.

Jesus was happily nestled exactly where every man in the pub would like to be.

A few of the women too I would imagine. A nice pair of black trousers completed her outfit and she was obviously known and liked by the locals. Certainly enough of them were calling her by name, "Fiona" was what she best responded to. Probably another reason why nothing was said when she took my order first.

I walked back into the company just as all three men erupted in laughter. For a second I thought they had seen the barmaid's antics and were ready to start the obligatory mocking. Thankfully I was wrong. "Go on son, tell Z." Taylor was saying this to Marc with real tears streaming down his face. Ed was the same. I was already laughing but only at these two.

This was going to be good.

Marc took up the story. "Well, you see, I was travelling to Italy from Scotland with a single pallet. Just one single pallet that sat dead centre at the front of the trailer. I had been well warned that the fridge had to be strictly monitored at -30 degrees, so I had to stop every couple of hours to check it."

"A single pallet to be kept at -30 degrees? What was on it?" Curiosity already had the better of me. My question set Taylor and Ed off again.

Marc continued. "Patience my good man, I'm getting to that. I'll tell you this though, that pallet was worth over _£300,000_. Anyway, as I was so light, I went Swiss." We all knew that Switzerland is the fastest route for Italy but it has stricter than normal weight limits so you have to ensure that your load is light enough for their roads. A single pallet certainly would be. "So I pulled in at the border for the usual checks and declaration. When I submitted the forms, they just could not understand what my load was. So, I tried to explain it to them."

Again, Ed and Taylor started laughing. To be honest, they had barely stopped. I was sat with a grin of anticipation although I really had no clue what could be so funny. Ed interrupted him, "Tell him how long you were there Marc."

"Three fucking days. For three fucking days I sat at the Swiss border trying to get them to understand. I think they did understand but just took offence when I tried to show them using my hands." At this point, Marc put both hands to the side of his head with only his index fingers pointing up. Much like Angus Young does with AC/DC. Then there, in the middle of the pub and fighting to be heard over the music, he started shouting _"MOO!"_

Then he dropped his hands and started to simulate masturbating into the air.

"It was a load of bull semen son!" Taylor couldn't help but kill Marc's punch line. _"No way!"_ I really couldn't believe it and I laughed so hard my sides and face ached. I knew we were being boisterous and were drawing attention to ourselves but really couldn't have cared less. I looked over and caught the barmaid staring. She winked again.

This time, I winked back.

As seems to be the norm for me, it was my round when last orders were called. _How do I always manage to be caught like this?_ It is not uncommon for this round to warrant doubles for Scotsmen who have spent the night drinking singles. Even more so when it's someone else's round. The usual protestations ensue, _"Get me a double and I'll give you the difference"_ and thus starts the pretence of checking the pockets for change. We all know the dance for I have done it myself. This is when you rhyme off the obligatory, _"You're fine. I don't want nor need your money. I'll get this one, you get the first one next time."_ Each aware that any such recollection is simply wrong and bad form.

Friendships have ended over less.

The younger clientele of earlier in the evening had since moved on to pastures new. All that remained were us four and a few of the usual stragglers that every pub seems to proudly possess. As such, there was now no crowd to fight through and I ambled to the bar. Just as I was about to place my order, two drinks were placed in front of me. "These are doubles this time, right?" The barmaid smiled as she fixed the remaining two drinks. It was obvious she had witnessed our tribal routine and so discerned our order.

"Absolutely, and have one for yourself." I said, trying to appear suave and confident. I took the first two drinks back to my friends and returned to the bar.

"Thanks lovey, I will." She placed the final two drinks on the bar and took my money. As she handed me my change she asked "So, what's your plans for the rest of this evening?"

The alcohol may have been having an effect but even now I knew I was being toyed with, possibly even hit on. I took my cue, "Well, if you must know, I am trying to decide whether I should let you take me home or not. But, you know, I haven't yet decided." I felt the twinkle in my own eye.

She mistakenly thought my smile was for her.

" _Oh really?"_ She leaned forward on the bar counter to give me an eyeful of her cleavage. It took both eyes. Obviously this was a game she had played before. I really didn't care, I was too busy enjoying the view. "You like what you see?" she asked, her tongue playing around her lips.

"Actually, I am really concerned for Jesus. He could get squashed down there." I nodded to her crucifix. "I think, for humanity's sake, I may have to save our Saviour." My smile had transformed into a wide grin that felt like it spanned from ear to ear.

I was suitably smug with myself.

"I think, purely for the sake of humanity you understand, that you should definitely do all you can to save Him. He has been known to head off on crusades around my bedroom from time to time. Maybe it would be best if I took you back to my place to ensure that He is safe and sound. All for the sake of humanity of course." Even in my drunken state I knew that she had took the joke a little too far but, hey, who was I to argue?

"Oh, but of course. I shall wait right over here and you can let me know when you are good to go, okay?" I nodded to where we had been sitting all night.

"Sounds good to me." She picked up a bar towel and started wiping down the bar. I returned to the company and handed Ed his drink. When we were finished and the bar was closing, I told the guys to go on ahead as they could get a taxi together seeing as they lived in roughly the same direction which, thankfully, is directly opposite to mine. They accepted my lie that I had called a cab when I had used the bathroom and so was just going to wait for it inside the pub.

The snow was still falling soft and steady as we emerged to find her car fully covered. Ever the gent, I took her brush while she sat in the car to get a heat. I already had my jacket on so I wasn't that cold. Twenty minutes later, we were back at her place.

She asked me if I wanted a coffee, _"...or something stronger?"_ If I had any more alcohol then there was a serious danger that my wee soldier might not stand to attention. So I politely declined in eager anticipation of the frolics to ensue. Such formal niceties only serve to delay the main event anyway and that is, after all, why I am here.

That was the _only_ reason why I was here.

Fiona invited me to make myself comfortable and switched on the TV. She selected a random music channel then excused herself and disappeared through another door off the living room. I presumed she was off to use the bathroom. It transpired that I was wrong.

Very wrong.

As the third music video started playing, I could hear no other noise from within the house and began to suspect that something was amiss. My imagination started to tease me. Maybe she was constipated or, worse still, she had diarrhoea. Now I was _really_ worried. Please God, not again.

_Never_ again.

Suddenly that smell and taste were once again all too vivid and I suppressed my urge to heave. A new fear that was now all too familiar gripped me and I quickly stood to make my exit when she opened the door and made her entrance. I froze but she never moved, allowing my eyes to feast upon her. She certainly knew how to captivate her audience, albeit an audience of one.

Here was the image of every woman that lurked within every man's wet dream.

Her hair was no longer neat and straight but had been pulled up and allowed to fall wildly around her head. The leather facemask gave her the intimidating look of _"Catwoman"_ but it could not contain the look of lust that resided in her eyes. An ornate corset had what seemed like intricate embroidery, I really couldn't be certain as it was her breasts that held my attention. My eyes were set in their sockets as I allowed my head to continue down in the hope that it may just catch my hanging jaw. It would be nice to be able to close my mouth. My effort only resulted in me actually biting my own tongue as I continued to feast upon her black lacy knickers atop matching hold up stockings and high heel shoes.

This magnificent present all wrapped up for _me_.

Halfway down my left thigh I felt my own gift for her. It only served to remind me that I had been forced to go "commando" as I hadn't done any laundry recently. There were no boxers to help contain my own excitement and my second head was proving that I only had one brain. However, like most men, my brain seems to be a flash bastard and it continually switches between its permanent residence and its holiday home. A trouser snake in the truest sense, it had followed the path of least resistance and was now leaking pre-come onto my leg. More worryingly, there was a serious danger I could finish before I start, as my cock really cannot seem to tell that my hairy leg is not the object for its intended copulation.

Adjusting myself only drew attention to my predicament.

"I see you like my pyjamas." She said breathlessly, teasing me with her tongue playing around her mouth. It only added to my excitement as I wondered what else she could actually do with it. She still hadn't moved from the doorway. "We should take this to the bedroom." It was more an order than a suggestion and she disappeared from whence she came. Like a sheep, I obediently followed her.

As she had turned, I was given my sign, which I foolishly chose to ignore.

Jesus was swaying on his cross, precariously close to the abyss that was her cleavage. He had caught my attention and was selflessly sacrificing himself once again to warn me. If he fell into this void, it was all but certain that it would take more than three days before He would be seen again. As I watched Him, I realised that there was no guarantee that _I_ would get out of here after three days.

Not for the first time in my life, I chose to ignore Jesus and thereafter lived to suffer the consequences.

An infused aroma of incense and lavender wafted along her hallway and got stronger the closer I got to the bedroom. As I entered I saw there was some sort of red cloth–a scarf or handkerchief maybe–placed over a bedside lamp that really softened the light. It created a really comforting and altogether seductive ambience. My newfound confidence evaporated as I realised that this was not simply her bedroom; this was her lair, her den, her domain, her inner sanctum–that place where she is most comfortable and in complete control.

Jesus had known this and had tried his best to warn me. This will take more than three _Hail Marys_ and one _Our Father_ before He forgives me.

She took my hand and gripped a little too tightly as she led me inside. There was no going back now and I entered like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter. After my most recent experiences, I had been absolutely certain that I was fully prepared for any and all sexual antics that could come my way. "Come" being the operative word.

Mistress Fiona was about to prove me wrong.

_Again_.

On closer inspection, it became obvious to me that hers was a religion like no other I knew of, for this room was her church and the bed was her altar. There were handcuffs on the bedpost with blindfolds on each of the two bedside tables. More disturbing was the whip on the dresser that I knew to be called a _"cat o' nine tails"_ although I could not tell you exactly _how_ I knew that. I also saw lubricating gel, a strap-on, and far too many vibrators in various colours and dramatically different sizes. There were a few other "tools" spread around the room but I was too afraid to ask what they were for. Ironically, they looked like they came from a Do It Yourself store although I was all but certain it would require a small squad of men to operate them properly. Thankfully, the bed looked to be a place devoid of such pain and its silk sheets made it look very inviting. She was already sat on its edge with baby oil in her hand.

_She_ looked entirely too comfortable.

_I_ was genuinely scared.

"You seem anxious. Indeed, you have looked tense all night. I'm thinking you need a massage. I have teased myself all night about giving you one too." I was quite uncertain about whether she meant a massage or sex by her comment. I quickly realised she meant both and suddenly felt stupid and naïve for even wondering. "Mistress Fiona does as she thinks. So I think you should lie down here." _Mistress Fiona? Oh fuck..._ She patted the bed and I reluctantly walked to it and did as instructed. Never, not even for a second, taking my eyes from her.

She was far too close to that fucking whip for my liking.

My first instinct was to run home–fast. I was bordering on terrified. Yet it is obvious to me now that it is my curiosity that will be the certain death of me. Imagine if I actually do die here, oh the _shame_ that would bring upon my parents. Every single aspect of this scenario is completely out of my comfort zone and, not two hours earlier, I had thought it was my charming wit and sparkling personality that had wooed her. Now I knew better.

Once again I had become the prey–the unwitting _victim_ –of this sexual predator that is neo-feminista.

For the second time in a week, I was in a deeply uncomfortable sexual situation where I was reluctantly conceding the stereotypical male gender role and wondering to myself, _"When did these roles change?"_ It should be _me_ with the sex den and all these toys and implements to scare the bejesus out of others, not the other way around. It should be me that is more sexually advanced and experienced, especially considering that _Mistress fucking Fiona_ here is undoubtedly younger than me.

When did sex stop being simple and straightforward?

She has taken advantage of my wandering thoughts and stripped me before I realised what was going on. As I lie face down on the bed, my hands and feet are being placed into the handcuffs. I _really_ don't like this but what else can I do? Am I a prude? I know, if needs be, that these handcuffs can be easily broken and they are only for titillation. I tell myself it's no big deal, man up and calm down.

I am far from convinced.

Surprisingly, the massage was fantastic. Seriously, I would have paid good money for what she did to me. It felt like every last muscle in my body had surrendered its stress to the kneading powers that were in her hands. I was also covered in baby oil. It felt sensational; I was more relaxed and excited than I had been in as long as I could remember. My whole body was tingling; even my toes and feet, and I found that I was now really looking forward to whatever she had planned next.

Mistress Fiona took off my handcuffs and ordered me to strip her slowly and rub the massage oil all over her body. I clumsily did so, for which I was sharply rebuked, and then she stood up and placed me onto my back on the bed. She handcuffed me again but, this time, left my feet. She put a blindfold on me and started to run her hands all over my body but, teasingly, she went close to but never touched any of my genitalia. I positively ached for her to touch me, certain that even her slightest touch would see me explode with enough come to emulsion her ceiling.

My fantasy was brought crashing back to reality when I heard a small engine whirring into life.

I tried to peek from under my blindfold but there was only complete darkness. Desperate to ask what was going on, I demonstrated a calm restraint that belied my true sense of trepidation. Just as I was about to pluck up the courage, my earlier fears were proven correct.

Her mouth slipped over my cock and whatever she was using, one end was pushed into my ass and the other went onto my balls. Both parts were vibrating and I came by the bucket load and she just kept working her mouth and her toys until my every last drop was milked. Feeling both shocked and embarrassed, I began to apologise when she stopped me. "Please, I know that we needed to put one in the bank so that we can enjoy the rest of our night. Just relax and let me get you hard again." It seemed that this was "pub" Fiona talking. She quickly reverted back to Mistress Fiona when she said sternly, _"Do not make me tell you again!"_

Now was probably the wrong time to be thinking that I really was quite enjoying myself and wondering if she could be a suitable girlfriend. She was sexually sublime, and irrefutably pretty. Surely she was worth a date.

I resolved to ask for her number when she freed me.

There was no way of knowing how long it took me to get hard again but it seemed like seconds to me. _"That's it, get nice and hard for me. Do not make me angry, you wouldn't like me when I am angry."_ Her inadvertent quoting of the _Hulk_ seemed quite ridiculous under the circumstances and I was sure that my hardness lost a little of its edge. However, she soon worked her magic with her tongue and fingers to ensure that this was only a fleeting anomaly.

" _FUCK ME!"_

She screamed this at the very moment she pulled the blindfold off my eyes and straddled me in the cowgirl position. _I near shat myself._ She had forced me straight into her–I didn't even touch sides–and now her hips were grinding against me. There was little doubt about who was doing the actual fucking. As she took off my handcuffs, I managed to lick and suck at the breasts that had gotten me into this trouble in the first place. As she freed my second hand, I reached up to grab a full breast when Jesus hit me right on top of my right eye.

He actually drew blood.

So much for my hopes of forgiveness.

Mistress Fiona was oblivious to my discomfort, and my bleeding, as she was holding onto the headboard and riding me like Seabiscuit. When she got bored, or tired given her efforts, she demanded to switch to the missionary. _"Let me feel you on top and see what you've got."_

This was said with such aggression that it wasn't so much a request as a dare.

Then I discovered that we had a unique problem. The combination of silk bed sheets and baby oil meant that creating any sort of friction was all but impossible. Try as I might, I just could not create any purchase. Every time I tried to push deep inside her, it had the resulting effect of shooting her straight across the bed. This really pissed me off. My masculinity was now being challenged and this was just one step too far.

It was time for me to give some orders of my own.

I took the matching silk covered duvet and threw it onto the floor next to the bed, making a soft and comfortable alternative. _"Lie down."_ Mistress Fiona didn't need to be told twice and she was soon lodged between the bed and the wall. I lay on top of her and she roughly guided me in.

Now it was my turn.

Or so I thought.

As her hands slid around and grabbed my ass, I pounded for all my worth. The mask had long been discarded and her face betrayed just how much she was enjoying it. My masculinity was rapidly returning. Then I felt her hands split my cheeks and she was playing with my ass hole.

Why can't these women seem to leave my ass alone? Seriously, what is their fascination?

"Tell me when you are going to come, okay?" she looked straight into my eyes when she said this, with a smirk of sheer mischief.

"Okay." I was still banging away and wondering why she wanted to know, but too caught up with the job in hand. She was now intermittently fingering and rubbing my ass hole. The switching between these actions was actually turning me on but, somehow, I knew that something was amiss and not quite as it seemed. Yet this was the least of my concerns at that very minute. Again I began to wonder why I so enjoyed having my ass played with. This really was disconcerting. The silk sheets only added to my exertions and a fine coat of sweat was building all over my body. Even behind my knees. _Do knees sweat?_ As I was considering this, I felt my body tensing with the all too familiar build up. _"I'm coming,"_ I panted, in no way sexy.

" _Okay"_ was all she said.

So focussed had I been on the task in hand–well, that and wondering if knees sweat–that it wasn't until this particular moment that it became apparent as to what she had been doing. Rather than merely playing with my ass hole as I had thought, Mistress Fiona had actually been stuffing a knotted silk handkerchief _into_ my ass hole. So, when I told her I was coming, she violently jerked the whole thing out in one swift action and left me with absolutely no idea with what the _fuck_ was happening to my body.

I came...I shat...and I was sick.

ALL AT FUCKING ONCE!

She took absolutely no responsibility for my reaction and it was still snowing when I left her house less than five minutes later. Well, when I say, " _left_ ", I more mean in a more ordered, never to return, sort of way. It can only be presumed that I am also barred from the pub, not that I ever intended to go back. Dazed and confused, I ended up walking the seven miles home, as there were no taxis to be found. Not that I wanted one.

Obviously this was to be my penance for upsetting Jesus...
22

### Cut Off Without A Penny

Sunday 1st March

It was almost noon when I awoke from another blissfully deep and uninterrupted sleep. My night's walk in the crisp winter air was obviously what was needed. It was refreshing and invigorating yet, instead of jumping out of bed to face the rest of the day, I pulled the covers tight under my chin and wrapped the duvet around me. These feelings were becoming all too familiar. They were old friends of mine, those suppressed sexual feelings from my adolescent years that I had thought long since gone. I had almost forgotten what they felt like.

Almost.

The feeling of shame generated by raging hormones from which only masturbation provided any sort of relief. The guilt from being a slave to such primitive instincts. The embarrassment in recollecting the prolonged visit to the bathroom straight after school with the latest catalogue, skipping straight to the underwear section for visual stimulation. Scanning the pages for the most see through lingerie, my imagination taking care of the rest. Only reflecting in later years that my bed sheets needed washed with more regularity during this time. It makes me think of my heroic parents who never once mentioned anything at all for fear of embarrassing _me_.

Heroes indeed.

Yet here were those exact same feelings coursing through my veins, conjured from the memory of last night's debacle, which was still too fresh in my mind. I was wide-awake but thoroughly tired of waking up this way. It was happening all too often and left me deeply uncomfortable and ashamed of myself.

I didn't want to be ashamed anymore.

