Authors: C. Elizabeth
Sweet Convictions (4 page)
And w
hat better way of doing what was forbidden, but by going out with a drug dealer and fucking him senseless whilst high on ketamine?! It was just a six month sex-slash-drug affair – a pleasurable and somewhat necessary one at that, but after we split, I thought it best to get my life back on track. Back to some normality. So ever since, things, let’s say, have become rather regimented. All the more reason for my craving for full blown, thrash-me-up-against-a-cold-hard-wall-and-fuck-me-senseless-until-I’m-inside-out sex. He was completely not for me anyway and again, definitely unlike the kind of guys I’m usually attracted to.
My
ideal guy generally requires meeting at least twelve of the below preferred criteria:
- tall and rugged, shaven head, a bit of stubble
- they need to be
taller than me, preferably not slimmer – I don’t want to look massive next to him and I honestly don’t need reminding of how I desperately need to drop at least a dress size - h
e needs to be strong and toned, although nowadays I think I’d prefer that he had a he-belly to go with my jelly-belly
I mean as I age I’m finding it really difficult to stay in shape. My physical pride and joy, up until around a year ago, was my amazingly toned table mountain belly. Everything else is and always has been pretty much a write off. My legs especially went to shit years ago after idiotically giving up dancing. They’re now just wobbly stems of blubber with four gnocchi knees. Now, I’m just heading closer towards the beached whale-look.
Fuck, we really do take our bodies for granted when we’re younger
. Then when they start to head south for the winter, autumn, summer and spring, we frighteningly discover it’s too late to catch up.
I
have tried though...and tried, and tried some more. I still do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not planning on giving up. I’ll keep at it. I’m no quitter, especially when it comes to my appearance.
Anyway, back to my
preposterous list;
- someone I can share a unique connection with, someone who’s like-minded and very much open-minded
- s
omeone who’s not afraid of commitment, who’d be quite happy to show his affection towards me in public, someone who would pay me genuine compliments but doesn’t overdo it - someone who initiates and plans things to
experience together and doesn’t just wait for me to do it all - someone who doesn’t take everything too seriously
and knows how to bring out the inner child and be silly together - oooh
it would be great if he was someone who didn’t look at you like you’re utter filth when bringing a fucking vibrator into the room.
I mean open your mind dude! You may even enjoy it a little! - preferably
, I’d like a guy who doesn’t appear as if he’s about to pass out from fright when he sees me without make-up for the first time - h
e’s got to be an animal lover, or at least respect them enough not to become an addition to the never-ending list of soulless, heartless, vile twats on this shitty planet who choose to hurt them rather than take care of them. God! What is wrong with people? Did you know that in some countries, they boil puppies whilst they’re alive because apparently they’re more tender when cooked and taste better when they’re full of
oxytocin, the
fear and stress hormone. I mean Jesus Christ what the fucking fuck?!
Alright, rant over. - someone supportive, and who sees you through
, or even better still, rides out the shitty times with you rather than bolting at the first tear drop - he needs to be
honest - he needs to make me laugh
- he has to be caring and motivated
- someone
I can have an argument with, if so required at the time, but who can quickly get over it and move on without bitching for days or holding any grudges. A fucking adult in other words! - someone
intellectually compatible would be good, but by this, I mean he’s not allowed to be overly intelligent. I couldn’t bear looking anymore like the ditsy, over gullible dweeb that I am already - someone who
isn’t afraid of saying how it really is - someone
who would respect me enough to keep it in his fucking pants, tucked safely away from clawing man-stealing bitches and devote himself wholly to me, as opposed to the whole of our hometown - most
importantly, he’s got to be someone who completely gets me. We need to fit. Ideally, I’d like to remain in a relationship that lasts beyond just the honeymoon period -
I guess I wouldn’t say no to a little old fashioned chivalry either. Now I’m not saying he needs to pull my chair out or open the car door each time we go out, nor does he need to lay down a white hanky over a puddle of mud for me to tread over, but at least choose to walk on the edge side of the pavement, offer to help tidy up the house, tell me to put my feet up whilst he cooks me dinner, or even just offer me the last chip in the sharer bowl. Jesus, some of the guys I’ve had in my life have had abominable manners, if at all, so honestly, even a please and thank you will do really.
Er, I think that’s it. Okay so it’s a pretty lengthy list of prerequisites but they’re not completely unattainable attributes to find...just almost impossible to find them all in one guy.
My relationships h
ave always been long-term ones, so yes, they have managed to last beyond the blissfully sex induced phase, but not only have they fizzled out over time, they’ve generally gone to complete and utter shit and I’m tired of it. I mean we already live in a world that’s unreservedly irrational and randomly chaotic. We have no power or say over most of what goes on around it so now, at least in my own personal life I’d like to once and for all encompass some sort of underlying order.
Quickly getting over
my self-pitying-violin-playing moment, I remember the gold card. I’m fascinated by its ambiguity, but even more so at what the big breasted cashier had said to me.
I
pull out the card buried deep under my new toys. All that’s centred across the back is a number—no name, no offer of service, no nothing—absolutely squat.
