Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (7 page)

So I do. And I feel like a princess as I strut up and down the shop, my new shoes sinking into the carpet. ‘How do I look?’ I ask Pearl.

She claps her hands. ‘They’re perfect! They make you walk like a tiger. You should call him.’

‘But I’m only just back from coffee break!’

Pearl flaps the air. ‘Do you see a swarm of customers?’ And when I shake my head she says, ‘Well, then.’

So this time I’m up in the kitchen while Guy orders me about. ‘Have you got them on?’ he growls.

I say I have, and he starts telling me how much he wants to come on them. And again I’m touching my poor wet pussy beneath the staff table, pushing myself to climax as he moans in my ear.

But you know, Kitten, while I’m fucking myself, it’s Janey I’m really thinking about. Janey has a cock this time. No, really. A cock. And I’m back in that hallway, modelling the shoes for her – the cherry platform stilettos – only this time, when she crouches down to look more closely at my feet, I raise my left foot and place it in her lap, resting the heel lightly just above her knee. She’s transfixed as she runs her hands up and down my legs. ‘Deborah, you’re gorgeous,’ she says. And that’s when I see the bulge inside her jeans. She looks up at me, and I’m so turned on I could burst. Still holding my stare, she rubs her hands over my shoe, running a finger up and down the stiletto heel, before pulling her jeans open and taking her cock in her hand. She stares up at me, fiercely, as if she could tear me to pieces, and murmurs, ‘I’m going to come all over them, Deborah,’ and when she says my name, I climax.

Oh, God, how I climax!

On the other end of the line, Guy says, ‘You’re too hot to handle.’

And I say, ‘Guy, I’ve got to go.’

And he says, ‘Talk to you later, baby.’

And frankly, Kitten, I feel like a piece of shit, having phone sex with him while I dream about my super-young tenant. So I return to Pearl, who’s got nothing to do, and she says, ‘Well?’

‘I told him how much I adore them,’ I say, but I glance down at the shoes, which are suddenly less glamorous than I remembered. ‘Think I’ll change ’em though,’ I tell Pearl. ‘Keep them nice.’

But sadly, I wonder if they’ll ever seem nice again.

7.45 p.m.

Oh, now I really have seen it all! But I’ll start at the beginning.

I got home half an hour ago and I’m in an awful mood. The place smells of incense and there’s a droning music coming from upstairs. One of those goth bands or something. So I march on up, thinking I’ll ask Janey to turn it down, when I see that the bedroom door is ajar. ‘Janey?’ I call, as I reach the top of the stairs. ‘D’you mind if I close the door?’

And a plaintive voice says, ‘Um … Deborah, I need some help.’

I pause at the door. Something tells me this is going to be weird. And when I step into her room, it turns out I wasn’t wrong! Kitten, the girl is splayed on her double bed in a grey bra and matching briefs (so scant, Kitten, they’re barely there at all), and she’s spread-eagled across the bed, with each of her wrists bound to the bed knobs of my Auntie Doris’s antique queen-size. Her breasts swell more than I thought they would, and I can see the shapes of her nipples through the grey Lycra, and her belly and thighs are delightfully pale, and there are tiny specks of freckles round her cleavage. She’s so stunning that I stare at her for far too long. ‘Sorry,’ she says, at last, with a sigh. ‘This is so fucking embarrassing.’ Then she tells me that she and Lil had a fight. ‘Let’s just say, once she’d tied me up, she decided to ask me a few tough questions.’

Suddenly, the truth hits me. ‘She didn’t
leave
you like this?’ I ask.

‘Looks like it,’ says Janey. ‘Never get all truthy when your lover’s got you trussed.’

This makes me want to laugh – and hard – but I bite my lip. But Janey catches the glint in my eye, and suddenly we’re both giggling away. In fact, after a minute, our laughter gets so raucous that I have to lean against the pine chest of drawers, Kitten, to keep my balance. (Never was one for yoga, you know.) And poor Janey’s got tears running down her face, God bless her, so I go over and wipe them away with the pad of my thumb, and we watch each other for a moment, and I think, Dear God, you’re beautiful, with that haunting face and those blue-blue eyes – ‘fuck-me blue’ as Glads would say – and your wonderful body, so sleek and unspoiled.
And suddenly, things get awkward, so I offer to help and soon I’m picking my way round the clothes on the floor, trying to find the key that Lil apparently threw on the floor when she left.

As I release poor Janey, she says, ‘Learning point: only submit with someone you trust.’

‘Are you saying you don’t trust Lil?’

Janey’s eyebrows rise. ‘Would
you
trust Lil in the bedroom right now?’

‘Well, at least she hasn’t been unfaithful,’ I say.

Janey, who’s now free and rubbing her wrists, gives me a you’re-plain-crazy kind of look. ‘I’d call locking up your girl and tossing the key pretty damn unfaithful. Especially when she’s telling you the truth. And if Lil
had
ever screwed someone behind my back, you’d have just said something pretty fucking tactless.’

Oh, Kitten, I cover my eyes! Janey’s right! I’m a wreck! Tactless as they come. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m so full of tripe that I’d sink a ship.’ Then I sit on the bed, facing away from Janey, staring into my palms. I should say something more, but I don’t know what. Why do I feel so lost of all a sudden, as if everything’s wrong, as if I’m useless? The tears start to come. Is this what it’s like to be sexually in tune, Kitten? Is this what life does to you when you start to feel sexually free? I feel Janey’s hand on my shoulder – warm and firm – and she says, ‘Are you worried that Guy isn’t faithful?’

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘It’s more to do with my ex.’

She squeezes my shoulder so sweetly that little sparks seem to shoot down my arm. Then she crawls round the back of me and begins to massage my shoulders. Oh, my, her pressure feels wonderful. ‘Tell me about this ex,’ she says. So I do. I start at the beginning. All those years spent making myself look sexy, hoping that Henry, with his steady brown gaze and delectable hands, would scoop me up in his arms and take me to bed. I tell Janey how many times I made him lovely meals at the end of my work day, even though I was tired and he never made meals for me. And then I tell her how Henry stopped meeting my eyes when he spoke, how he started working later and later, how when I asked his advice about how I looked, he’d say, ‘Always great,’ but wouldn’t even take the time to scan me.

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

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

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

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

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

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

I gawp at her. ‘Yes, actually, I do.’

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

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

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

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

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

She nods, so I turn to go.

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, 13 March

11.15 a.m.

Dear Kitten,

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

10.45 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I slap his arm.

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

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

I laugh. ‘Careful, cowboy.’

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