Yet what was I ashamed of? Once again, it had been my sexual partner that had instigated the whole endeavour. I had been a mere participant. Granted, I was a very willing participant, but it really did feel like I was only there for the purposes of providing a suitable body and penis for her amusement.

To be simply abused.

This used to be the _male_ role. It was _my_ role. A role that I had relished and exploited to the full in years gone past. Right through the remainder of my teenage years, through the hedonistic days of university, first as an undergrad and then with a new found maturity as a postgrad. They had been great years and I had, quite literally, loved them all.

Then I met Gemma.

It was a game that I knew. One in which I considered myself, as almost all men do, a master. It was a game that I played every day. It seems childish and immature now and most probably was then too. Yet that hadn't mattered, we simply didn't care what the girls thought. It wasn't just me either. I was always open to playing, especially at university, where girls were actually _graded_. You know the way, the _"she'll do for a cold and wet Wednesday afternoon, but never for a weekend."_ I have no doubt girls had their own grading system too but I, to this day, have no idea how that would work. Thankfully. If I did, there would be a danger that I could begin to understand women and no one would want that.

Especially not me.

Especially not now.

This is how things were when I was last single. It was simple and easily understood. What has changed in the interim? What have I missed? It is obvious that women have embraced their sexuality but didn't they always? Women nowadays are more sexually aware and better informed than ever. More so, it would seem, than men. Certainly more than _this_ man. They have cunningly manipulated this information to determine and cultivate sexual demands and desires of their own.

This is simply outrageous.

While this may be said in jest, it is obvious that the joke is most definitely on me. On reflection, it might be that Gemma sought sexual gratification from another man because she knew she could never find it with me. We had sunk into a routine that had suited me and one that I was comfortable with, never for a second did I consider that she might not be. She had, after all, been thoroughly dismissive when I had tried to talk about our sex life. There is no point trying to convince myself that it was her fault for not talking to me about how she felt, for quite honestly, I believed that she thought everything was fine. Also, there was no way that I would have listened. A rational chat about how I was failing to match her sexual appetites, fantasies and desires? Certainly not, thank you very much.

Divorce was the winning option over _that_ conversation.

My thoughts then drifted to Penny. My behaviour had been appalling towards her and now I was feeling embarrassed for a whole different reason. Unsurprisingly, there were no missed calls or texts when I checked my phone. It was more in hope than a realistic expectation anyway. Pride prevented me from calling her although I yearned to do so. What would I say? What could I say? A simple apology just wasn't going to be enough. Not this time. I could ask about my still absent T-shirt but that too would be lame, especially this soon after my meltdown. She has had time to reflect too and, no doubt, our friendship is over. It was nice while it lasted.

Actually, it had been great.

_She_ was great.

_I_ was an ass.

Enough of this. It feels like every day there is something fucking new to contemplate and berate myself for. It is exhausting. I am a good guy having a hard time. It happens to us all, and I should actually be thankful that I am no different. Every once in a while, life throws up the most desperate of challenges for us to handle. Now it just so happens to be my turn.

Time for me to get up and face the day.

As I walked out to the waiting taxi it became all too apparent that the new month had retained the old weather. The lazy drizzle had successfully destroyed last nights virginal snow and the resulting slush merely completed a thoroughly miserable and grey day. Ten minutes later and I had happily traded the taxi's worn passenger seat for the comfort of my own car's driver seat and was on my merry way to the supermarket. It seems that my lack of clean underwear was more of a result of having no laundry detergent rather than just idleness on my part. So not really my fault then. A new pack of boxers would not go amiss either, seeing as how I am still "commando" and beginning to feel really self-conscious about it.

Owning a Mercedes also ensures that for the moment I am, quite literally, one of the fur coat and no knickers brigade.

While I am here, there would be no harm in my checking out the DVD section. Its been a while since I last bought something new and this is the perfect way to take my mind off everything and so zone out for a couple of hours. Some bubble gum for the brain as they say.

It would also save me from risking the trip to Hazzard County to visit Uncle Jessie and his kin.

As with most people these days, I rarely carry cash and have become all too reliant upon that magical piece of plastic that is my debit card. Today was no different and so as I paid for my items, I exercised the "cash back" option to withdraw £40. Folding the two £20 notes tightly into one hand, and with my bag of purchases in the other, I made my way to the exit. Just outside the main door, and barely under the canopy, I saw what I was looking for.

The lone figure of a beggar.

He had been there as I pulled into the car park and I had actually sat for a few minutes to watch him before making my way into the store. What had appalled me the most was that no one during that time had paid any attention to him. Most had simply walked on by, as is their right. However, worse than ignoring him, on two separate occasions there had been parents who had physically pulled their curious children away from him. In fairness, the kids had been actually been far more interested his canine companion.

Not once did the man look up.

A single piece of cardboard provided him a seat and protected his attire from the dirty walkway. His little dog was snuggled up on his inside, hiding away from the cold wind and slight rain that was attacking the opposite side. His right arm held it protectively to him while his other hand stroked tenderly under its chin.

It was as content a dog as I have ever seen.

Only now as I was walking passed could I see the dirty and unkempt hair hidden under his well worn and equally filthy baseball cap. The sports logo was barely discernable as all the original colours had now blended into one. Decency and discretion demanded that I pass by them both in order to turn around and crouch down, thus providing the briefest of respite for them against the elements. One of the true benefits of being physically large.

His reaction startled me and almost made me cry.

As he pulled his dog even closer into himself, he instinctively raised his other hand that was nearest me to shield his face. In a voice just louder than a whisper, he softly said _"Please, don't hit us. Please..."_ Confused, I searched his face, begging him to see that my intentions were honourable and neither malicious nor hurtful. It was terrified eyes that peered back at me over the top of his arm, naturally held up in the weakest of efforts at defending himself.

" _We'll move, no problems. We can move, please, just let me get up and we will go. All we wanted was a little shelter and something to eat. We don't want any trouble. Please, leave us alone, we won't give you any trouble..."_

His voice was barely audible. This broken and defeated man sat in front of me and made me feel like I had such control over him. He would move, him and his dog, right now, if I said so. Right here and right now, he would do as I say. His fear gave me that power.

It broke my heart.

Barely able to speak for the lump that was in my throat, it took me a second to compose myself before I managed to whisper, _"No, sorry, no, you have me wrong my friend."_ As I was speaking, my hand found his and I passed over the folded notes. _"Please, this is for you and the wee fella there. Please, just take it."_ I pulled my hand away as soon as the money had passed in fear that he might refuse it.

Never once did we break eye contact and the myriad of emotions that I saw within him in those few seconds will forever haunt my dreams.

" _Thank you"_ was all he managed to say as tears formed in his eyes. _"We haven't eaten for a few days. God bless you."_

He had no idea that God had indeed blessed me by introducing us.

It was a deeply upsetting realisation that, in giving him what I could spare, I now knew that I had given him all that he had.

It had taken me about four hours to earn this money and yet now I wished that I had given more. To leave them now to go and do so would only demean us both. In point of principle it is very rare for me to donate to charity but, whenever possible, I always try and help the homeless. Of course, only what I can afford and certainly whilst exercising more than a modicum of discerning discretion. Sadly, it is well known around London Town that there exists some low life charlatans who opt for begging as a career choice in order to scam a tax-free existence.

Surely there is a little corner of hell reserved for just such people.

There are also those who choose to ignore and so rapidly walk past beggars. My understanding is that such people simply exercise this option whilst consoling themselves with the preconceived idea that they are all alcoholics or drug addicts. As if such afflictions are their own fault and so this is how they end up homeless. By giving money, they feel that they are only enabling them rather than helping. That may well be their opinion and they are perfectly entitled to it, but surely nobody can ever believe that this is a choice, can they?

It reminds me of the tragically funny story of Pastor Jeremiah Steepek who–when due to be introduced for the first time to his new congregation of 10,000 souls–took it upon himself to sit outside the Church disguised as a homeless man, begging for change. In the hour or so that he was there, dirty and alone, nobody gave him a single penny. Indeed, only three people actually bothered to acknowledge his existence by returning the "hello" that he had said to everyone that passed him. When he took a seat inside his new Church, the ushers actually asked him to remove himself to the back. Needless to say, his introduction was something of a surprise and it can only be hoped that his lesson was learned by all, for it is now my mantra.

Actions always speak louder than words.

As such, it makes absolutely no difference to me what someone does with any money I give them. That is their choice as it's now their money. It was my choice to give it in the first place and I have always done so willingly in the hope that, if I were ever in an equally unfortunate position, then someone would be as kind and generous to me. Paying it forward as it were. It is said that each of us are only ever six conversations away from being penniless and homeless. This rings true with me and is something that I shall never forget.

" _Now you take care of yourself and look after him."_ I was getting cold and wet so it was time for me to go.

He leaned over and kissed the dog and said, _"Oh, I will. Don't you worry about that."_ It was then that he smiled for the first time.

" _Hey fella, I was talking to the dog!"_ It felt great to see his smile develop into a full laugh and I made my way back to the car with a song in my heart.

I was halfway home before I realised that I hadn't even asked their names.
23

### The Marital Carousel

Thursday 5th March

The week had flown by and so there had been practically no time at all to check on my emails. Well, so I kept telling myself anyway. The avoidance had given rise to a false hope, the only hope that I had that Penny had made contact. A hope nonetheless. She certainly hadn't called or sent any texts. It was only today that it struck me that, if she had actually sent an email, she would think that I was now ignoring her.

What the fuck had I been thinking?

Nervous anticipation gripped me as I took the laptop and signed in. My eyes raced over the emails in my inbox, searching for her name. _Nothing_. My heart sank. A second, more thorough, scan revealed that my initial finding was correct. However, it had been far more time consuming than normal given the amount of emails from Supasexxx.com. There were emails telling me that I had messages, flirts, and profile views.

Fucking hundreds of them.

This really isn't for me. Just seeing the website name has me feeling like a depraved pervert. I had happily deluded myself into thinking this site was for "research" but it really wasn't and now it had gone too far. The only option I have left to salvage some self-respect is to log on a final time to delete my profile. This would draw a line under this whole sorry episode and I could forget it ever happened. It is also a reassuring, if altogether childish, idea to think that I will have deleted my profile before Penny, no matter how wrong such a thought might be. As we are no longer talking, there is no need for me to believe any different.

Occupying the moral high ground would be a first for me.

As the "Home Page" appeared I instinctively scanned the room to ensure both the door and curtains were closed. It is a habit that serves only to satisfy my own paranoia. In this particular instance, too much of a habit. Thankfully, it is only the shame from my own judgment that I have to concern myself with. Unfortunately, that is the worst kind. The profile pictures that are prominently displayed in the centre of my screen naturally vie for my attention. My eyes dance over the images as I try to ensure that they each have my attention in equal measure. I am just a man after all. There are lots of women in various states of undress, from erect nipples under shirts to full frontal nudity.

It would seem that women have no need for their pubic hair anymore.

Yet the picture that intrigues me most is that of "Susie, 38" who claims to be from east London. She is in what I can only presume to be her own wedding dress next to what can only be further presumed to be her husband. Either that or they have been attending a fancy dress party although their costumes make absolutely no sense to me. Whatever it is, this woman seriously thinks that a picture of her in a wedding dress, on this site, is a good idea? Against my better judgment, I click on her page and read her "Profile Description".

Hi. I am new to this to be honest and not sure this is right for me but thought I would try anyway. I suffer from BHS - Bored Housewife Syndrome. I am happily married but my hubby is away a lot on business.

I have my needs and they aren't being met. Daytime meets are best as the kids are at school so looking for someone to fill my void lol. If you know what I mean lol.

Must be discreet, as husband must never know.

Also keen to try new things so open to all your perverted suggestions!

Her "Sexual Interests" were listed as:

Oral - Receiving, Oral \- Giving, Rimming - Receiving, Rimming - Giving, Anal, Mutual Play, Public Games, Voyeurism, and Role Playing.

This profile was absolutely baffling to me and I just had to read it again. Her other pictures show her naked and, in one, she has a _large_ vibrator deep inside her. I really cannot comprehend why anyone would put up this profile where her husband is so prominent in her main picture and then demands discretion as he _"must never know"_.

Does she not understand that by including his image within her pictures that she has just doubled her odds of getting caught?

It would seem that "Susie" is unable to comprehend that her actions have ensured that she is, in fact, fully prepared to sacrifice her family, ruin her "happy" marriage and so destroy her kids childhoods, and all for what? Just sex? Then there is the added consideration that she has posted her most intimate sexual fantasies on here too. Here they are for _all_ to see. The sexual fantasies that she wants to experiment with but, for some reason, cannot with her husband? Obviously there has been no thought of this becoming public. No thought to the ridicule her husband and children would experience as a consequence of her actions.

Incredibly foolish and completely selfish actions.

Rather than being turned on, I find myself angry at this fucking woman. Angry that she has what I yearn for and yet is prepared to sacrifice it so willingly for the sake of cheap and meaningless sex. Worse still, she is prepared to do so in her marital home, in her marital bed. I understand women have sexual wants and desires but is marriage not about exploring these together?

In reality, my anger isn't with her, it is actually with myself.

Having had experience as a husband, one of the most difficult issues for me in discovering Gemma's affair had been the fact that she hadn't told me we had troubles. She had never explained why she felt the need to fall into the arms of another. Fall into the bed of another. To explore her own sexual fantasies and experiment with someone other than me. This profile had properly sickened me and no mistake. It has made me look deep within myself and recognise my own failings. This is never a pleasant pastime.

Never would I have believed that it was so painful falling from the moral high ground.

I clicked the "back" button in the hope of reversing the last few minutes but instead it only returns me to the "Home page". As I am here, there would be no harm in looking at just another few profiles.

If only to conclude my "research".

A brief scan through another dozen or so profiles and it is abundantly clear that anal sex is now incredibly popular. It is something that I tried once before on a one night stand and it felt, for me at least, that I was fucking a Snickers bar. Well, when I say "tried", it was more like finding the wrong entrance after slipping out mid-coitus. However, it was a very odd sensation and quite _gritty_. An experience that was all the more vivid given that, in our drunken stupidity, we hadn't used a condom. So when I withdrew, I could see some of her shit on my cock. It evidently didn't bother my companion, who merely wiped it away and then hungrily sucked me off.

That was the very reason why there was never a second date.

The next thing that is particularly noticeable is the amount of younger, and remarkably pretty girls, that are on this site. Many claim to only be 18 although a quick look through some of their profiles leads me to doubt the majority of them. Certainly they are all much more sexually aware than they were in my day, and open to trying anything and everything. Indeed, they are far more sexually aware than I am _now_. The vast majority unashamedly state that they are looking for older men to sexually educate them. Considering their age it would be difficult to find many younger for such a purpose.

I cannot decide if this is sad or wise. I mean, it is sad that they even know about this site, far less feel the need to use it. Yet obviously the vast majority of them on here recognise that there is no fool like an old fool. Phrases like "spoil me" and "lavish me with presents" consistently appear peppered throughout their profiles. Why settle for a young penniless lout when they can enjoy the finer things in life with a more refined gentleman.

After all, it is undeniable that it is better to have sex in the Ritz rather than the back seat of any old car.

This thinking is very cold and contrived but undoubtedly shrewd. A site like this satisfies their wants if not their needs. The art of compromising emotional stability for physical and material gratification. It could also be argued that surely it is better that they use this site to safely vet a regular sex partner rather than just heading down to the local nightclub and pick up a different "random" each week, such as they did in my day.

Who am I to question or judge such wisdom?

However, what is more troubling, is that the vast majority within my straw poll openly state that they never "play safe", in reference to the use of condoms. Given my own track record, I am hardly in any position to be disgusted but it is a worrying trend nonetheless.

"Sylvia's" message was still where I had left it. Idle curiosity combined with my poor memory ensured an ill advised revisiting of her profile. Sir Cliff was still there. It struck me that she really was a woman of wonder rather than _Wonder Woman_. It reminded me of a time when I first started driving trucks and I absentmindedly asked an aging driver when you become too old for sex. His angry response left me in no doubt of his feelings on the subject.

" _What the fuck are you asking me for?"_ his simple but effective reply.

"Sylvia" was a granny of 7 who she still wanted regular servicing. It is all but impossible to not admire this zest for life, and her aggressive attempts in the pursuit of satisfying her own natural desires left me wondering, _"what if my mother was ever in this position?"_ Rather surprisingly, I found myself smiling approvingly at this crazy idea. Why not? There may be some embarrassment for us both–more so my mum–but if it made her happy then I really didn't care. Actually, I would secretly be very proud of her, being so wild and reckless at that age.

Just as long as it was okay with Dad.

Not that I could ever see it happening. Then the whole situation started playing out in my head and the reality of it made me feel quite sick. Suddenly it was my mum's face I was now seeing on every one of "Sylvia's" pictures. I found myself screaming out loud _"no...no...NO!"_ whilst violently shaking my head from side to side in a vain attempt to cast the images from my mind. Using one hand to shield my eyes from the computer screen, I quickly deleted "Sylvia's" message. In an instant, it was gone but it may require long bouts of therapy to rid myself of those enduring images. To avoid any further age issues, I altered the parameters of my search to women between 25 and 35.

These results were truly astonishing.

Practically every profile had a tasteful picture that was sexy, altogether more subtly suggestive than crudely explicit. This age range seemed to be the most confident in their sexuality and embraced it rather than suppressing it. They were almost elegant. The selection really was quite impressive although the majority within this age range openly admitted to being a "bored housewife".

Stereotypically so.

Some of these girls were model material and yet all they were seeking was to be wined and dined and, in return, they would guarantee sex. Not only that, the favourite phrase contained within these profiles was to say they were at their "sexual peak" and they felt that life was simply passing them by. I caught myself wondering what was wrong with their husbands? They must not be right in the head, leaving wives like these sexually unfulfilled.

Just like you were, dumbass!

Then I stumbled across the profile of "Debz". To be honest, ordinarily, the spelling of her name would have been enough to ensure that such a profile was ignored. However, she was quite simply stunning. Her profile _demanded_ my attention. Actually, I just wanted to satisfy my own perverse curiosity by looking at her other pictures. Naturally, this also ensured that I forced to read her profile. It would have been rude not to and I am always the gent.

I am a married lady living in Kent with no children. Got another 2 years to pay the wedding debt then we can divorce. The love has gone but got all the toys, house, cars, etc...

...little bored, BIG bit bored...need some spice back in my life...could that be you? :) ...without sounding shallow would prefer to see a face pic as attraction is the key lol

"Debz" profile was so intriguing that it caused me to leave the site and run a separate search to see what the statistics were regarding wedding debts.

The results were truly fascinating.