I
fish into my stylish charity shop-bought handbag to search for my mobile phone. My hand digs deep inside my over-sized bag into what seems like a bottomless pit; my fingers swirling around like a five legged octopus. I feel my keys; purse; driving gloves; empty perfume bottle, which I really should throw away finally; my diary and everything other than my phone. An old gooey gum wrapper sticks to my hand as I scramble about some more stumbling across loose change that I can never be assed about putting into my actual purse.
And oh god knows what that is!
“Oh for fuck sake, how does everything in this fucking bag get fucking lost all the fucking time?”
I haul my stuff over to a nearby bench, dump them onto it and literally sink my head into my bag for a good look.
“Aha, there’s the bitch culprit. Shit it’s like the fucking Bag-
muda triangle in here!”
It’s that
unwelcomed slit in the bottom of the lining. It’s where everything eventually gets sucked into only to drive you into a panic or worse, a fit of utter rage.
“S
o everything happens for a reason does it? Well, what’s the reason for this one huh?” I complain to my bag.
Then
I straighten up and push my hair back out of my face as I get more comfortable. I’m so going to make the most of this bench.
“Oh
hells balls that feels good.”
My feet are fucked already and we’ve
not been here for long—retribution for being absurd enough to wear ludicrously high heels for hours the night before.
I
enter the number into my phone and press dial, but before it could ring I terminate the call.
What the hell am I doing? I’m dialling some random number with no name, no details whatsoever. How am I going to start this conversation exactly? Er, hi, I’m calling you but I haven’t a clue who you are or why I’m ringing? For all I know, it could be a ploy to lure women into sex slavery or organised crime, or god knows what!
My
imagination, as always, gets the better of me.
I
slide my crystal spangled phone back into the inside zipper compartment of my black hole for a handbag, throwing it over my shoulder and slinging the paper carrier over my arm as I lift myself up. As I stand, my phone begins to vibrate. For a second I look around in embarrassment thinking it was my new toy going off, but immediately remind myself that although I’ve just paid a ridiculous amount for these little gems, their pleasure-providing ways still con you into having to spend more on batteries—nothing’s for free in this world after all—which I chose note to do this time round.
“It’s the phone you paranoid
bat,” I tell myself, as I drop my things and take a seat again. I look at the screen. It’s the number I’ve just dialled.
“Oh shit, how the hell?”
I gulp at the saliva in the back of my throat and press the green lit button.
“Hello?”
I answer silently and unsure.
“Hi. You rang just a
second ago didn’t you?” There’s a husky female voice on the other end.
“Um,
nnn, er, yes. Yes I did but I changed my mind thank you though.”
“What have you changed your m
ind about exactly?” she enquires. Her voice is suggestive and tempting.
“
Er, I just decided in the end I didn’t want to call. I thought I did, but now I don’t, th...”
“And why not?
Don’t you want to hear what’s on offer or how we can help?”
“Okay, so what is it that you do?” I give up and ask.
“Let me ask you a question first. Have you any sexual desires you
’d like to fulfil?”
Well that’s bloody personal isn
’t it? How dare she just come right out and ask such a private thing? That’s so out of order!
But as taken aback as
I am by her bluntness, I’m relatively captivated. I want to know where this is all heading. Oddly and more surprisingly, I’m finding it poignant to some extent. I feel a pleasant twitch in my crotch.
What the hell?
“Yes, maybe.
I’m not sure really.”
“Oh I’m certain there’s something
friskily wayward you’ve wanted to try but never had the opportunity to. Perhaps you’ve even thought of it as being wrong?”
“
Er, I’m sorry, but where are you calling from exactly?” I ask rather abruptly.
“All the details will follow as soon as you answer my question sweetheart
. Now come on, tell me what you’d like to do. Something bad.”
I can feel m
y panties becoming wet as they begin sticking to me. I wriggle about uncomfortably, as I think about my answer.
Okay here goes.
“
All right, I’ll tell you.” I take a deep long breath in and blurt it out as I exhale.
“
I’d like to have sex on a beach.”
“
Really? Is that it? Well, that’s okay if that’s your fantasy but it’s quite unimaginative don’t you think?”
Who the hell
does she think she is to ask me about my fantasy and then throw it back in my face with reasons of unimaginativity?...Hmmm, is that even a word?!
“Well you asked and that’s all I could come up with whilst in the middle of a shopping centre, speaking to a woman I don’t know
, answering personal questions I don’t feel overly comfortable with. Sorry!” I snap.
She
’s right though. I mean come on! There’s so much I want to do but she’d probably just think I was sick in the head. Oh my god, maybe that’s what they do. Maybe they help support sex addicts? But I’m not an addict. I mean it’s not like I get it every day or even every month for that matter. I do think about it often though...like a lot! Is that even normal for a woman?
“Hello? Hello?”
she calls out to check if I’m still on the line. As usual, I disappear into one of my thought bubbles. My mind has a mind of its own and is dangerous!
“Oh sorry, yes I’m still here
.”
“Listen sweetheart,
I get it. Sex on the beach has always been considered risky and romantic. It’s no doubt you’d want to give it a bash if you’ve never done it before, but honestly, it’s that common they named a drink after it.
Th
en again they’ve also named drinks such as ‘Anus-Burner’ and ‘Passed-Out-Naked-On-The-Bathroom-Floor’ and you don’t want to try those now do you? So if you really think about sex on the beach – the sexual act, not the beverage—you’ll only experience exfoliation on areas of your body you simply don’t want exfoliated,” she explains.
