bifkinpie: Fire in the Hole!

(We're under lockdown.)

A human of female persuasion has her sexual peak at 38. So they say. We all know that, right? Tilting toward the pinnacle, I’d argue this is true. A burning aching truth.

Against the odds I opted to embrace celibacy, instead of filth, for 2014. I think it was out of choice.

Oh. It’s been hard.

Once.

Using rational approaches in 'romance' (instead of three pints of sunbeams) has been quite a trip. I don’t think I’ve had an awful lot of sober sex, hence the parallel reason behind quitting the drink for 2014. I want to have something with substance and longevity, not disposable. Yeah, I know...shucks...

I did manage a sober snog this year. It was dreadful.

Hitting the town with a few mates, everyone was on good form. I was happy drinking my tea and playing pool whilst getting down to a discotheque of Erasure and HI NRG. That night there was interest from two blokes. One was cute and big. The other one looked at me a lot.

Opening gambit from the cute and big one resulted in something offensive that made me shrivel with fear; something along the lines of sucking cock (*Cough* Sorry?). Side-stepped immediately with horror.

Plucky, Looking-At-Me-A-Lot came over. He was funny, a bit silly, and potatoey. He bought me a tea and led me into another room where we talked minimally about scooters and streamliners, then he snogged my face off. And my ear. And my throat. He produced an incredible amount of spittle.

I didn’t object. Being licked all over - sober - was a not an experience I'd ever done with strangers. Proper gameshow fodder.

He was clearly wanting to get filthy. But something didn’t feel right. He was from out of town.

Married.

He denied it. Twice. Wanted to come back to mine. I declined. He said he was over again next Thursday and that we should meet up. I agreed.

Number exchange. He attached himself for a short while.

Then I cabbed it home.

But something didn’t sit right, and I was going to get to the bottom of this before letting him get to mine.

Yep, from what little tid bits he’d given me I ‘researched’ him online.

And I struck gold.

Turns out he’s a millionaire prestige car salesman.

Fuck.

Oh. Wow. This guy is MINTED.

Certainly not a deal breaker but a generous boon that immediately made me dream of getting a Rolex I didn’t want and loads of manicures that rendered my actual hands as defunct trowels.

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He’s still texting me. We’re meeting next Thursday.

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It’s nearly Thursday. One more search. A better search.

And I got it.

The wife. A glamourous, gorgeous counterpart holding a child of around two, all stood beneath a Grandfather clock. A perfect existence portrayed - crystal cut - through social media.

I likely exclaimed ‘Shit house!’ and then waited for a text.

-What time can we meet tomorrow? x

-I don’t know. Ask your wife?

-Ha ha. Not this again. I’ve told you I’m not married x

-Why don’t you ask (wife’s name) what she thinks about that?

*Chun Li Spinning Bird Kick*

(-Ha ha. Yes, well done. We had fun though? X)

(………………………)

I don’t ever want a Rolex.

(Whether it’s right or wrong to search/stalk someone in this way…? I rationalise, by avoiding the arse-ache of having to deal with the blatherings of a liar by backing up your intuition, I saved myself a lot of time and karmic annihilation. And that’s all I’m going to say about that).

Then the tide turned. I started drinking again, and I didn’t get back on the wagon for the rest of the year. Obviously, one night…

drink became my device…

…and my excuse

...and I had sex.

The worst part - I don’t remember it. It’s in the bank but built with myth. It was good, I think. The reconstruction is certainly hyperhorny.

That’s the thing, I’m banging the bloody walls. I have to shout regularly into a pillow. I’m so frustrated I could destroy all the beer mats with a flame thrower. MINE.

I’m waking up confronted by the remnants of failed porn site perusal and can’t right it until I’ve washed away my onanistic coating with Dove Sensitive and an exfoliator sponge that smells of actual God.

“My mind’s telling me no, but my body, my body’s telling me ye-es-us”,

is usually my shower song of choice.

I’m signing up for another year of disciplinish because I need to channel this fire* and stop letting it whip my arse. If all this energy could be expelled elsewhere, I'd be making a lot more headway in other areas. I'm just treading water; distracted by making the reality of love possible, but even that's misguided and skewed by lust and objectification. It's all wrong, and it's only going to get worse...whilst baby-making HQ has control.

I said disciplinish - the 'ish' can contain the random variables, none of which will be married shysters, nor intoxicated fumbles that I regrettably can't recall.

Lockdown. Again.