It seems that the average cost of a wedding in the UK is now in excess £20,000. However, the average salary is £26,500. So, not too far off parity. Yet the most interesting statistics were that it takes the average newlywed couple 5 years to pay off their wedding debts whereas the average marriage only lasts 2 years. This ensures that this average couple are paying off their wedding debts for 3 years _after_ the marriage is _over_. Another article actually states that the predominant reason for such separation is the pressure from this very debt.

All to be the Prince and Princess for a day? That is fucking insane!

An overwhelming sense of sadness fell upon me. I now realise that the vast majority of these women within my age range are only on this site for a little thrill. The thrill that comes from doing something different, something illicit. The thrill that comes from being empowered. The thrill that comes from reclaiming some semblance of control in their own otherwise dull, routine, and monotonous lives. Lives that are now controlled by pressures stemming from debt, work, husbands, children, school runs, friends, family, holidays, etc...

The pressure derived by the need to be seen to be successful.

Sites such as this provide that escapism. They provide an illusion of a more exciting life. A separate life where they can be used with wanton abandon and feel sexually liberated. _A secret life all for themselves._ The illusion becomes delusion when no thought is given to its consequences. Maybe that is what they are looking for, the drama that comes from being caught. To once again be seen as a "lover" in their husband's eyes rather than simply being a "wife" or a "mother". I don't need to meet any of them to know I am not far wrong.

Their actions speak louder than words.

My perception and understanding of this site has dramatically changed. Initially, I wanted it for what I thought it was–and suppose that it still is–the no questions asked straightforward cyber meeting place for just sex. Now, I realise that it is, for the most part, a desperately lonely and squalid place for men and women looking to escape from one hopeless situation by delving straight into another.

All to just feel special again.

My research is as complete as it needs to be and I can stand this no more. Thankfully, it would seem to me that women are just the same as they always have been. Only now they are more sexually aware and far more demanding. This is also as it should be. They are also more open to sexual experimentation and much more confident within themselves. This can only be a positive for us men. It is a relief for me to know that there was no huge secret for me to uncover. On the contrary, sex is still sex, but now it is I who needs to be more open and sensitive to my partners' desires and fantasies.

Yet it has been a surprisingly painful journey in reaching this conclusion. My use of Supasexxx.com was, in theory, supposed to be a fun filled experience but it proved to be an altogether more distressing reality. It was with great delight that I cancelled my membership and cast myself adrift from this money-making leviathan of hurt and sorrow.

It is a playground of despair and desolation and I will _never_ return here.
24

### Dad

Saturday 7th March

"Richie, it's Z, I am really sorry to bother you at this time but listen..."

" _Z...? What time is it...? What's wrong...? Is everything okay...?"_ Even if my tone had not relayed my anxiety, the fact that I was calling at 2.46am certainly would. As such he knew everything was certainly not okay and he cut me off mid sentence, his voice full of comforting concern.

"Well I certainly wish it was mate but, sadly, no. My mum just called to tell me that my dad has had a suspected heart attack. He has been rushed into our local hospital and so I am just packing and heading there directly. Obviously I cannot work tomorrow and don't know how long I will be gone but will keep you updated as and when I can. I am really sorry to land this on you mate but you can see my predicament and I really have no choice. They both need me." I really just wanted this call to be done and get going. The adrenalin was rushing through my veins and I needed to be on the move.

"I am really _so sorry_ mate. Really, I am. Don't worry about a thing here and I can cover your shift today, no problem. You just get off and wish your dad the best from me please. If he is anything like you, he'll be a stubborn bugger and I'm sure he will be just fine." He never even gave me the opportunity to respond, he just hung up. I had really come to like and, more importantly, respect young Richard since our time at Penny's.

_Penny_.

Suddenly I was in a quandary. Should I tell her? At this time in the morning? After our last conversation, would she really want to hear from me? Yet I felt that she had a right to know. I had no idea why. Maybe I just wanted to tell her, maybe it was simply the right thing to do. Maybe I am overthinking it. Isn't this exactly one of those times when you need friends?

True friends.

I finished packing my holdall and was ready for the door when I decided to take a few seconds and text her what was going on. It was the cowards way out, there was no doubt about that but the time gave me the perfect excuse, it would be unseemly and most improper to call.

" _Unseemly? Improper?"_ When did I start talking like this? I berated myself, _"Forget it, send the text, appease your conscience, whatever you need to do, but do it quickly and get moving. Asshole. Your father's lying in hospital and here you are, debating with yourself about sending a stupid fucking text."_

I picked up my phone and found her name in my contacts list and selected the text option.

Dear Penny, I am really sorry I haven't been in touch lately...

Did that sound too girly? Too pathetic? Yes, it surely was. _"Get a move on, your dad is waiting..."_ Okay, lets just take a minute and get this right. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, as they say. _"Who are 'they'? And what are you talking about, first impressions? You already made your first, second, third, countless fucking impressions. She has a handle on what you are like. Just get the text written and get on the bloody road. Your dad needs you!"_

This argument with myself was only stressing me more than I was already and so I was sorely tempted to just forget the text. Yet I instinctively knew that, if I didn't text, it would be the absolute end our friendship and I wasn't ready for that.

Not now.

Not yet.

Dear Penny, please forgive me not being in touch sooner, I have been an ass. I am also really sorry to bother you with this just now, and I am fully aware of the time hence the text rather than a call. You see, I could really use a friend just now as my dad was rushed into Hospital less than an hour ago with a suspected heart attack. Mum is with him and I am on my way there now. I shall, of course, completely understand if you don't respond but just know that you were the first person that came to my mind when I heard. I hope that counts for something...

I hit the "send" key as soon as I had finished and so gave myself no chance to reconsider. I really had no clue what to expect in return, a call, text or no response at all. Nothing would surprise me. I thought no more about it and locked up the house and headed straight for the car.

Like most men that drive for a living, one of my indulgences is a penchant for nice cars. They evoke a certain attitude, in me at least, and an unjustified if not altogether peculiar arrogance that lends itself to a tendency to drive accordingly. I heard it once said that it's not important how fast you are away from the lights but rather the style in how you get there.

I suppose there is a life lesson in that particular analogy.

In my case, I ease there in an aging "S" class Mercedes Benz. Childishly, I named her "Ava". She is a truly marvellous feat of engineering that all but eradicates the monotony of motorway driving. Any driving, actually. Ava was designed for the unlimited German Autobahn and so restricting her to ambling along within the confines of the congested UK road network is almost criminal. Yet it is impossible not to enjoy her, even in testing circumstances such as these.

These particularly testing circumstances being my dad's current predicament, not the insufferable driving conditions.

I threw my holdall in the back seat and myself in the cockpit. Short work was made of the meandering country roads and a mere ten minutes later, Ava and I slipped onto the motorway. Pushing the accelerator closer to the floor, I watched her needle fly past 80, checked my mirrors at 90 and set cruise control 2 mph below the ton. Speeds in excess of 100 mph attract an automatic driving ban so Ava was flirting perilously with my licence and livelihood.

Still, I knew to trust her.

At a little over 5 hours, it was wholly unsurprising that I clocked my fastest ever time for the journey home. What was surprising, however, was that this journey was completed in rather atrocious driving conditions. It seemed that there was a snow cloud following me for the entire duration. Thankfully, the roads had been gritted and kept clear. Also, at that time of the morning, the traffic had been very light and so there were no unexpected hold ups.

I had heard nothing from Penny and my mind was continuously twisting and turning, trying to find different excuses for her that made sense. In a sadistic way I was glad, for between her and the weather, the demands on my concentration kept my mind from drifting to thinking about Dad. Similarly, nothing was heard from my mum either but that was of no concern to me at all as I knew that would be due to her being inside the hospital and so wouldn't be able to use her phone. No news being good news and she knew I was on en route anyway.

Ava was practically abandoned in the hospital car park, not that this is how it would be described by anyone other than a professional. Ordinarily, I am quite pedantic in ensuring that I park with precision within the parking lines. Not today. Today it was parked at an angle but still within the box. After all her hard work, Ava deserved better.

I ran quickly through the rain towards the main entrance and so away from the source of our mutual embarrassment.

The receptionist was fantastic and gave me sympathetic directions to the High Dependency Unit. I am absolutely convinced that there must be a special place in Heaven for these people, all those staff that work in hospitals and medical centres all over the globe. All, each and every single one that I have ever met, demonstrating nothing but care and compassion in the most thankless of circumstances and only in the most trying and stressful conditions.

Saints–every single one of them.

It was hardly surprising that the first face I saw when walking through the doors into the ward was that of my mum. She was sat like an errant schoolgirl waiting at the Headmaster's office with her knees tight together with her fingers entwined and nestled on her lap. Her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

She looked old and frail and I hated it.

Normally she is always so beautiful and radiant with a ready smile for any occasion. I took a moment to compose myself as it was obvious that she needed her son to be a man now. She needed me to tell her it would be okay. To tell her all the usual things that people say in these situations. Things like _"Dad's a fighter, he can beat this."_ Also, _"It's only a heart attack. It'll take more than just a heart attack to keep Dad down, you wait and see."_ Mixed up with a _"Good old Dad, he'll be back in his usual chair hogging the remote and watching the football in no time."_ Those nonsense things that mean so much and said to comfort and elicit a smile.

I could tell them to Mum but who was going to tell them to me?

Taking stock and with a final deep breath, I strode purposefully forward, stood tall and strong, and said softly, "Hi Mum, so what's the news?"

She looked up and her sad eyes hid behind a brave face that was anything but convincing. _"Oh son, it's so good to see you."_ I knew she meant it and when she stood, I gave her the hug that only sons can give their mothers. _"He's fine."_ She whispered this into my ear as I stood rigid to lift her clean off her feet. She needed to know that I was strong for her, in every way.

"So where is he? What happened?" I asked in concern but my relief was palpable.

"He is resting. It was a minor heart attack and he has to make some lifestyle changes but, at our age son, that is to be expected. The usual things, cut back on dairy and red meat, more veg, more exercise, that sort of thing." We were sat together now but holding each others hands and so sitting more sideways in the chairs. It was deeply uncomfortable and I could feel my legs getting numb but it really didn't matter. Mum seemed to be happy enough and that was the main thing. My discomfort could be tolerated.

"Oh, and it was so nice of your friend to come. She has gone to get me a coffee. She really has been a great support, very attentive and kept me going. Nothing has been too much trouble. She really is quite lovely." Mum was looking at me with an unmistakable glint in her eye. I had seen this glint before. It's usually reserved only for those occasions when she has found me a suitable girlfriend. Most often, it is only Mum that has seen this "suitability".

_This_ was definitely _that_ glint.

"What friend?" I was afraid to say her name but I dared to hope...

Mum didn't get the chance to respond. She looked over my shoulder and I turned and stood as I followed her gaze. On reaching my full height, the blood rushed back into my legs and left me light headed, the stars in my eyes were almost blinding me and I felt that I would pass out. Penny, knowing nothing of my predicament, had run and jumped up on me, squeezing me tight with a strength that surprised me. She was sobbing softly as she buried her head into my neck.

Almost inaudibly she whispered "I am so sorry Z, _so...very...sorry_."

I could not understand what she was sorry about but knew better than to ask. I was just delighted she was here and it felt so great to have her in my arms, whatever the circumstances. It was a deeply disturbing feeling, that gave rise to no end of guilt, when I realised that this moment–this exact moment–was, in itself, entirely worth the effort to be here. _How terrible a son am I?_ Yet I simply didn't care, I just wanted to hold her and never let her go.

It was Penny who broke the embrace and tried to compose herself. She had placed the coffees on a trolley that had been left nearby in order to free up her hands when she saw me. She passed one to Mum and gave me the other.

"It's okay, I can go and get myself one. Where is the machine?" I said, looking along the corridor from where she had come.

"Please, don't be silly. You have this one and I shall go get another. It's more important that you stay here with your mum. She can bring you up to speed with everything and I shall be back in a jiffy." She was most insistent and it was obvious, even to me, that she wanted to "freshen up" and so not look like she had been crying. I took the coffee and sat back next to my mum.

"You kept her very quiet son." My mum said as soon as Penny was out of earshot.

Her mischievous glint was back.

"There really is nothing to tell." There really wasn't. "She owns the Auchtershinnan Estate and we became friends after my stay there. That's about it. Nothing else to say." _What else could I say?_

"It doesn't seem to me that she feels the same way son. Believe me."

I was quite happy to allow my mother this moment. Usually I gave her short shrift and never had an issue in reminding her to mind her business. However, this wasn't the time nor the place to be causing her any more upset. Besides, I was quite enjoying the fantasy of what could be with Penny.

"Mum, she has both title and privilege. She is aristocracy personified so why would she ever be interested in me? She is destined for a Lord or, more likely, a dark and mysterious foreign Prince with a life in a castle and all that entails. I am a mere truck driver to her." I could not hide nor otherwise mask the sorrow that my own words generated from within me. Verbalising what I now knew to be my true understanding of our respective positions within our "relationship" was causing me more anguish than that of my dad recovering from his heart attack. At least I knew he was going to be fine, safe and secure in the knowledge that he had a wife and son who love him and who were waiting right here for him.

"Son, please believe me, love, _true love_ , knows no boundaries. Neither class nor creed can impede true love. She obviously cares for you or else why would she be here?" There was a steely determination in my mum's words and I was glad that she had something else to focus on other than my father's predicament. Sadly, I just couldn't share her enthusiasm or confidence.

Though I so desperately wanted to.

Penny returned and so, somewhat thankfully, ended the discussion. I really hoped Mum would never mention it again but I knew better. "So we hear that you are now divorced?" I knew Mum said this more as a statement for Penny's benefit than an actual enquiry into the end of my marriage. As usual, the wise old owl that is my mum managed to elicit the reaction she was looking for.

"Really?" Penny's question was undeniably inquisitive.

"How did _you_ know?" I realised the stupidity of my own question as soon as I had asked.

"Gemma called last night to say she received her divorce papers in yesterday's mail. I certainly hope that her call wasn't a contributing factor to your father's condition." Mum knew there was no way to tell if this were the case, even although I knew that she felt it couldn't have helped. I really didn't want to talk about Gemma so I tried to change the subject but not before letting Penny know that it was finalised.

"Yes, we are divorced although I guess my papers will be waiting behind the door for me when I get back to London." I really hoped that this sounded as carefree as I wanted and meant for it to be.

"We should celebrate at a more appropriate time." I have no idea if it is her natural sophistication, or if it is the fact that she is just the most wonderful person, but Penny just always seems to know exactly the right thing to say.

A trait she shares with my mum.

I was about to respond as it was obvious that the statement was more directed at me, when my mum piped in, "Absolutely, his father and I would love to join you two in that." My face must have betrayed my shock as both Penny and my mum simply looked at me and then each other.

Their laughter was infectious, no matter how inappropriate the location.
25

### The Joke To Recovery

Saturday 7th March

It wasn't until after 1pm that we were finally allowed through to see Dad. Penny had stayed with us the whole time and had taken me aside to ask that I refrain from telling my parents her true identity and full title. "It would just embarrass me" she said with complete modesty.

Dad was sat up in bed and complaining of being hungry. He was only allowed liquids until the full battery of tests were concluded. Although nobody seemed to be able to tell us when that would be exactly. Mum was fretting around him, as expected, telling him to be thankful he was here and that there were going to be big changes when he got home. I caught Penny's eye and the two of us simply smiled at the performances of them both.

"Son, Penny, come here." Dad said excitedly, indicating that we should get closer to the bed. We did as we were told. Now was not the time for upsetting him, especially with mother about.

"You see, just before you guys came in, this really beautiful girl came up to me. She was wearing really tight fitting clothes and high heels. Did she not pass you when you were waiting outside?" Dad was pointing at the door.

All three of us looked at each other, shaking our heads. How did we miss someone like that? I would certainly have spotted such a woman.

"Hmmm, I guess you weren't as steadfast at the door as you said?" He cast a stern eye over us all. How could we _three_ have missed her? One or two I could understand, but the _three_ of us. We had all been there, right outside. Everyone coming in or out had to pass right in front of us.

"Anyway, no matter. So I was just waking up and she was sat right there." He pointed to where Mum was sitting, right by his side. "Guess what the cheeky minx said to me? – _Me?_ – a frail but undeniably brave man, valiantly recovering from a heart attack."

It was obvious from the blank expressions on our collective faces that none of us had any idea what he was talking about.

So he continued.

"She says to me, _"Hey, mister, you looked so peaceful when you were sleeping and you are a really good looking guy for your age. Sean Connery type, you know? It was really turning me on. So I'm wondering if you'd like to have super sex?"_ This is what she said to me. Me? Sean Connery? I mean, come on, he is at least 15 years older than me!"

"Would you please calm down and tell me, who the hell was this dirty little trollop? None of us saw her. You must have been imagining it, what with all the medication? You could have been hallucinating." Mum seemed genuinely concerned. Yet, before Dad could respond, he was interrupted.

"What did you say?" Penny asked, completely consumed.

Dad lay back in his pillow with a wicked smile playing across his mouth. "Oh Penny, I have to admit I was intrigued by her offer." Mum shot him the dirtiest and most thoroughly disapproving look. Undeterred, Dad ignored her and continued.

"So I just asked her, _'What kind of soup is it?'_ "

He threw his head back onto his pillow and gleefully laughed away until he started to cough. Tears of triumph escaped his eyes and he was so thoroughly pleased with himself for duping us all so completely. Dad had never been one for jokes and so that made this all the funnier. He said to Penny, who was more laughing at him than with him, "Do you get it? Eh? Well, do you? Super sex? _Soup_ or _sex_?"

Even Mum was laughing now although I am sure she has taken about as much as she can for today.

We were ushered out after only half and hour, with Dad given strict instructions from the nurse to rest. Penny told us that she needed to head back home whilst there was still some daylight left, as she didn't enjoy driving in the dark. That made her visit all the more remarkable as I had calculated that she must have left immediately upon receiving my text message. Mum had told me it was still dark when Penny arrived.

It was with the greatest reluctance that I said goodbye. Yet is seemed that my mother was more upset than me to let her go, offering to take us all out for dinner and Penny could stay over and drive back tomorrow. "We have plenty of room and can easily make up a bed." It was a most unusual day what with Dad even cracking jokes but my mum's crush on Penny made it even odder, if that were possible.

However, Penny had decided that she needed to go home and I was sure she must have had good reason so I gently but firmly said to Mum that she had to let her go.

She reluctantly accepted.

We said goodbye to Mum at her car and I told her I would catch her up at the house. We walked to Penny's car in silence, there was so many things to say and so little time. I had no idea if Mum was accurate in her assessment of Penny's feelings and, what with my fresh divorce, I decided it best to keep away from testing her theory.

It didn't stop me thinking it though. Quite the opposite in fact.

