Sunday, 6 October 2013

Number 21 - In Which I Have Very Bad Thoughts.

My parents divorced when I was about twelve. I have a dim recollection of much shouting and screaming, fraught phone calls to hospitals and the police and the eventual showdown when it transpired that my Dad was late home not because of an horrific accident (as my mother had rang every hospital and police station in the entire county), but because he'd been shagging my Mum's friend. I no longer have a good relationship with my Dad as he still thinks with his cock, twenty-odd years later and I have no respect for someone who is so fickle with relationships as to have a new one every year, often overlapping.

When my sister had a fling which subsequently wrecked her marriage, I was so disgusted, I couldn't talk to her properly for months.

So I have a dim view of extra-marital affairs.

So the thoughts I have been having lately are abhorrent to me, yet still they persist. I won't ever act on them, but I go there in my head and it is tantalising, titillating and wholly capable of getting me off when the need arises.

He is local. He is in a long term relationship with the mother of his children. He is a giant of a man, both in stature and personality. He speaks with a broad, local dialect which often I cannot understand, so I imagine him bending close to my ear and whispering slowly, his breath tickling my neck and earlobe. He works with his hands, so they are rough and calloused and when I imagine them touching me, I start to get warm in places I shouldn't.

I am friends with his partner. We are not close friends but I have been in her kitchen and sat with her and some other friends, drinking tea as we talk about our teenagers, our dogs, our men. And I hate myself for having such wicked thoughts about her man. But still they persist.

In the grip of one of these moments of madness, I initiate sex with Husband. He's not very dominant in bed, nor is he is real life and often I get tired of being the one who wears the proverbial trousers, both in the bedroom and out of it. I always thought that the submissive woman and the Man In Charge was a horribly sexist cliché but in fact, it is quite arousing to relinquish control and let sexism take over.

So, with thoughts of the Giant in my head, I approach Husband for sex. But of course, it's fairly late at night and he's on to beer number 6. At first, he is reluctant, (tired, stressed, drunk?) but I can't think of many men who would turn down sex when offered to them on a plate.

We start to go at it, and he asks me what I want. I am thinking of Giant, his rough hands all over me, and I ask Husband to slap my ass and take me from behind.
Pull my hair.
Be rough.
Take me like you own me and can use and abuse me any way you want.
Call me a whore.

He does this, initially with some glee, but after about five minutes, he stops. He's gone soft again, and pulls out, sitting back on the bed with a frown. He says he's tired. Normally I would go down on him, and Blow Job him to life, but this time I don't. I am tired too. Tired of having to constantly coax some sort of firmness out of his alcohol-wilted cock. And I'm tired of hearing that it is my fault because we don't do it enough, so his cock has forgotten how to work. But I don't say this, because I know it will cause a row and it will be one that we may never recover from.

He goes downstairs and I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of beer number 7 being cracked open. The sound of the ring pull. The crack and hiss. I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth and go back to bed. I take out of the sex drawer my favourite vibrator (the quietest too) and finish myself off. But it's Giant I'm thinking off as the orgasm rips through me, leaving my skin sticky with sweat and my entire groin pulsing with release.

I awake at about 3am to Husband missing from bed. I go downstairs, and find him passed out on the floor. I stand and watch him for a while, snoring and grunting. He's flat on his back, beer number 8 knocked over and making a urine-coloured puddle on the living room carpet. I clean the stain as best I can, and think about waking him up. But we've done this dance before. I'm fed up of it. The last time I woke him and told him to come to bed, he told me to fuck off and stop being his mother. So with the stain cleaned as best I can, I turn off the TV and the lights and leave him on the floor.

The next morning, he goes to work without a sound and I wonder whether this is my life now.

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