"Please keep in touch, I do so enjoy hearing what you have been up to. Also, please believe me when I tell you that I do not judge you, on any level. I never have. It really upsets me to think that you may have this impression. In telling me your experiences it allows me to live them vicariously through you. They instil a sense of excitement into the otherwise dreary existence that is my daily life." Penny's eyes displayed a sadness and loneliness that I would never have dreamed possible with her life of privilege.

"Of course I don't think that. I was just having a hard time when we last spoke and it really wasn't your fault. It was all mine and I accept full responsibility for that, and it goes without saying that _I am really sorry_ that it happened."

I meant every single word.

"Z, friends can be like that with one another. That is what they are for, good and bad times. A true friend will always have your back. Don't ask me how but I just know that you will always have mine. Call it female intuition or such like, but it is absolutely true." I could see that she was getting emotional although I was quite unsure why. She quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, I best be off. Take care and keep in touch. More regularly too. It saves me from feeling so lonely." She got in her car and put down the window. "Oh, and please keep me informed on your father's condition. He is such a wonderfully warm, funny, and loving man. As is your mum. Except she's not a man." She pulled the cutest face as she said this, wrapped up in her own confusion. "It's very easy to see where you get it from." She started to drive away as she said this.

"See where I get what from?" I inadvertently shouted at the departing car. However, she was gone and had left me standing there alone in a rather busy car park where, it seemed, my question had caught the attentions of all and sundry. As I sheepishly looked around they each sported a uniform look of puzzlement.

I was puzzled myself but for an entirely different reason.
26

### April Fool

Wednesday 1st April

It had been three weeks to the day since my return to London to find the promised divorce papers lying on my welcome mat waiting for me. It was a relief to be sure but Dad's scare had managed to sharpen my perspective on what was truly important in life.

Friends and family.

Ironic, then, that it was my father who chased me back down south upon his release from hospital. "I am home now son, you have nothing to worry about and there is nothing more you can do for me. While you are here you aren't earning and that just makes me feel guilty. We all have bills to pay and you needn't be wasting your time sitting here looking at your mum and me. We are, as we always have been, only a phone call away. A phone call that we all know you can make whilst you are working, incidentally." He finished this sentence with a wink to reinforce his gentle rebuke for my lack of regular communication. It was too soon to say if it had been an altogether life changing and positive event, but Dad's heart attack had certainly improved his sense of humour. It took over thirty years for me to hear his first joke and now this was his second in a week.

Despite the usual protestations from my mum, Dad had made perfect sense and I really had no desire to stay there any longer than necessary. Like him, I had a fresh new chapter in my own life to start. Mum, as all mothers do, was worried that his urging made them look like they didn't really care and just wanted rid of me. She was at pains to insist that this was definitely not the case. She should have, and we all knew she actually did, know better but she had to say it anyway.

Penny had called about three hours after I had last seen her disappearing away from the hospital car park to let me know she had arrived home safe and sound. As expected, she conformed to social etiquette and asked about Dad although, to be fair, she did seem genuinely interested. We both successfully avoided mentioning our last conversation. Not that I didn't want to ask, there just didn't seem to be the opportunity to do so.

Truth be told, I just didn't know how.

In the intervening days and weeks since, we have been in almost daily contact with calls and texts. It really is most disconcerting that my mother's insistence that Penny is interested in me has left me thinking of very little else. This includes my dad, much to my shame. However, I was more than happy to accept his assurances that he was fine. Still the very thought of her being interested is so preposterous when thought of logically–yet to dream of such, of what could be–now completely preoccupies my time.

Of course, I could just ask her but, if she said no, then it would be a perfectly wonderful friendship that would be wasted. A friendship that has grown exponentially over these past few weeks and one that I am not yet mentally strong enough to cope with ending. She is _that_ important to me in my life just now. Maybe later, but not now.

The risk is simply too great.

Also, there is that chivalrous obligation on my part to ensure her happiness. If I were to recklessly take the opportunity to ask her and she is, as predicted, not interested, then the responsibility is solely mine. My fault for sacrificing our friendship all for the sake of determining if a Lady–a true Lady, one that is an actual member of the nobility–is interested in me, the truck driver.

Oh how her friends would laugh at this after dinner, the men with their brandies and cigars and the ladies with their fine wines and cigarettes held in ornate holders.

The absurdity of such thoughts just made me embarrassed and angry. It was a ridiculous notion and my mother, quite simply, never knew Penny the way I did. She certainly gave no thought to the awkward predicament and pressure that such a relationship would place Penny under. Even I couldn't fathom such dilemmas. Anyway, what did we even really have in common? Could I _ever_ see myself at those very same dinner parties where even I can recognise that my simply being there would become a punch line? The proverbial fish out of water. Absolutely not, such a proposal is utterly absurd, and yet this is her circle.

This is her life.

Similarly, could, or would, she ever be comfortable in mine? Standing around a real fire in a timber-beamed pub with _real_ people. The Taylor's and Ed's of the world. People like me who need to work and live from pay cheque to pay cheque but, unlike me, have available to us something more precious than riches or happiness.

A life that allows for contentment without judgment.

Given what she is used to, I hardly think so. There really is no happy medium obvious to me. Such reality has been the cause for much of my most recent frustration and despair. It could almost be described as heartache, although one that is altogether new and totally different to my separation and divorce. So why do I keep thinking there could be some hope and keep trying to convince myself that my mum was correct? So many questions and, for the most part, the answers offer nothing positive. Yet my own curiosity still seems to defeat the logic. It may be rash, or stupid, or impudent, or irresponsible, certainly downright impertinent, maybe even all of these things, but I simply must know. Maybe I am just overthinking it.

I am, after all, just a boy simply asking a girl to love him.

Could there be another way to find out? Another way that would offer us both the opportunity to maintain our friendship that also lets me know if she does want something more. Surreptitiously as it were.

Then an idea hit me.

It was early evening and the rain was tapping rhythmically against the window. It seemed quite loud but then the house was shrouded in silence so probably more profound than usual. Nervousness suddenly gripped me– _hello old friend_ –and suddenly my mouth was dry as I reached for my mobile and called her. I took a drink of water as she answered on the second ring.

"Z, great to hear from you. How's your dad?" Her tone was the same as usual, light and carefree. Always with the light and carefree. How is that possible? I was so absorbed in my cunning plan of action that her question caught me quite off-guard, although it really shouldn't have. It was always the first thing she asked now so I really should have been prepared for it. A foolish oversight on my part. We exchanged our customary pleasantries for a few minutes thereafter although I was so obviously distracted that she asked, on more than one occasion, if I was okay. Then came the predicted lull in the conversation.

This was my chance and I fully intended to take it.

"I was talking with Mum earlier and she thinks I should start to think about properly dating again. She pointed out that I have been effectively single since Gemma took off to Brussels and that was over eight months ago now. It was really weird to hear my mum suggesting that I try online dating, as I had no idea that she knew of such things. However, I am not really sure and wanted to know your thoughts?" It was a little white lie considering that there was no such conversation with my mum. Well, actually, it was a big full on lie but Mum wouldn't have minded, considering its purpose. She took every opportunity these days to tell me, my dad, and anyone else who would listen, just how simply wonderful Penny is.

I can only imagine her reaction if she found out Penny's true identity.

Penny had no hesitation in her answer, _still_ with the light and carefree. "Your mum is absolutely correct although I have come to expect no less from her. You have a wonderful mother who obviously knows what is best for her son. Why shouldn't you get back out there and try to find happiness? You owe it to yourself Z and some lucky girl is going to get a sweet and lovely guy."

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, although it was exactly what was expected. When there was doubt, there was hope. Her response had not merely removed such hope but rather destroyed it completely. All I wanted to do was hang up right now and crawl back under my rock but that would only embarrass us both. Such an action would only provide a transparency to my ruse and make it so obvious that even Penny would see right through it. There is no other option but to play out my pathetic charade to its natural conclusion.

This is all my bloody mother's fault.

"What site are you thinking? I would be happy to vet potential partners for you." Her voice still with the same tone. Was it really possible that this same voice that I had always found so charming and comforting was beginning to grate on me now?

"inFATEuation.com" I responded, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. It was the first site that sprung to mind and only because their small ad was on the front page of the free local paper that was sat on my coffee table.

"I shall peruse the site later. Unfortunately, I have to go just now but talk soon. Take care and, as always, pass on my very best wishes to your parents please." There was no chance to say goodbye as she immediately hung up. This was a most welcome relief although I couldn't help but notice that it was rather unusual for her to end our calls so abruptly.

An hour later, my membership to the site was complete.
27

### Heartbroken Heartbreaker

Thursday 2nd April

The newspaper headline perfectly achieved its objective, as it was the only one that stood out to me among the myriad of others at the newsstand. As I had been wandering through the service station in search of the toilets–never an easy and always a thankless task– _"BETRAYED"_ was the single word that grabbed my attention and piqued my curiosity, demanding further investigation. It was simply the latest in the never ending cycle of "stories" where some celebrity that I have never heard of has been caught cheating on yet another celebrity that I have never heard of. This is now what masquerades as "news". The headline had successfully seduced and duped me as, for a few seconds at least, I actually found myself interested in this non-story.

Yet it was a story that resonated and festered within me, dredging up my own all too recent memories, and dragging me back there again.

This "betrayal" was of the more conventional man cheating on woman scenario rather than that of my own experience. It seems more understandable to me when men cheat rather than women. Dare I say almost more _natural_? That does not mean to say that it is _acceptable_. There is the common misconception that men cheat for the extra sex when, in my experience, it's not really that at all. For me, men cheat because the actual act of cheating is "sexy" rather than the physical act of sex. Don't get me wrong, the sex itself is nice but it's the ego boost of actually succeeding in seducing, and so playing, multiple women rather than the pursuit of sex itself.

It's also that feeling of being yearned for, desired, and wanted that is truly intoxicating.

It may seem childish, immature, and maybe even overly simplistic, but feeling this way is a fundamental instinct that needs to be nurtured and cultivated within us men. Certainly within this man. For such feelings genuinely make us men feel like, well, _men_. Women seem to misunderstand this and so, with the discovery of any such infidelity, demand to know what the other woman has that she hasn't, what the other woman can do that she cannot? Of course, this only leads to more trouble for those men caught cheating who simply have no real rational nor logical response. How can we possibly state that we just yearned to feel wanted and desired? It makes us sound stupid, weak, and vulnerable and the last thing any woman wants from her man is to think that he is anything other than Superman. The strong protector of her and their family. In such circumstances, men try and save face by explaining the infidelity away with stupid and untrue statements like _"well, she seemed more interested in me and was way more attentive to my needs"_ or _"she was just more exciting"_ , or some other equally absurd nonsense.

This is yet another instance where a man will sacrifice a perfectly good relationship through lies rather than fight for it with truth.

There is also the old saying that "familiarity breeds contempt" and this is certainly true. The longer a relationship endures and the more familiar you become with each other, the more likely you are to take each other for granted. For some, this provides comfort and reassurance, for others, it's simply boring. Any opportunity to escape this monotony is warmly welcomed. I doubt that there is a greater challenge than maintaining a monogamous relationship in this era where sex has never been easier found nor harder to hide from.

My understanding of why women cheat, and on this subject I am far from an expert, is altogether more complex. Another quick web search was required in my efforts of trying to understand Gemma's actions. It would seem that the number one motivator for female infidelity is loneliness. This can be lonely within the family environment, where spending so much time together ensures that there is nothing left to talk about. Then there is the other extreme, as it was for Gemma, of those women who are lonely and alone, away from home. Trying to maintain a distance relationship using a telephone or video chat is possible. At least, that was the assurance given from this particular website although, cynically, I choose not to believe them.

I don't want nor need to believe that others can, and have, succeeded where I have failed.

To be fair to Gemma's suitor, there is an altogether different thrill in successfully seducing a married woman. They seem to be even more alluring and appealing given that this is a greater challenge–the "forbidden fruit" –as it were. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, "I can resist all but temptation". To that end, I understand why she cheated. My understanding does not, however, excuse her infidelity nor make it any more acceptable to me. In fact, I can imagine exactly how her lover manipulated the situation to seduce her.

Indeed, I have all too often enjoyed sadistically tormenting myself with exactly this thought since discovering their affair.

He would extend the drink invitation after work as they both only have empty houses to go back to so why not? Such a drink would allow them to enjoy each others company for the better part of the evening rather than sitting in alone and staring at four walls, waiting for the night to pass. He would add that he would never encroach on someone's relationship and so ensure it all sounded harmless and innocent. After all, he also had a "girlfriend" –he would claim one even if he didn't.

As such, his virtue would beyond question.

Those first few nights develop to dinner. Why not? After all, they are now good friends. Maybe even the cinema as there is a movie that he "really wants to see" and, before long, that develops to a bottle of wine and DVD as he "just wants to chill at home and could use the company". From there, one thing leads to another.

I have seen and done it all before myself.

Yet when I had been on the receiving end of my own play, I did not like it. Never once had I considered the other men when I was the delighting in my role as the seducer. Rather, I had seen them all as fools and losers who should have had greater knowledge and understanding of their partners needs. Never once had I considered that they may have been genuinely nice guys who deserved better. Never once had I considered the pain and suffering that my aggressively pursuing and seducing their partners may cause. Why would I? After all, that was the women's consideration and so all blame fell upon her.

Only now–as I considered my own experience and thinking about how I would feel if it were to be flaunted so publicly as front page "news" –did I understand the error and tragedy of such immoral thinking.

In blissful ignorance, I had been caring for and tending my own marriage. Dutifully encouraging and supporting my wife's career by working my ass off and, all the while, I was being beaten at my own game. It was me who was the unconsidered loser, the fool of their charade. I did not like it. Not at all. That familiar feeling of anger coursed through my veins once again as I imagined their trysts. It was proving impossible to not think of them together although I had never actually seen him. This only compounded my torment as my twisted imagination ran riot. Naturally, he had to be a Brad Pitt or David Beckham lookalike, with the intellect of Stephen Hawking. Surely he would have to be for him to be the better man than me.

I had seriously wanted to rip the little pricks head off and make him ugly. Thankfully, that never happened as I know now that I am actually more angry at myself and the person I was rather than at him, or even Gemma. This may well have been karma for all of my own indiscretions and, if so, it really is a bitch. However, all of my new found knowledge has done nothing to help me, and my amateur attempt at self help has proven to be anything but therapeutic.

All this introspection originating from a single word fucking headline in a newspaper?

It would seem that merely being divorced does not eradicate the pain. It wasn't the magic wand I thought it would be. I do know that, with each passing reflection upon my past, that it does get easier. I also know that my days of being the heartbreaker are over now that I have experienced that heartbreak for myself.

I also know not to look at any fucking newspapers in future.
28

### Enabled In The Disabled

Thursday 2nd April

Ed's phone call came late in the afternoon but not a minute too soon. Another boring night with the television and a romantic microwave meal for one was all that awaited me as I was slowly meandering home from work. Thankfully these plans were changed in an instant as Ed told me that he, Taylor, and another guy they knew– "Tony" –were meeting up for a bar meal and asked if I wanted to join them.

It was perhaps the easiest decision I have ever had to make.

Within ten minutes I was in their company and in my element, thriving in my self appointed role of court jester. "So she asks me if I like 'rimming?' and I had absolutely no idea what the fuck she was talking about. Naively, I thought that she must have meant 'trimming' so I told her that I like to keep myself 'neat'. It was immediately apparent that something was amiss when she stopped licking my balls. Pulling my cock to the side, she looks up and gives me the most quizzical of looks. Seriously, it was the whole raised eyebrow effort, but she never said a word. It was quite an uncomfortable moment as I was feeling rather stupid but didn't quite know why so I just smiled and gave her a nod. There was no time to give it too much thought as the next thing I know, her tongue was tonsil-deep in my _ass_!"

I had taken the usual liberties with the facts and details of my experience for comical effect. However, as the guys were laughing away at my ignorance, I wasn't entirely convinced that they were any more enlightened. Not that it mattered. After all, why let the truth get in the way of a good story.

" _I got such a shock, my sphincter near guillotined her tongue!"_

Although this new wave of laughter was expected and wanted, the seriousness of my statement was all too accurate. Until that most intimate moment, my experience of rimming had been very limited with no knowledge of what was actually happening to me. I most definitely did not know there was a name for it. As such, it was all but impossible to venture an honest opinion on the question of whether I liked it or not. There had been no time to properly consider her question before "Angela" had taken matters into her own hands, so to speak–although using an entirely separate appendage.

Yet it was disturbingly true that I actually did enjoy the experience.

Talk about a brain fuck. It had gone against every one of my natural instincts to have something go _into_ my ass yet she had been so gentle. Her tongue soft, warm, and tender. Bizarrely, my repulsive impulses had been soundly defeated by the overriding sensation of pleasure that she had deftly provided. Not that I shared this particular nugget of information with the fellas. Some things are strictly private, even for me.

I continued with my story, safe in the knowledge that the guys could no longer tell the difference between fact and fiction. Not that it mattered for now they really could not have cared less. We were on our third round of drinks and we all just wanted a laugh. Telling them the full gory details of "Angela's" anal orgasm also had the desired effect as both Taylor and Ed looked as if they might vomit. I couldn't help but laugh, more so at their reaction than my recollection, but only until I looked at Tony.

He had a fixed smile but was staring at me with the most curious of looks.

Thankfully the moment passed when Taylor asked me if I have a new girl yet. I told him "no" but stopped myself short of telling both him and Ed about my recent subscription to a more conventional online dating site due to Tony's unforeseen presence. In many ways, this registration was even more embarrassing and sensitive to me than the sex site as it demanded that I was altogether more truthful and honest in my profile.

Too honest for comfort, if truth be told.

Actually, it was cringeworthy. The very thought of it reminded me that it had been written immediately after my chat with Penny and so done with haste and upset. Never a good combination. Berating myself was becoming an unpleasant habit, and I had continually done so throughout the day over what I had submitted. It _was_ brutally honest, too honest, in that it was undeniably virtuous and properly reflective of my ethics and morals. However it was also the ramblings of a bitter and resentful man. Even I could recognise that it was completely unappealing and so I had resolved to immediately amend it to reflect my warmer and more endearing attributes as soon as I was home.

Taylor took the opportunity to regale us with a parable that served as advice, specifically for me, regarding dating preparation. He assured us that his story was completely true– _aren't they all?_ –and involved a female friend of his. Is it not the case the whole world over that these stories always happen to a "friend", never actually the person relaying the story. Not that it matters of course, the sentiment of the story need never be compromised through trivial matters such as factual accuracies.

"Alice was my old neighbour across the hall when I lived up in Inverness." I already found it highly amusing that he, quite literally, had been living next door to Alice. Yet he continued without making the reference. It's not like Taylor to pass up such a golden opportunity, probably been said too many times before. "She had been keen on this lad she worked with for months and he finally agreed to a dinner date at her house. On the day in question, she had adhered to the usual feminine dating ritual of soaking in a bath then having a shower. Fuck knows what _that_ is all about."

There were always funny quips contained within Mike's stories and this was no exception. He took a drink and allowed us to savour the moment, then continued.

"So, it transpired that she had sneezed when she got out from the shower and, fearing a cold, quickly got herself dressed and then put the final touches to the meal. The lad duly turns up with the obligatory bottle of wine and they proceed to enjoy a pleasant night. Around three hours later, he left and she wanders into my house all delighted with herself. She tells me how great it was, how attentive he was, he is such a great listener and let her talk and talk. In her words, it was truly "magical" and he had promised to call and arrange to meet up again for another date in a few days time."

Mike paused for effect although there really was no need, we were all enthralled.

"I just couldn't look at her as she is telling me all this, throwing my eyes in every direction but hers. Although I had to be honest and tell her that she would never hear from him again. She thought it was a joke at first until she realised that I was serious. That made her understandably upset and she asked me why I would ever say such a horrible thing. Well rather than try and explain, I simply found a mirror and handed it to her. She fled my house in tears and never spoke to me for days, like it was my fucking fault." Taylor sat back, took another drink and waited for one of us to ask the inevitable question.

Ed stepped up. "Why?" was all he needed to say.

"Well, when she had gotten out of her shower and sneezed, she had wiped her nose with her wrist and it had dragged the snot straight across her cheek where it had dried in. That poor lad had politely sat through an entire meal and drinks looking at dried snot stretching all over her face and she had known nothing about it!"

Taylor turned and looked at me through his empty pint glass, using it as a telescope. His hint was neither subtle nor discreet, and it was obviously my shout on the bell. He always knows whose round it is and is never shy in telling you. Yet another of his endearing qualities for the rounds always fall equally when you drink in his company. There are others who would happily go for a drink and always dart to the toilet when it is their turn to buy. Parasitic bastards. This cannot be said of Taylor.

He is always the first one to start the round.

As I was ordering at the bar, Ed came up to me and told me that Tony had just gotten a text from his wife and she was going to be here in five minutes to pick him up. So, could I get in a Gin and Tonic for her? Apparently Tony would give me the money when I got back to the table. _Who actually does that?_ It was no big deal buying the extra drink and I would look like a proper dick if I actually took the money. However, to his credit, Tony played his part in the routine and duly offered. To complete the farce, I duly refused.

It was at that moment that Tony looked over my shoulder and said "hello love" to what was obviously his wife. Taylor and Ed were given quick introductions and I stood to turn in order to both be properly introduced and make space for her to sit. As she reached for my hand, I looked at her and froze as such an introduction was completely unnecessary.

It was "Angela".

She smiled widely and shook my hand without any hesitation nor sense of recognition. Not a trace of shame either, none of which could be said for me. "Hello Z, nice to meet you." She looked me straight in the eye as she said it. The last time I saw her, I was staring straight into a different eye and the recollection of her "wink" gave me a sudden, and very real, yearning for the bathroom.

The overwhelming recollection of that smell and taste making me instantly nauseous.

"Pleasure" was all I could muster–my mouth seemingly full–before reclaiming my flaccid hand and excusing myself for the relative safety of the toilet. Double checking that the cubicle door was securely locked, I sat to take stock and compose myself rather than actually using the facility. In doing so, I quickly discovered that these bathrooms had been subject to modernisation with new sensor flushes replacing the standard handle. The water angrily gargled and rushed from the depths, my brain was simply too preoccupied to fully comprehend what was actually happening. I jumped up but it was too late, the water completely soaked my backside. Worse still, upon a mirrored inspection, the damp patch was surrounded by the perfectly dry border so ensuring a perfect imprint of the toilet bowl.

In my haste for privacy, I hadn't actually dropped my trousers.

How could I explain this? Taking a long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror, with every possible excuse for my predicament flashing through my head, my thoughts were interrupted by a female voice behind me.

"That's twice you have embarrassed me." The voice belonged to "Angela" who was stood in the door of the disabled cubicle that was closest to the bathroom entrance. So lost in my thoughts, I had been completely unaware of her presence until that moment.

"Twice I've embarrassed you?" My voice relayed my incredulity that I was beyond disguising. _"Are you fucking kidding me?_ You shat all over me _and_ in my mouth and then hid in your toilet without giving me an opportunity to properly wash up. If anyone has the right to be pissed off here then it's surely me."

"Surely _you_? How do you figure?" She stood half behind the cubicle door. Obviously, she intended to step inside to hide should anyone else come in.

"Well it was obvious that you actually came, I never even had that."

"True. Well, we could always remedy that now..." She stepped further inside the cubicle and pulled up her loose skirt, revealing stockings and suspenders but no underwear. It was only now that I noticed the low cut top and her breasts looking like two bald men fighting for release.

"You are joking, right? Your husband is sat right outside, someone could come in here at any minute and my ass is soaked through yet you think that this is a good opportunity to get busy?" I could hear myself talking but yet here I was walking towards the cubicle with an all too familiar strain against my zipper.

"You need to be quick." She said as she bent over the corner sink and ready for me. There was no need for any encouragement regarding time sensitivity. Whether it was the excitement of the location, the proximity of her husband, or the simple fact of getting sex–whatever the reason–it seemed that I was spent in four strokes. Four wonderful, tantalising, depraved and perverted strokes.

As "Angela" cleaned herself up, I checked underneath the cubicle and saw that we were still alone. There was no way I could go back and sit with her husband and my friends and pretend that nothing had happened. Especially with still no feasible excuse for the tell tale imprint on my ass. Without saying another word, my escape route involved exiting through the smoking area to the car park.

In less than ten minutes I was home and, by nights end, I had successfully ignored the eight calls shared between Taylor and Ed. The only call I had accepted was the one that I immediately wished that I had also ignored.

It was from Penny.

" _Hey you, I've just found your inFATEuation profile..."_
29

### Usurper_Of_Fate

Thursday 2nd April

" _What the fu...? How...? Wait a minu... Why... yes, why would you ever be interested in finding my profile?"_ It was as I asked the question that the answer became clear to me. Why _wouldn't_ she be interested in looking at my profile? If the roles had been reversed, I would certainly have searched for hers. Yet whilst this whole new level of embarrassment may not have been evident in my tone, it was certainly very real in my head. A head that was now throbbing and flushed a very bright red. Indeed, she was blissfully unaware that the sole reason my profile was _so_ embarrassing was entirely due to our last conversation. Not for the first time, I now sorely wished I had come straight home from work and amended it to an altogether more appealing and, hopefully, cooler description.

Not that I was deluded enough to ever consider myself "cool".

"Idle curiosity is one's only excuse. I hope that I haven't offended you by doing so, for that was certainly never my intention. If it helps, I actually enjoyed the brutal honesty of your "Profile Description". Judging by the other profiles I have read, rarely is there such honesty to be found forthcoming from any of the other members. Yet, oddly, practically everyone feels the need to actually state how highly they value this particular quality. Indeed, whilst they all happily claim to be seeking this honesty in their ideal partners, they fail to recognise that it is sadly lacking in most of their own actual profiles.

The irony is as delightful as it is intriguing.

Rather most favour the tendency to play safe and employ a strategy that is altogether more formulaic. As such, they all seem to be a variation of a theme. In comparison, the honesty in yours comes over as sincere and completely refreshing. It could actually be described as "brave" for you have merely written what I am certain others have been thinking."

Her clinical assessment blended with the praise, faint or otherwise, for my own profile certainly alleviated some of my embarrassment. Although it was obviously her way of apologising for what she correctly interpreted from my reaction to be a very personal intrusion.

"Well I am glad you liked it. However, I'm just about to amend it as, to me, it is so honest as to be completely unappealing and utterly humiliating." My computer had the "Edit Profile" page open and, peering through my fingers that were being used as the most primitive of filters in the vain hope of protecting myself, I cast a timid eye over the words. It could only be best described as a rant. Overly long and laborious, it was the ramblings of a broken and wholly confused man simply seeking love in a guise with which he was familiar and would be most comfortable.

It truly was an excruciating read.

It started with what I had believed to be a hip joke from a modern reference and then meandered slowly in an effort to be all encompassing whilst being enigmatically alluring. It was meant to demonstrate my sensitivity and vulnerability whilst also suggesting a strength of resolve and steely determination, all blended with an unwavering loyalty and brilliant sense of humour. It was supposed to be me, stripped into my component parts and reassembled as every ladies complete and ideal man.

It undoubtedly failed on every level.

To paraphrase Beyoncé "Only single ladies!" please.

Honesty seems to be an essential quality sought by all the ladies profiles I have perused. As such, I shall be blatantly honest here in the hope that it is appreciated although, please, take no offence as none is given nor intended. This is merely my own honest opinion and/or feelings and I can offer no apology for this.

I do not consider myself a liar or a cheat but, if I was, would you really expect me to acknowledge it on here? So for all you ladies who expressly state that they are looking to avoid such "players", I would suggest that this is a completely redundant statement and a waste of everyone's time.

I should mention too that there seems to be an inordinate amount of profiles stating that a "GSOH" is vital. I wonder who does not think that they have a great sense of humour?

Also, from the profiles, it seems that pictures of topless men is quite common and very off putting for you ladies. Can I just point out that, contrary to popular belief, this is also the same for us gents–including me. Scantily clad pictures on yourself on here does nothing for me. Especially when you then go on to state that you do not wish to be "sexually objectified". Sex is part of a relationship and it will happen in its own time so why spoil the surprise?

Similarly, these are "personal" profiles so why have group pictures? These can be most confusing, although even more so when it's an ex-boyfriend with his face cut out. Seriously, you have no other suitable pictures?

So, about me...

Recently divorced and the process has taught me a lot about myself. I have discovered that the deceit of being cheating on and the destruction of my trust causes me great distress. It also generated a jealousy that I never previously knew existed. I now know that this is unhealthy but that it can only be initiated by your partner.

Never do I want to be responsible for making anyone ever feel this way as it was horrible.

So liars, cheats, vagrants, and vagabonds please just pass me by! Oh, did I forget to mention that I can also be a complete contradiction and a hopeless romantic?

Lets see if honesty really is the best policy...

It was with a sense of relief that I pressed the delete button. As I did so, Penny spoke. I had all but forgotten that she was still there.

"Your photograph is very intriguing, just showing your eyes. I believe that they really are the window to the soul and yours are quite hypnotic." I enjoyed the compliment although it was all too brief. "Did you get any messages?" The question threw me and was one that I had not previously considered. _Who would have been foolish enough to respond to my rambling crap?_ Yet a quick look up at the "Inbox" tab showed an unopened red envelope with a number beside it.

"Actually, it seems I have two." There was no hiding my surprise. Instinctively, my first thought was that they would be from a couple of wholly unappealing and altogether desperate souls blanket messaging the latest new member.

"What do they say?" Penny's excitement and enthusiasm was quite disturbing and actually quite hurtful, not that she could be expected to know. My feelings for her were as strong as ever and, glad as I was of her continued role in my life, I knew that there would be no real future for me with anyone else as long as that continued.

"Rather than telling you, it's probably easier and quicker to let you log into my account." It would also save me the annoying and frustrating task of reciting these two messages verbatim. As I relayed my username and password, I could hear her rhythmic tapping of the corresponding letters being punched into the keyboard.

My first message was from a 29 year old in Hertford–so not too far from me–using the name "Usurper_Of_Fate,", and was unquestionably intriguing.

Hi,

I loved your profile, it was so refreshing to see some truth and honesty among the mundane!

I am certainly interested in finding out even more about you...

I hope to hear from you soon.

A x

Her profile was equally brief, complimented with a solitary photograph. It was a holiday snap taken in some far off tropical clime, where a soft red sunset surrounded the solitary figure of a shapely bikini clad girl who was walking along a beach and away from the camera. Hers were the only footprints in the sand that was more white than yellow, and the clear turquoise sea maintained a respectable distance on her left. Akin to the presumptions of face and physique that you imagine purely from a strangers voice on a telephone, I was already forming an idea of what she must look like. It was certainly wrong of me to be so presumptive but there was no real harm in doing so.

In fact, it was quite fun.

In letting my imagination run wild, I allowed all sorts of combinations to play in my mind. No matter how I combined the different eye colours, complexion, skin tone, nose composition, etc...., each incarnation concluded with the same result.

"A" was beautiful.

"I think the first message has the greatest potential but the second could be a decent start to easing yourself back into dating. A trial run, as it were." Penny's comments brought me crashing back from my own stroll along that warm beach. The seductive sound of the sea lapping the shore was instantly replaced with her voice booming loudly over my Bluetooth.

It scared the shit out of me.

A quick skim through the second message found me in agreement with Penny's synopsis, although I could not help but be impressed with the efficiency in which she had come to such a conclusion. How had she managed to assimilate both messages and the information contained within the corresponding profiles so rapidly? Not for the first time, she made me feel rather slow and inept. If this is how she made her previous boyfriends feel, it was little wonder she was single. There was some comfort to be had in this latest conclusion.

I allowed myself a wry smile.

It was a quick and easy determination that I was stressed and tired whereas she was fresh and alert, and so I dismissed any further thought on the matter for fear that I was actually wrong. "I'm still not convinced this is a good idea. The sole purpose of joining this site was to get my mum off my back rather than actually dating." The lie came all too easily to me and although it was still Penny that I wanted, there was no denying that "A" had certainly piqued my interest.

"She is of a more suitable age for you too, "A" I mean. It must be a concern, Susan being that much older." "Susan" had sent my second message. "She is all of 37 and has no children but states on her profile that she wants them. Her body clock will be ticking and this will heap more pressure on any relationship from the outset." The pause was long enough for me to realise that it was a sentiment that was all too personal to Penny, as it was said more to herself than to me. For once, she sounded rather flustered when quickly countering with "Well, one would presume."

It was her clinical precision with which my prospective partners were being scrutinised that was making me distinctly uncomfortable. However, she was only verbalising what was, to me, rather obvious and something that I had already considered. Yet another reason why she was so appealing to me; Penny had an uncanny ability to say what I was thinking. I briefly let myself wonder if it was the same for her with me but it was such a stupid thought that I again flushed red with embarrassment and irritation, quickly chided myself, and dismissed the thought without any further consideration.

"You make it sound like I am at the market picking a horse. Maybe I should inspect their manes, teeth, and feet upon our first meeting to ensure mating suitability?" The joke was presented a little too seriously, even for my own liking, and I really hoped that my gentle rebuke was not lost in translation. The laugh was deliberately audible and her response adequately contrite. "Well I suppose one must sound unduly harsh. My romantic experience does tend to favour the equine, not having that much in the personal. This online dating concept is one of a box ticking exercise though with a glaring void in the "personal chemistry" component. An attempt at navigating the first hurdle as it were, if you forgive the equestrian analogy although it is in keeping with the theme. One simply cannot help oneself." It was my turn to laugh, she is actually an unconscious comedian with no real grasp on how funny she actually is.

Fearing we were headed for a conversation cul-de-sac, I pushed on to her thoughts on "Susan's" message. Although grammatically correct, it lacked finesse and seemed too contrived to be original. I rather suspected it was a cut and paste effort.

It was quite funny though.

Hey!

I really liked your profile and think that we have lots in common. It seems rather pointless to encourage continuous messages back and forth when we could simply meet for a coffee and see how we get on?

So please have a look at my profile and, if you like what you see, drop me a quick note and we can get that coffee date organised!

Take care

Susan xx

"So you think I should go for this coffee when, in your opinion, nothing of any good can come from it? Other than me using it as a dating experiment of course." It was more of a statement than a question and quite deliberately antagonistic. To my mind, "Susan" was quite serious in her endeavours to settle down with a suitable partner. It was more than obvious from her profile, especially her "Personal Description", that she had abandoned any thought of "Prince Charming" and would happily settle for "Mr You'll Do". Her unconscious participation in my experiment would have been unusually cruel on my part.

"Certainly, why ever not? There are no promises nor commitments and it could only be a useful exercise for you. It would allow you to gauge if you feel ready to date again and, if that were not reason enough, it would appease your mother somewhat." Begrudgingly, I had to admit to being flattered and reassured to hear that Penny only had my welfare in mind and that "Susan" was given no consideration whatsoever. It was also nice that she had considered my mum and her feelings.

However, she made it all but impossible to not draw on the aristocratic stereotype of love being more clinical, cynical, and contrived than a genuine affair of the heart.

As I was considering that there was no point in exploring this any further, my earlier transgressions in the disabled toilet invaded my mind. A completely irrational fear that Penny could read my thoughts hit me and I nervously ended our call all too abruptly with the lie that my mum was on call waiting. Ironically, it also served to remind me that I really did need to call my parents. "Oh, please tell her I said hello and hope that your father is doing well. Goodbye." Lying was becoming all too easy for me now and yet there really was no need for it. It was a matter for later consideration.

Now free from all distractions, my focus switched to "A". Given the day's events, I really should have known better than to try and formulate a response now, especially after Penny had proven that I was well below par. It needed to be light, funny, clever, and insightful; no pressure then. Predictably, I was none of these things.

Hi A,

Thank you so much for your message. I should highlight that I have no idea of the online dating etiquette so please forgive me if this message is in any way tactless. Respecting that "Discretion is the better part of Valour", I guess generic questions are the way forward?

What industry do you work in?

Do you enjoy it?

What would you do if money were no object?

Your profile name is rather curious, do you believe in fate?

Please feel free to ask me anything and I shall try and be funny then!

Until "then", take care,

Z

It was such a sterile email that contained absolutely none of my personality, yet I sent it anyway. Fate could do its worst now, I really didn't care and if "A" wanted to usurp it, all the better. Cupid could certainly use a kick in the ass as far as I was concerned. Buoyed by my new bullish and carefree attitude, I quickly emailed "Susan".

Hi Susan,

Thanks for your email. I did, indeed, check out your profile and liked what I saw.

Who wouldn't? :)

So, when do you fancy that coffee?

Z

After hitting "send", I intended to surf the web for a few minutes; then shower and rid myself of the lingering feeling of dirtiness that had been growing since my bathroom antics. Had that really happened? It all seemed so long ago and yet, in reality, it had only been a few hours. It had been undeniably erotic and the fresh memory of it all–the rush of the moment and the thought of getting caught–was stirring my nether region. I may be forced to give myself a treat in the shower.

Then the all too familiar "ping" from the computer brought me crashing back to reality and informed me of a new email.

Hi Z,

How about a drink tomorrow night? Say 8pm in the George and Dragon in Potters Bar?

S x

In an unusual bout of bravado, I thought to myself, _fuck it, why not? What's the worst that could happen?_ and responded accordingly. Finally stepping into the shower, the earlier thought of self-abuse had long since deserted me.

I had been enough of a wanker today.
30

### Desperately Seeking Susan

Friday 3rd April

It was certainly peculiar that I should be feeling nervous about meeting up for a date with someone that I had absolutely no interest in. However, it _was_ becoming something of a new trait of mine. At least, that's what I had spent most of today trying to convince myself I was feeling–nervousness. In truth, I knew that it was a cocktail of deceit and guilt coursing through my veins and penetrating my psyche. This inner turmoil was compelling but, try as it might, there was no way I could allow it to breach my consciousness. If that were to happen, I would immediately have cancelled the date and what good would that have done me? This was an experiment after all and sometimes one has to be selfish for the greater benefit of oneself.

"One"? "Oneself"? When did I start talking like Penny?

The problem was compounded by the fact that I had taken more time and effort in an attempt to look my best than would ordinarily have been the case. Under normal circumstances, I would certainly have made an effort but only in the hope that my date would like what she saw before my personality came shining through. All with a second date objective. Yet here I was making the extra effort with a sardonic motivation that this one and only date would be blinded by my polished exterior that would camouflage my complete indifference and so ensuring a pleasant, if entirely fruitless, evening.

"Susan", you poor unknowing soul.

I do believe in the notion that what goes around comes around and there was no doubt that the Gods were voicing their disapproval of my experiment through the inimitable Elvis Costello. As I stepped into my car to head for the date, the radio released his haunting tones that had, so often, filled my personal void with a heart-warming hope and promise of love eternal. However, now, it seems that he was sternly reprimanding me.

"... _She may be the mirror of my dreams..._

... _She may not be what she may seem,_

Inside her shell...

... _She..._

... _May come to me from shadows of the past..._

... _That I'll remember till the day I die..."_

As I drove to the scene of hope for "Susan", it was my misplaced sense of chivalry that saved her from me turning around and heading straight back home. Knowing nothing of her personal circumstances, she had read my profile that was all _too_ personal and had seen something that she found attractive. Something that she could relate to, a kindred spirit perhaps.

That should have been my first clue.

My time for thinking was over as I swung into the pub car park. It was just after 7pm and already the place was busy. Cliques of work colleagues heading home interspersed with those just starting their evening. Trying to look both suave and confident, I drew myself up to my full height and wandered straight to the bar. Waiting to order, I casually glanced around in the hope of catching a glimpse of a familiar face that lived only in a photograph. In so doing, I found myself quietly singing along to the music playing in the background.

"... _The smile on your face_

Lets me know that you need me,

There's a truth in your eyes

Saying you'll never leave me..."

Man, those Gods can be really judgmental.

Just as the barmaid asked what I wanted to drink, someone squeezed my elbow. As I turned around, the voice belonging to the hand said "Hi Z, I'm Susan." It was at that point that I realized why every one of her seven photographs had been of her smiling but with her mouth firmly closed.

She had teeth like a caveman's necklace.

Stuck as I was in an awkward half turn, I could only blurt out a "hello" before quickly trying to compose myself. "Drink?"

"Gin and tonic please, I'll find us a table." She was undoubtedly confident and impeccably dressed. In actual fact, she could be seen as really rather attractive.

Apart from those teeth.

Oral from her would surely be more pain than pleasure for it would be akin to having your cock pulled through a cheese grater. Thankfully, it would never be _my_ cheese she would be grating.

It was apparent from the rest of the date that this was not her first. Far from it. It was more akin to an interview, what with her formulaic questions blended with what I was certain were scheduled bathroom breaks. The worst of it was, as I later reflected on my drive home, finding that I had actually been quite competitive in trying to ensure that I answered correctly in order to win a second date that I never wanted in the first fucking place.

Well, not quite the worst of it. The worst of it was being proffered a handshake as we left for our respective cars and being told, "Thank you for a pleasant evening and it was nice meeting you. However, I really do not think that you possess the spark that I'm looking for and I have quite enough friends. Take care though and goodnight."

I really wanted to say, _"It's obvious that none of them are a fucking dentist!"_ but managed to restrain myself.

It was just after 10pm as I entered the sanctuary of my home, still in a complete state of shock and bewilderment. What the fuck had just happened? It was Penny who encouraged this mess and so it was the perfect excuse to talk to her. Through some misplaced sense of duty to our friendship, or maybe it was simply guilt, I had texted her during the day to let her know that I had taken her advice and arranged to meet "Susan". Penny had not responded to my text although now she answered on the first ring, with a single word question and mischief in her voice.

"Well?"

"Well? Bloody well? Bloody hell more like. That was a fucking _nightmare_." She giggled and chuckled like a naughty schoolgirl as I recounted the whole sorry mess. Not that I didn't have some fun with it too. My mock horror and disgust adding an exaggerated outrage at the expense of the desperately seeking Susan. Conveying a sentiment uncomfortably close to the truth, I concluded with "She reminded me of the old Scots adage, "You cannot polish a shit but you can roll it in glitter". I let Penny's laugh fill the void of what was, for me, an introspective moment.

Tonight, I was absolutely covered in glitter.

"Have you heard anything more from "A"? It has only been a day I suppose so she may well be leaving it over the weekend so as not to appear too eager." Penny's change of subject had me unconsciously reach for my laptop to check. Odd that I hadn't even given it a thought until that moment.

"You could be telling me rather than asking; you do have my log in details."

"One would never consider doing such a thing. They are to be used by invite only, otherwise it would constitute a terrible invasion of privacy. However, now you have said it, I shall take it that I have permission for this evening." Again, the mischief was in her voice. If I didn't know better, I would have sworn she had been drinking.

"Yes indeed, you may take it that permission has been granted and, furthermore, you may take it that you have carte blanche to peruse at your leisure. As you well know, and in accordance with our agreement, I have nothing to hide from you." As I said this, I noticed that there was a time stamp with the site that shows when you were last logged on. Mine read _"3 April, 16:12"_.

This was not me.

I quickly dismissed her little white lie as there was no point in analysing it, especially as I had just given my consent to this very intrusion whenever she wanted. However, it was not lost on me that she had been checking in on me. My mind raced to once again consider what could have been with "us", it was a torturous path where only heartache and pain were awaiting. Still, it was a crusade that I was desperate to be part of. As usual, as my imagination ran riot, it was Penny's voice that hauled me back to reality.

"As I suspected, nothing from "A". However, you do have three other new messages." There was a distinct trace of disappointment and indignation in her voice. Yet from the times they were received, she must have known of these already. It really was frustrating, bordering on cruel. Cruelty of the worst kind, for hers was a casual and indifferent cruelty. I should end this charade here and now but yet I simply cannot.

Not now. Soon, but not now.

My new messages were all essentially the same and obviously a sham. Although their English was infuriatingly bad, they each had managed to openly state that they were seeking a "husband". That, in itself, merely aroused my suspicions but it was only after checking every one the respective photographs that I was left in absolutely no doubt they were fake.

They were all different pictures of Miley Cyrus scanned from various magazines.

"I would venture that none of these girls are what your mum had in mind when she suggested this site." Even _I_ knew who Miley Cyrus was but it would seem that Penny does not. For some reason, that pleases me no end. Yet her assessment of these messages would have been entirely accurate if this had actually been my mother's suggestion.

"Some of your 'Daily Matches' look promising." For someone who I had come to regard as rather wise and astute, she really was not grasping my discomfort with this whole farce. This was biting me on the ass, _big time_ , yet I had no idea why I was still playing along. "Oh, that is rather unusual. "Victoria" is a really pretty girl although she suffers from heterochromia. Not that it is much of a suffering; actually it is quite appealing. Especially in "Victoria", it really gives her character." She was seemingly talking more to herself than to me now.

I quickly clicked onto "Victoria's" profile. "What the hell is heterochromia?" My ignorance blended with my frustration as my tolerance to this nonsense was all but exhausted. Penny paid no heed. "It is a medical condition that has the resultant effect of giving a person two different coloured eyes. It is as rare as it is appealing." Hearing this only made me wish that I was a heterochromia sufferer.

It made me feel utterly pathetic.

Clicking through her pictures–every one at some festival or another–it seemed that she was more of a girl seeking the next party than a real relationship. Spitefully, I mumbled to myself, "She's on the wrong site. It's obviously biting the fucking leg off her." It was out before I could catch it and I knew she wouldn't let it go. There was going to be some very uncomfortable explaining to do in my immediate future.

"I'm sorry, I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean?" It was obvious from her attempt at shock that she knew _exactly_ what I meant.

"Well, Penny, if you really need me to explain then you are more naïve than I thought. Anyway, _moving swiftly on_ , don't you think that they all look normal until you read the profiles. Seriously, do these people actually _read_ their own profiles?"

This was rich coming from me. I continued, ignoring my own irony.

"Some of them have all the appeal of a warm, fish flavoured milk shake with the attitudes of a supermodel. Seriously, they really need to take a bite from a reality sandwich whilst standing in front of a mirror to have a serious word with themselves."

Vindictively, I spat out each of the multiple metaphors but knew that they lost all significance and value as I did so. Yet I had meant every single word for they all rang true. At that moment, all of my emotions became putrefied, festering and boiling together and ensuring my total loss of all composure and control. Blinking away the tears that were now burning my dry eyes and blinding me, I sat back and desperately gasped for air.

Penny obviously heard my distress. _"Z? Z? Are you there? Are you okay?"_ The mischief had been replaced with her usual soft and soothing voice that emitted nothing but genuine concern.

It was me speaking but I did not recognise myself. "I am so tired. Tired of having no idea what is happening in the world, nor my place within it. I am a man who fully subscribes to the notion of fate, yet find that I am so far out of my comfort zone and so confused by developments that affect me but it seems I have no control over."

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back of the sofa. The tears flowing freely now, the cuff of my sleeve doubled for a tissue as I softly wiped my face.

Penny remained silent and let me continue.

"What am I doing here Penny? Trawling through dating sites that I have absolutely no faith in, all with the vain hope that this is how Cupid now operates. Trying to believe that, if he can't find me, then I will find him. As a man, it seems that it is socially unacceptable that I should have the same unbridled desire and need for love. In the cruelest of ironies, given my size, it is seen as a weakness. My role is to be playing the field, suffering from 'commitment phobia', all in the desperate attempt of eluding love whilst leaving a trail of broken hearts in my wake."

My voice was nothing more than a whisper as I conceded defeat, _"...it's just not me..."_

My self-pity rapidly gave way to exhaustion and I felt my eyes, still closed, grow heavy. As sleep took me, Penny whispered into the void _"Trust in fate Z. Remember Douglas McElroy. Goodnight."_

As she hung up, my mind drifted to that beautiful autumnal morning in northern France.
31

### Lost In Translation

France - September 2000

The brown and yellow leaves lay strewn around both war graves that were located on opposite sides of the village. Driving slowly past each, I said a silent prayer for those interred who had died so valiantly to satisfy the voracious appetites of others. As I did so, it struck me as odd that these two cemeteries were within such a short distance of each other; why not a larger single plot? Still, I was pleased to see that they were both meticulously maintained, visual evidence of respect for all those who had made the ultimate sacrifice. The devastatingly simple white cross headstones seemed almost new, although they were all too many. The beautifully manicured grass could have easily adorned any of the world's most exclusive golf courses.

It was only a few short minutes thereafter that my destination presented itself. The tired factory signs directed me around to the rear of the building where a waiting forklift driver stood in an open loading bay door. As he flicked the ash off his cigarette, he lazily gestured to me that I should reverse onto this bay. In order to allow him access, I was required to stop just short and jump out of my cab to open the trailer doors. As trailers go, this one was quite unremarkable, adorned as it was in a plain white livery. Indeed, the only distinguishing features were two small Scotland flags that were defiantly set on either side of its number plate holder. Yet it was these very flags that were enough to arouse the curiosity of the forklift driver, who was still smoking in the open door, and cause him undue concern.

"Chauffeur, en Écosse?" The question surprised me as, normally, it is universal behaviour to simply ignore the truck driver. Unless, of course, it is an informative hand gesture suggesting that it is time for our obligatory masturbation break. The public are most helpful like that. Well, at least, they are with me. In turning to see if the question was indeed directed at me, I found the forklift driver pointing with his cigarette in the general direction of the Scotland flags.

"Pardon?" I said in my best French, my thoughts were still with the fallen.

"You en Écosse?" repeated the forklift driver, whom I could now presume to be "Pierre", for that was the name embroidered in red onto his grubby blue overalls. I snapped back into the moment. Not one to pass up an excellent opportunity to expand upon my non-existent French language skills, I replied simply "Oui". The accent was obligatory along with the head nod, pursed lips, shrug of my shoulders, and extended open hand gesture–palms up of course.

It only served to remind me of how much I really do hate stereotypes.

However, my response gave rise to much excitement from Pierre, who seemed to have wrongly concluded that I must be fluent in his native tongue. As such, he launched into a very animated, although altogether incoherent diatribe, that there was never any chance of my comprehending. All I could do was simply continue to nod, smile, shrug, and wonder how I had managed to get myself into this rapidly unfolding farce.

I could only blame myself.

Obviously, my hitherto unknown thespian talents had perfectly complimented my masterful delivery of the two words that were the sum total of my contribution to our conversation thus far. Now I was in a complete quandary. Although I had no idea what he was saying–and he was saying a lot–there were a few words that I did recognise within his ramblings. _"...Douglas McElroy...Hamilton...Giffnock..."_ It was easy for me to recognise Hamilton and Giffnock as these are both areas of Glasgow, but the man's name was as meaningless to me as pretty much everything else he said.

As he continued speaking, albeit more at me than to me, it struck me that he was still completely unaware that it was only he who was privy to this conversation. This realisation presented me with a new problem. My _pretence_ could quite easily be mistaken for _offence_ and he may think that I have been mocking him with my initial replies. If he adopted that attitude, I could end up sat here all day waiting for Pierre here to unload me and that was completely unacceptable.

How the fuck had I managed to get myself into this mess from the menial task of opening two fucking trailer doors?

The silence was deafening. _How long had it been since Pierre had stopped talking?_ My eyes scanned his face searching for help but he was simply looking back at me and smiling in anticipation of my response. I had _nothing_. With a long slow shrug of my shoulders, a sheepish look, and a smile that had long since gone from smug to limp, I simply stated as clearly and sincerely as possible: "Pardon et moi, non parlez-vous Français." Before he could respond, I quickly scurried back to my truck and reversed it fully onto the allocated bay.

Cautiously, I entered the warehouse and looked for a quiet and discreet spot to observe the delivery. The dank and musty environment was in keeping with Pierre's own appearance and it was immediately obvious that this was his sole domain. There was a brush and bucket beside the door through which I had just made my entrance but it could only be presumed that they were for symbolic purposes. In stark contrast to the surroundings and his well-worn uniform, Pierre's forklift seemed relatively new. Proudly sitting atop the shiny machine, he struck me as much like a king on his throne overlooking his realm. In blissful ignorance to my thoughts, I could hear the excitement in his voice that was penetrating the silence. Only, this time, it was not directed at me but rather some other lucky soul on the receiving end of his mobile phone.

It was becoming painfully apparent that Pierre was not much of a listener.

Suddenly he saw me and became even more animated. Jumping down from his perch, he eagerly made his way towards me. It was all but impossible for me to tell if he was upset from our earlier encounter, which was quite what I was expecting him to be. However, as he approached, he smiled widely and handed me his phone and signalled that I should talk. My surprise and relief caused me to accept without pause and automatically say "Bonjour".

A rather pleasant and soft spoken male voice replied "Bonjour, ça va?"

_Fuck, here we go again_. Once more I was utterly perplexed as to what was going on. My sense of relief had been clearly premature and was now replaced with feelings of foolishness and frustration at my own ignorance of the French language. Why had I not paid more attention to this bloody subject at school? Exasperated, I knew that there really was no other option but to merely repeat what I had said all too recently to Pierre. "Pardon et moi, non parlez-vous Français. Me en Écosse." It seemed that I had unconsciously slipped back into character and incorporated the obligatory accent, although thankfully, I successfully managed to omit the complimentary gesticulations.

The voice immediately responded, "You're Scottish?" His own French accent was replaced with one as natural and broad as my own, and his excitement was palpable.

"Yes indeed, but I have absolutely no idea what is happening right now. I was just handed this phone by your friend Pierre here and I have no clue who you are. _Sorry_." The mention of his name caused him to point at the embroidery on his overalls, smile wider that he already was, and nod in agreement–then he gave me a _thumbs up_ sign. He was obviously happy that we are talking about him.

"I'm Douglas McElroy." He stated this as if it clarified everything. It really did not. "Tell me, are you going to be there long?"

"About an hour, why?" My question was unduly abrupt but my patience was wearing thin with this charade. Never had I wanted more to just be unloaded and sent on my merry way.

Undeterred, Douglas continued, "Would you mind if I came down to see you? You see, I'm Scottish too but now live here so it would be nice to have a chat with someone from home. As I am sure you will understand, it's not everyday that I have this opportunity. Only if it is okay with you of course?" Seeing no harm in it whatsoever, I agreed. Anything that would end this conversation and allow Pierre here to get on with his job of unloading me as, since handing me his phone, his eyes had never left me and his knowing smile was now really freaking me out.

Yet it was Pierre's tenacity that ensured a meeting that would last under an hour but endure for a lifetime–and one for which I would be eternally grateful.
32

### Douglas McElroy

France - September 2000

The transparent plastic roof panels of the warehouse were intended to compliment the natural light that was streaming in from the wide-open entrance at its front end. However, years of neglect had left the panels in desperate need of cleaning and so the whole storage area was unnecessarily dim. As such, when the man appeared at that far entrance, his silhouette cast a long shadow towards me that would prove altogether more reflective of his true stature. Strictly adhering to the faintly painted walkway, and without the aid of a cane that was so obviously needed, he laboured with a very heavy limp down the full length of the warehouse towards us.

As he approached me, I looked down upon him to the right hand that he had enthusiastically extended all too prematurely. "Hi, I'm Douglas McElroy." In the process of shaking his hand and introducing myself, our eyes locked and an eerie calmness came over me. Inexplicably, in that moment, I just knew that this was a very special man and that this meeting would be one that would live with me forever and so one I would never forget.

An experience to be savoured and enjoyed.

At 5'4" and 83 years of age, he was a giant of a man. In less than an hour, he managed to limp into, and out of, my life. In that tragically brief period of time, he became unquestionably the single most impressive person I have ever met, and ever likely to meet.

Thankfully, he also proved that all my instincts were working perfectly.

"So you are who Pierre here has been going on about?" Since returning his phone, he had been incessantly talking away to me in French. My protestations of ignorance were met with a smile and him repeatedly pointing to his watch and then at the far entrance from where Douglas emerged. Now, as the man himself stood here in front of me, his military background was obvious; highly polished shoes, impeccable grooming, and the razor like edges on his shirt and trousers. Clean-shaven, there was just the faintest hint of aftershave.

"Yes indeed. You see, his mother and I dated during the war." Douglas allowed his wistful gaze to fall on Pierre but I knew that he was really seeing the man's mother all those years ago.

"So you are his father?" It was a foolish question and, in my own inimitable style, asked without any forethought. I instantly felt stupid for being so impertinent. Of course he was his father, how could he not be?

"Sadly, no. That was not to be my destiny. Fate had other plans." His eyes now diverted away from Pierre and looked out from the warehouse and far into the fields. What they were seeing there were those years long gone, in a time before I was born.

"I really am sorry Douglas, but you now have me completely lost." This was no exaggeration. He had dated Pierre's mother during the war and here he was living in this part of France, so how could he not be his father? Given his age, I also berated myself for addressing him so casually. It should have been "Mr McElroy". My mother would have jumped up to clip me round the ear had she been here.

"Well, therein lies a story. _Our_ story..." He snapped back into the now and stared deep into my eyes. The twinkle that I saw was both youthful and mischievous.

_Magical_.

After enlisting in 1940, Douglas had completed the most basic of training and soon thereafter joined his regiment on the Western Front _"...which, somewhat ironically, was 20 miles or so to the east of here."_ Never had I been told nor otherwise read that the troops were entitled to rest and recuperation during the conflict. So it came as a complete surprise to me that they worked for three weeks at the front, with two weeks back for R+R. It was like listening to a living historian and it was both quite insightful and, on reflection, wholly logical.

It was also completely captivating.

"It was during this time that Pierre's mother and I met and fell in love." Their love had flourished and grown throughout the next eighteen months.

" _Then it happened."_

It was said as if "it" had been inevitable. His mood changed in that instant and a sadness seemed to almost overwhelm him. In the few moments he took to compose himself, I noticed that he was looking down in the general direction of his right hand that was gently rubbing his bad side. Obviously his limp had been caused by "it". Drawing a deep breath, Douglas explained in a voice that bore no malice nor grudge, that he had been trapped in his trench when a German Panzer tank had driven over the top of him. As the sides collapsed, he was trapped and incapacitated. For the six months thereafter, he was kept in a state of traction on a hospital ward to allow his broken body to heal and repair itself.

Perhaps most tragically of all, this had rendered him unable to communicate.

After a successful recuperation, –he explained that merely being kept alive was regarded as a "success" –he was given a medical discharge. His war was now officially over. Naïvely, I hastily concluded that this presented him the perfect opportunity to pick up his romance and so was confused further still in the knowledge that he wasn't Pierre's father. His explanation proved to be painful and distressing to me so I could only imagine what it was like for Douglas himself.

"So that's when you got back in touch with his mum?" My thumb was aimed in the general direction of Pierre who was noisily hurtling around the warehouse, blissfully ignorant of my despair at his parentage. It was wholly illogical yet I was caught up in it all and completely immersed in this story. No doubt it was a story that Pierre had heard many times before but it is one in which, for me at least, he enjoys a fundamental role. So rapt and invested was I with Douglas' tale that I was actually beginning to envy this grubby little forklift driver.

"No son" his answer was soft and full of regret. The kind of regret that only comes from hindsight and experience.

My face contorted in bewilderment and my response was more of a challenge than a question, _"WHY NOT?"_ Quickly realising that I was shouting, I motioned that it was necessary over the noise of Pierre's bloody forklift in such a confined area. In truth, it erupted from my disappointment at the younger version of this man who now stood in front of me, imploring that same man from 60 years ago to make contact. One letter would have satisfied my frustration. It was a harsh realisation, knowing that none of this was about me.

His answer, however, would stay with me to my grave.

In the most serene and earnest of tones, he looked directly at me and said "Son, she had done her grieving. For in those days, those long days, long months, long years of war, if you never heard from a soldier over the course of six months then you naturally assumed them to be dead. I was being cruel to be kind for I had no intention of going home. I still wanted to be part of the war effort. That was my duty. I loved her so much that I had no choice but to let her go."

I felt foolish for ever doubting his reasons as I just knew that they had to be honourable and sincere which–in itself–was, ironically, rather foolish for I had only known this man for 15 minutes. On reflection, this was also the exact moment that I knew that I would never understand the craziness of war, nor a soldier's thought processes within its theatre. It is something altogether different and, as Douglas explained it, going home on a medical discharge would have been a sign of weakness and tantamount to abandoning his Band of Brothers. All the traits of a coward and a traitor in his eyes.

Such betrayal was inconceivable to him. If his happiness and the love of his life was the sacrifice, then that was perfectly acceptable. Others had sacrificed more. _Much more_. His decision also saved her from the stress, worry, heartache, and–most importantly–the prospect of grieving over him for a second time. To her, he was dead and better for them both that she continued to think so. After all, death is such a ghastly experience that it is only recommended the once–for everyone. As such, his decision was selfless, generous, considerate, and kind.

The ultimate act of love.

Gazing upon him through eyes that were despondent and full of sorrow, my thoughts had taken too long to process and had resulted in an uncomfortable silence. "I'm sorry, I am just trying to get my head around what you just said." I spoke in the knowledge that my admiration for this little man was complete and absolute. Here was the soldier speaking so openly about love in such horrific and incomprehensible circumstances, it defied practically every stereotype.

I loved it.

"So what did you do then, after you were discharged?" Genuinely intrigued, it was the only logical question left in my arsenal.

"Well I joined The Resistance." Douglas stated this in a manner that was so matter of fact as to be the most natural answer in the world.

To my eternal shame, I spluttered, _"You?"_ and took a step back in unadulterated judgment, looked him up and down, and continued, _"You_ joined the _...The Resistance?"_ My mind framed his image and compared it to those that I had seen in the movies. _Those_ brave and dashing men were tall and debonair, and even with the most generous of imaginations, Douglas could never be perceived as such.

Exercising a patience and understanding that I certainly did not merit, he calmly replied "Yes son, I was in The Resistance. You see, I have only ever had one talent in my life and that was for languages. In those days, I was fluent in four: English, French, German and Latin. So I was invaluable to The Resistance effort for many of its members could not understand German. Whereas, I could."

" _Wow..."_ was all I could muster by way of response. My mouth was hanging freely, though I barley noticed and could not have cared less.

Kindly, he chose to ignore me and continued. "What you see in those old war movies, believe me, they are far more accurate than you would imagine. It was my job to simply sit in bistros and restaurants, enjoying a coffee or a meal, and _listen_. In my own humble opinion, it was the German's arrogance that beat them, not the Allies numbers, greater tactics, nor superior soldiers. None of that. They would enter these bistros and restaurants and ask every single person in the place if they spoke German. Naturally, we would all say 'No'. After that, they would pull out detailed maps of the local area and discuss their plans. I sat back and listened until they left, at which point I would make a phone call to pass along the information. Then the roads, railway lines, telephone lines, whatever was strategically important to those German plans, was blown up."

Thankfully, I was stunned into silence and so there was no opportunity for me to say anything else that was either ignorant or stupid. As the old saying goes, "Better to say nothing and be thought a fool than open your mouth and proving it". Douglas generously took my cue and continued, all the while Pierre was whistling to himself in the background, still happily working away.

After the war, Douglas had gone back to Scotland and opened a hotel. It transpired that he was from Hamilton although his new enterprise was located in Giffnock. This explained what Pierre had been trying to tell me when we first spoke. Douglas had married and started a family and, together, they had built up their hotel and elevated it from a two-star to an altogether more respectable four-star rating.

No small feat.

"Life moved on and it wasn't until the early 1980's that things started to get interesting again for me." He said this all too effortlessly yet it was not lost on me that Douglas had so casually dismissed over 40 years of his life as "disinteresting".

"You see, by that point, my wife had died and I had passed the hotel on to my son and daughter and considered myself all but retired. However, hospitality is a very unsociable career and demands many sacrifices, especially regarding your family. Therefore, in order to allow my children time to spend with their own children; and also to save myself from sitting at home going stir crazy, I used to keep my hand in by working on Tuesday and Wednesday nights."

Although he was vague about the precise year, not that it made any difference to me, he did say it was in the month of January when things got _"interesting"_. Here was the master of understatement, for what he really meant was that this was when all his stars aligned to allow Cupid and fate to conspire together on his behalf.

Similar to my own profession, the month of January is a quiet time for the hotel industry but they were fortunate to have some regular year round guests. One such guest was a travelling salesman who based himself in their establishment from Monday through to Thursday and, on the weekend, he would fly home to France.

On this particular Tuesday night, Douglas was tending the bar as usual, with the salesman was his only patron. In an attempt to keep himself busy; he had stocked all the shelves, wiped down every table, and even cleaned all the glasses and put them away. Yet he found that it was still early and there was absolutely nothing else to do. So in a valiant last attempt to evade the desperate throes of boredom, and against his better judgment, he ventured a conversation with his guest. This particular guest was known to be extremely private and reclusive, and so not a man to welcome nor court such interaction. Indeed, he seemed to epitomise the stereotypical French attitude that English is a crude language that is only to be used when absolutely necessary, rather than engaged in for enjoyment.

Yet Douglas' seemingly hopeless endeavour to strike up a simple conversation proved to be a pivotal moment that would change his life forever.

Sitting in the bar with a glass of wine and a book, the man appeared perfectly content. As such, it was not until he sought a refill that Douglas saw his opportunity. _"Have you had a good day?"_ It is perhaps the most inoffensive of questions, but one that has been successfully tried and tested in practically every bar the world over. The snort of derision was enough of a clue to let him know that his subtle attempt at conversation was not appreciated. Changing tack, he asked the exact same question but, this time, he spoke in French. Visibly surprised, the salesman asked if Douglas spoke the language. "Oui" was enough of a response to successfully ensure the conversation that he so desperately craved.

They chatted until the early hours although, to them both, it seemed like merely minutes. In the following weeks the two developed a _"wonderful friendship"_ as Douglas described it. It was during the course of their conversations over those weeks that he disclosed that he had served in France during the war. Naturally, the salesman was intrigued and asked if there was a sweetheart that he had left there.

It was then that Douglas told him about Pierre's mother.

This was especially fascinating to the salesman as it transpired that his hobby was tracing family trees. As such, would Douglas mind if he found out what happened to her?

"How could I ever be offended by such a wonderful offer son? I had often thought of her over the years and wondered what she had done with her life." He explained that she had haunted his thoughts with even more regularity after his own wife had died. There had been times when he had considered returning here to France to find her but, ironically, he had simply lacked the courage. He feared that she would never accept nor forgive him for letting her go and, worse, allowing her to believe him dead all these years. As Douglas said, "better to live with the beautiful memory of what we had, than die of the broken heart from what could have been."

Sadly, I completely understood what he meant.

Yet now that the salesman presented him with a golden opportunity to surreptitiously find out what happened to her, he yearned to know. Or so he thought. "It never crossed my mind to tell him to be discreet. Foolishly, I presumed it was implied."

I was perplexed, whatever did he mean?

Two weeks were to pass before the salesman excitedly approached Douglas in the bar and asked to speak in private. His words tumbled out, "I have managed to trace her. After the war, she too got married and had a family but I have also discovered that she is now a widow. Given these circumstances, I took the liberty of actually contacting her to tell her about you. My friend, she was shocked and delighted to hear that you are still alive and she has asked to meet you again."

It was obvious that Douglas was reciting this conversation verbatim and I was left in no doubt that he deeply cherished every single beautiful word. Indeed, these words were of no lesser importance to me for I too, will never forget them. Not that I needed to be told of their significance for this man's life story had me completely enthralled.

"So I nervously returned to France for our meeting. As I entered the bustling bistro I could see that she was already there, sat alone in a corner booth and facing the door. Our eyes locked and the years fell away. All I could see was the beautiful mademoiselle that I had left all those years ago. Old feelings that I thought forever gone came flooding back and suddenly it felt that we were in our twenties again."

As he spoke, I wondered if he was aware that he was now stood rigidly upright with his head held high and chest puffed out. Here was the man as the boy. Here was the soldier. Yet it was me that was fighting a losing battle against the tears that had welled and now seriously threatened to breach my eyelids.

"Thankfully she felt the same way and, over 40 years since we last met, we fell in love all over again. We wasted no more time and, soon thereafter, we were married. My return ticket to Scotland went unused and I have remained here from that day to this. So, in answer to your question, Pierre here is not my son but rather my stepson."

It was only on the mention of his name that I came to realise that Pierre had finished unloading my trailer and was actually stood beside us. As I looked at him, it was only now that I could truly see the man, and he was absolutely resplendent. As tears of joy and shame idly meandered down my cheeks, Pierre placed a consoling arm around my shoulder. The smile on his face was one that breached our language barrier and it was then that I noticed that his other arm was protectively draped around Douglas. It felt like my heart would burst with pride as–irrationally and inexplicably, in that very moment–it seemed like I was now somehow a part of the story.

"Sadly, his mother has since died son but I shall see out my days here. This is where I belong, where I always belonged and, in truth, I should never have left." The sorrow of what could have been hung heavy in his voice. His story had me emotionally exhausted and I could take no more, so I took the chance to change the subject. "I was wondering, why are there two war graves on the opposite side of town?" I could feel the tears drying on my cheeks but neither one of them seemed to notice.

"Oh, that's simple. One is for the Allies and one for the Germans." His respect for both was evident. Again, this only served to provoke more questions than answers for me. It was fast becoming an uncomfortable theme.

"Really? That is quite surprising as they are both immaculate." Pierre handed me a clean tissue and I quickly wiped my face.

"Why would that surprise you? They were only soldiers too son and they, like all those in the Allied graves, simply died following orders." His pragmatism regarding such a horrendous event that he had actually seen and lived through, and sacrificed so much for, was admirable.

Here was a true hero in every sense of the word.

It will forever be a source of regret for me that I was enforced to refuse Douglas' offer to stay the night and further reminisce. He offered me his hand as I went to leave but we were beyond that now. I bent down and gave this giant of a man a hug in the full knowledge that we would never see each other again. Not to be ignorant nor insensitive to his feelings, I hugged Pierre like the brother I felt he now was. To avoid any further prolonged or awkward goodbyes, I hastily removed my bloodshot eyes and tear stained face back to the refuge of my truck.

In retracing my route back around the village, I once again passed both war graves and felt honoured as I said a silent prayer for every single one of those distinguished guests that would remain forever young. As I left their world and headed back to my own, I could not help but wonder if mine was a world worthy of their ultimate sacrifice. As the answer came to me, fresh tears of despair and disappointment followed the now familiar trail down my cheeks and caused me to say yet another prayer.

This one was just for myself.
33

### Stupid Cupid

Saturday 4th April

The bright spring sunshine streamed in through the living room window and found me still on the sofa where last night had left me. It wrapped itself around me in a warm embrace that held a promise of hope and optimism on this crisp new morning. For a delicious few moments I lay with my eyes closed and simply savoured my thoughts, truly thankful to be alive.

The world could wait on me for a change.

I allowed myself to idly contemplate my dream that had been Douglas' story, and so consider my understanding of love and its importance in my own life. The events of his life had reaffirmed the existence of the love that I imagine, the love that I want, and demonstrated that it cares nothing about time nor circumstance. Love simply does not conform to personal convenience. Indeed, in many instances, it is the exact opposite. Cupid strikes when you least expect it and, thankfully, shows no regard for age nor gender.

Love is wonderfully disrespectful and completely illogical.

Douglas also taught me that pure love cements a timeless beauty in your partner. It gives a different understanding to the old saying– "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". When he spoke of his own true love, he saw her as he always had; ageless, graceful, and elegant. It was only through him that I was able to appreciate and comprehend all the wonderful qualities that love offers. These cannot be contrived nor bought. Love looks through the wrinkles, and recognises that these are merely laughter lines reflective of many happy years together, and only sees the true beauty of the person underneath.

Inevitably, with practically every one of my recollections of our conversation–and there had been many–there is always an accompanying feeling of profound sadness for the lost 40 plus years. It is all but impossible to not reflect upon what could have been save for a simple phone call or letter. The absence of such a simple attempt to reconnect that could have rekindled their romance that would have provided them a full and happy lifetime with each other. Yet, when I had expressed this somewhat obvious thought to Douglas, he readily dismissed it. He was simply thankful for what they did have without any consideration of what could have been, for such thoughts would have meant disrespecting their respective partners and all their children. He concluded by saying that _"everything happens for a reason"_ , although it was said with a wistfulness that somehow betrayed the optimistic sentiment of his statement.

Once again I had been blinded by my own ignorance.

Of course he was happy for the time that they did have, for that was all they had. Regrets for what could have been or should have been were both pointless and futile. It was an exceptionally important lesson for me to learn and yet, with Penny, I had somehow chosen to ignore it. I had tiptoed around the issue for fear of losing her as a friend rather than being bold and daring in the hope of sharing love. Maybe if I had been more confident and courageous then we could have, perhaps, been together now. As they say, "fortune favours the brave". I should have just asked. Why had I not just asked? What was the worst that could have happened? She could only have said no.

Then we would no longer be friends.

I'm glad I didn't ask.

I would have asked if I had chosen to remember my dad's advice. He once explained to me that it's not what you say but rather _how_ you say it. The example he gave was about two monks who were at morning prayers. The first noticed that his brother monk was smoking throughout the service. Afterwards, upset and agitated, he approached him and asked "Brother, forgive me, but I could not help but notice that you were smoking your pipe throughout morning prayers. As we both know, this is strictly forbidden, so why would you do such a thing?"

The second monk, completely relaxed and unfazed, simply stated that he had permission from the abbot.

This information only served to cause further upset to the first monk. " _You_ had permission from the abbot? Why would _you_ be subject to such special treatment? When I asked for permission, the abbot was inclined to have me do penance for my audacity." He was taken aback when challenged by the second monk to repeat exactly what he had said when seeking permission. Confused, he replied "Father Abbot, may I have permission to smoke my pipe whilst I pray?"

"My dear Brother, therein lies your problem. It is not _what_ you say but rather _how_ you say it. When I sought permission, I asked the same question as you but mine was phrased rather differently. I merely asked the Father Abbot if it was permissible for me to pray whilst I was smoking?

How could he say no?"

It was a nice, if wholly unrealistic, thought that maybe Penny could have been so easily duped if only I had been clever enough to formulate the correct words into the proper order. Yet, even then, any possible success would always be destined for failure.

No amount of words, in any order, could bridge the gulf that is our social divide.

Returning to my own reality, it was now apparent that I may have been altogether too cynical and dismissive of online dating. This is, after all, a totally new concept required to satisfy the romantic demands of the new generation. _It actually makes perfect sense._ Indeed, I now know that the stigma and stereotypical thinking that it is only ugly people with no personality that sign up there is simply untrue. It is also an ideal medium for career-focussed individuals who would rather develop a relationship with the inbuilt safety and convenience that only the internet can provide. Allowing the computer to establish compatibility merely saves wasting time and effort. So, theoretically, by the time you arrange to meet it is only to determine if you share a physical attraction.

It's actually old-fashioned dating in reverse.

Try as I might, there was no denying that I find the _"Usurper_Of_Fate"_ intriguing and she has certainly succeeded in piquing my interest. The cunning minx. Much as it hurt and pained me to admit it, there were no real prospects with Penny anymore–was there ever? –and so it was time for me to take a chance on fate and hope that the hitherto unemployed Cupid would make an appearance.

The butterflies came alive in my stomach with genuine excitement as I sent my electronic reply out into the ether and straight into her inbox.
34

### Penny Wise

Saturday 16th May

In the days and weeks that have passed since my email response to my online partner "A", our correspondence has steadily increased and grown in almost direct contrast to that with Penny. It appears that I have simply replaced one with the other. It's something that I choose not to dwell on too much for fear of sacrificing what _could_ be for what can _never_ be.

Although there is no doubt that it truly saddens me.

As they say, life goes on. For reasons best known to herself, "A" still politely but firmly refuses to furnish me with her full name. She made the very valid point that I refer to myself as simply "Z" without any want nor need of further explanation on her part–ergo we are equal.

Apparently, she also likes the idea that all her texts and emails go, quite literally, from "A" to "Z".

Admittedly, I also found this amusing. However, frustrating as it is, her logic is irrefutable and to push the matter would only leave me open to explaining my own ridiculous moniker. As my mum would say, _"better to pick your battles to win the war"_ so I dropped the subject. No doubt I would find out her proper name in the fullness of time.

In truth, it only made her even more enigmatic and added to her allure.

There were also no other photographs forthcoming. Yet, bizarrely, we were now at the stage where she had entrusted to me her innermost thoughts and fears, hopes and dreams. Naturally, I had reciprocated. Far too easily for my own liking.

Again, something that I choose not to consider too deeply.

Rather I had adopted a new, and altogether cavalier, "fuck it" attitude. I opted to enjoy the thrill of it all, that exhilarating first flush of romance. It was so refreshing, exciting, intoxicating–not to mention totally sexy. Dismissive as I had initially been to online dating, it now made me feel like a fool, for this relationship could never have evolved in this way through any other medium. I had absolutely no concept of her smell, her sound, her look, her feel.

Nothing at all except that I knew her _mind_ ; and that was unbelievably invigorating.

Never have I felt so alive and so in sync with another person. Except Penny. This is how I had imagined that a relationship with her would be like, one more reliant upon technology than physical location. I was fully prepared and yearned for such as I knew that, to me, Penny would have been absolutely worth it.

Rightly or wrongly, I had explained all about my friendship with Penny to "A". I did not want there to be any secrets between us although, I suppose, it was more therapeutic for myself in order to draw a line under whatever it was Penny and I had.

If we ever had anything at all.

"A" became very understanding but only after she had exhaustively probed my thoughts and hopes regarding a possible relationship with Penny–to a degree further than perhaps even I was comfortable with. I suppose that was to be expected, especially as it had been me that had introduced her into the equation. It had taken an overwhelming amount of persuasion through deft penmanship to satisfy "A" that Penny was no threat to "us", and that our "relationship" –such as it is–was my priority.

We were very nearly over before we had begun.

My feelings for Penny were still undeniably strong although my blossoming relationship with "A" was the one filled with most promise. Yet there was no doubt that it was also a great deal of something built upon a whole lot of nothing. I knew her innermost thoughts and fears but had no idea of even the colour of her eyes.

It was truly absurd.

However, this was the very promise that won out as it offered the only realistic potential for happiness and contentment that held me intrigued. There was no doubt that Penny would understand. After all, really, what choice did she have?

This was the point when I berated myself for being a fucking idiot who was overthinking everything as usual.

The emails from "A" had been every couple of days at first. This suited me and I had confided in Penny that any more frequently would have spooked me. It's always suspicious to me when someone pursues too keenly. Although they are undoubtedly flattering initially, this quickly subsides to them ultimately appearing needy and clingy. After two weeks or so, I noticed that it was _my_ responses that were dictating the frequency and so there could be no complaint from me, daily as they had become. Often two and three times a day if truth be told. In my own defence, it helped alleviate the boredom at work and they merely saved me from further pestering Penny.

Corresponding with someone who is interested in me rather than someone who isn't.

Everything was trundling along perfectly until yesterday. That was when I received the dreaded email that suggested we meet up. She surely wasn't thinking this through. All had been going swimmingly–I still had "Penny" moments with my vocabulary and they surprised and intrigued me in equal measure–and now here she wanted to spoil it with an actual meeting, like _face to face_?

Without putting too fine a point on it, I shat.

Our mutual confidence had been built through finding and exploring common ground. We had successfully done so and it had been great. It _is_ great. If we were to meet it would allow for the possibility of disappointment, pain, and heartache all over again. I'm not ready for that. Well, I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for that. _Wait, am I ready for that?_ Anyway, to make matters worse, this was _her_ idea. It should have been _my_ idea, instigated when _I_ was ready. This was my natural role as the man, the hunter, the pursuer–the sensitive, loving, chivalrous, kind, and considerate predator. She could have just subtly hinted at a meeting and then allowed me to suggest it, both of us fully aware of the pretence.

I'm not sure I appreciate her lack of consideration.

Ironically, it had been the hitherto secretive and elusive "A" who had demonstrated a previously undetected cunning by using the information that I had so freely surrendered back against me. I had erred in assuming that her enquiry into my plans for my days off was wholly innocent. As they say, to _assume_ makes an _ass_ out of _u_ and _me_. As such, I had foolishly failed to recognise her ruse and had responded with my now perfectly honed cavalier honesty.

" _Great, as you are free tomorrow, we can meet for a drink. Say 8pm at the Fox and Hounds in Hertford. Looking forward to seeing you then. How exciting to finally meet!"_

It was not lost on me that her "question" was more a statement of fact. Suddenly I was bewildered, confused, and actually rather scared. Without any further thought, I called Penny. _"Hello Z, long time no hear."_ She had answered on the first ring. It had been around two weeks since we had last spoke and now I was feeling guilty for ignoring her for so long. It always relaxed me to hear the calming sound of her dulcet tones. Yet now, hearing her voice, a new feeling of panic spread within me as I considered the prospect of this date. It felt that, in meeting "A", I would be somehow betraying Penny. I know I certainly wasn't ready for _that_.

This date is a terrible idea.

"Hi" the dejection in my own voice surprised even me.

"What's wrong?" Her concern was tangible.

I took a deep breath and explained my predicament to Penny. Well, most of my predicament, I omitted the betrayal part. _"On paper, this girl seems absolutely perfect but I am far from sure if this is right for me. You see, that's the problem, this whole 'relationship' is founded upon electronic paper. There is nothing tangible or real."_ Now I knew why it had been two weeks since we last spoke. Just talking with Penny always gave me that feeling of fire deep within my soul, one that I had thought successfully controlled but here my heart is thumping out of my chest.

My natural actions speaking louder than my manufactured words. Never have I felt this way and the overpowering sense of hopelessness draws a lump to my throat.

"She sounds wonderful and an ideal fit for you Z. Why on earth would you not want to go?" I try to find her light and carefree assertion and question offensive, but I cannot. I suppress the yearning urge to scream down the phone _"YOU! Can't you see? It's because of you that I don't want to go. I love y...."_ I love her? Of course I love her. Haven't I always? Oh my good God, this is so wrong. What have I been doing? This is all so unfair to "A".

To me?

"Z...? Are you there?" She asked a little too sharply.

" _Eh...? Yes..., oh..., wait..., eh, sorry. What?"_ The thoughts were tumbling and thrashing around in my head and I was struggling to keep it together.

"So why would you not want to go?" The question was more of a dare than a genuine enquiry. Her flippant attitude resonated within me and I could feel my anger rise.

"No reason, none at all. Of course I shall go. It would be completely unfair and how could I deny her the opportunity to meet _me_?" The joke was delivered so meekly that it lost all sense of humour. Politely, as expected, Penny laughed anyway.

"Good then. You absolutely must tell me how it goes, now _promise me_."

"Tell you how it goes? You don't get away that easily I'm afraid. You shall be my text partner whilst I sit there, _alone_ , all _alone_ , me, in a busy pub, _alone_ and waiting for a date that I have no clue what she looks like, what height she is, nor what she will be wearing. All she said was that she would find me. Did I mention that I would be sat there in a busy pub, all _alone_?"

The absurdity of it all hit me again; this really was ridiculously stressful.

"Ha! Yes, I believe that you may have mentioned that you are going to be sat there, all alone. Actually, that rather sounds like fun, a triple date of sorts." She really was enjoying my discomfort way too much. "Z, _trust me_ , you really, really need to go. It will be good for you. Scary and tempting as it may be, please do not stand her up. Such a thing is unforgivably rude and completely unbecoming and would be most disappointing to me as well as her. Anyway, it may all work out perfectly and be a jolly surprise for you both." This concern was certainly surprising yet I found myself feeling somewhat obligated to promise that I would entertain no such notion, although why Penny should care so much was beyond me.

Although it is an altogether nicer thought that she might actually be looking out for me as a friend.

I bade her goodnight in the full knowledge that mine would be anything but, and a predictably fitful nights sleep ensued. Overthinking was now part of my psychological repertoire and every possible scenario coursed through my mind. The simplest question had been the one causing me most distress–what was I wanting from the date and, indeed, the relationship? Reluctantly I accepted that there was no respite to be had and so rose early to ponder my completely insignificant and wholly contrived dilemma.

My pondering lasted until the late afternoon.

I hoped that contemplating what to wear would ease my overthinking but this only made things worse. As the date had been set in a casual bar, I knew that "A" had also taken control in setting the tone regarding attire.

I silently cursed Penny.

This was the perfect opportunity to wear my "Super Z" T-shirt as it best reflected my quirky and playful sense of humour. It seems that it had gotten lost on its travels from the Auchtershinnan Estate. Now was not the time to enquire further about its whereabouts as it would make no difference for tonight. It also gave me the perfect reason for calling Penny tomorrow and, if things don't go well with the date, then it provides an excellent excuse to refocus my upset. Not all bad then. I settled on the tried and tested ensemble of plain black shirt, blue jeans, and brown boots.

Ironically, fashion is not my strongest suit.

Exercising my customary chivalry, I arrived a full ten minutes early and ordered a drink. Selecting a booth that was fairly secluded and so affording us the most privacy, I took a seat that gave me the optimal view of the full pub, and tried to make myself comfortable. I also tried to make myself look cool but quickly gave up as that was going to take far longer than the time available before "A" was due. I started scanning around the place in the hope of espying her first but then berated myself for my own stupidity.

I still had no idea what she fucking looked like!

Unless, of course, she were to amble past in her bikini.

In the absence of anything better to do, I texted Penny and told her of my early arrival and horrendous nervousness. This was no exaggeration, I was physically shaking. In yet another delicious twist of irony, it was me who was needing a shake to get a grip of myself. _You are only meeting a girl, for fuck's sake. It's only a girl. Just relax._ I actually caught myself saying this aloud. I quickly checked to see if anyone had heard me as I hit the send button. It was a relief that nobody had. Thankfully, Penny's reply was almost immediate and I really appreciated the distraction. I would be sure to thank her tomorrow.

" _It's a lady's prerogative to be fashionably late. Just keep calm and trust in fate."_

I was holding my phone with my hand under the table whilst reading her text. It was a vain attempt at privacy and so save any awkward questions should "A" suddenly appear. I mean, how would _that_ look?

" _Sorry 'A' but Penny–you remember Penny? I told you about her–anyway, she and I are having a text chat while I have been waiting for you. Don't worry though, it's all good as we have only been talking about you. Actually, I didn't want to come so you should actually be thankful that Penny convinced me."_

I need to switch this phone off _now_.

How can I? What if "A" needs to contact me? What if she's running late? Worse, what if she's had an accident on the way here? No, I cannot turn off the phone but I can tell Penny to stop texting and I can call her later, or tomorrow. My finger was poised on the screen, ready to rapidly dance over the small electronic keyboard, when I become aware of someone standing next to me.

Right next to me.

My eyes drew to the void that had been my peripheral vision and I saw the black boots pointed directly towards me.

There was no doubt that these belonged to "A".

Carefully and deliberately, I allowed my eyes to slowly follow her boots from the toe until they abruptly ended at her knees. It was here that her jeans emerged from being contained inside and they continued up, maintaining a tight grip on the most gorgeous thighs.

Her profile picture hadn't done her justice.

As my head rose to catch my eyes, my jaw remained firmly set upon my chest, causing my mouth to drop open in a most unappealing way. Not that I paid much in the way of attention, for I was more preoccupied with savouring every second of this wonderful moment. Sadly, the jeans were only exposed for a few short inches as, swamped over the top of them was the beginnings of a blue T-shirt.

Wait a minute... I recognise this colour of blue.

My head continued at a snail's pace on its given trajectory as my organ contained within tried to catch up. It was failing spectacularly, for the only logical conclusion was... _no_ , that would be _impossible_...

Could it be...?

It was a "Super Z" T-shirt...

_My_ "Super Z" T-shirt.

### Author's Note

This novel is a work of fiction and purely the product of my own imagination. Any and all mistakes, deliberate of otherwise, are entirely my own. My inspiration, such as it is, originates from the beautiful people from all over the world that I have been fortunate enough to meet. In some instances, blessed to know as family and friends.

However...

The story of Douglas McElroy is absolutely based in fact. I have endeavoured to be true in every detail of my meeting with this fine and heroic gentleman who had such a profound effect on my thoughts, beliefs, and outlook on life. To that end, I hope I have done him justice.

May God bless him.

# ***COMING SOON***

_The sequel to Greater Expectations..._

# Prelude
### Thursday 7th January

Inverness, Scotland

It was a million dollar reward. A million dollars certainly isn't what it used to be – and is certainly a lot less when converted into British pounds – but still it was a nice chunk of change. It was enough to tempt Melissa Chisholm to take a weeks vacation from her job as a lowly paid bank cashier with non-existent career prospects and book a flight to New York to claim it.

The article had been spread over two glossy pages of a dated magazine in the dentist's waiting room. One of those dreary magazines that share other's inane tales of their children's triumphs, mundane love trysts, and all family matters in between and sell them back to the public under the banner of "entertainment". These magazines only seem to exist on the newsagents shelves and medical waiting areas and, much like Santa and the Easter Bunny, nobody ever seems to notice who actually buys them.

The stark headline _"I Beat The Mob....And Lost EVERYTHING"_ was emblazoned with pretend blood dripping off every letter for effect. Yet it wasn't this that caught Melissa's attention. Rather it was the second of the three passport-sized colour photographs positioned halfway down the right hand page. Underneath was the caption _"Kristy Bradley, $1m reward for information leading to her recovery"_. The other two images were of a man named Michael Bradley, her lawyer husband, and an Anthony Di Silva, a New York Mafia boss.

The story was a quick read and Melissa devoured every word. Michael and Kristy Bradley had been college sweethearts and had married soon after graduation. They had relocated to New York so that he could accept a position in a modestly successful law firm and he had made partner in seven fast years. The Big Apple had been similarly generous to Kristy and she had also made partner but in a medical practice where she was a highly respected practitioner. Approaching their 30's, they all the trappings of success. Family and friends alike were delighted when they bought a dream house in the suburbs with the intention of starting a family.

A little over a year after their move, Michael was approached to run for local mayor. As a member of the town council – along with every other club that would help elevate his profile – he was well liked and respected within the community. It took very little persuasion, especially when there was even less competition.

Everything in their world was perfect until it came time for the new tenders to be considered by the council for the community garbage collection. These were contracts that were renewable annually and, even to Michael's untrained eye, the cost seemed excessive. His curiosity was further piqued when only one company bid for the tender. As Mayor, he took it as his personal responsibility to approach other waste management companies to encourage some competition. When not a single company replied to his letters, he took a day off work with the intention of visiting each company personally.

He only needed to see one to understand the problem.

Michael was told that the tender price quoted was exorbitantly high as it was a Mafia owned and operated company. As such, no other company was stupid enough to bid against them. Not so much bad for business but rather bad for your health.

It gave Michael the class action case that would make his career.

Within weeks, _Michael Bradley and Associates_ – there weren't any as yet but there certainly would be in the future – was established in the basement office of their home. He rounded up enough clients to proceed and the case was duly submitted to the court. The expected threats and intimidation had little effect and he successfully argued at a preliminary hearing that there was a serious risk that the company could simply dissolve and declare bankruptcy. The judge ruled in his favour and froze $86million of the company assets. All parties knew that this was a case that was never going to see the inside of a courtroom and it just needed a reasonable settlement figure. After exhaustive negotiations that lasted just under a year, the final sum of $34 million was agreed upon and Michael was to enjoy a 30% share from his no win / no fee agreement.

The right side of $10 million.

However, on the day the funds cleared in his business account, his wife was disappeared and a ransom demand for the full amount was received. The case was too much for the local police to handle and the FBI were called in. After three days, Michael very reluctantly transferred the full $34 million into an account in the Cayman Islands.

His wife was never seen or heard from again and the money simply vanished.

The only solace for Michael was that there was enough circumstantial evidence to convict Anthony Di Silva – CEO of ADS Waste Management Services Inc. – for the kidnapping and he was sentenced to 25 years to life. At 62 years of age, it was unlikely he would ever be a free man again.

Melissa finished reading the story and drew her attention back to the photographs and her eyes settled on Kristy Bradley.

"Miss Chisholm?" The receptionist called into the half-filled waiting room. "Miss Chisholm?" The second call quickly followed the first and was now aimed directly at her.

" _What...?"_ She struggled to pull herself from the seedy underbelly of New York and back to the dentist's waiting room in Inverness.

"Miss Chisholm, that's the dentist ready for you now." A perfect white smile followed the words that had been thrown in her direction. The receptionist was a walking advertisement for her boss' work, not that Melissa was paying the slightest attention. Her six-month check up was proving anything but routine and she quickly stuffed the magazine into her handbag, all but certain she knew Mrs Kristy Bradley.

Only that wasn't her name now.

Now she used the name Lady Penelope Munro.

# About the Author

After graduating with a couple of useless degrees in law, Alexander McCabe wandered nomadically around the globe to experience the rich diversity of culture that the world has to offer. For the moment, it is Canada's turn to provide a suitable abode for him and the wife and son he picked up along the way.

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