Contains sex scenes. Not suitable for persons under eighteen years of age.
Yesterday was largely uneventful and shortly after writing, I set about tiring out our little dog, Hugo.
One of Hugo’s favourite games happens to be fetch with the Nerf tennis ball ‘gun’ launcher. I only have to cock the gun with nothing inside of it and he’s ready to go. For me, I can only fire the gun with my left hand because the slight recoil triggers my RSD in my right hand. It makes me feel a bit like an action movie baddie, only being able to fire from my left hand.
Technically, the gun has a ten-metre range on it, but at a push, I’d say it’s about half of that. From our bed, the balls just about fly through the side of the lounge and bounce onto the kitchen floor, but the real trick is to only pull back the tennis ball halfway and cock it at a slight upward trajectory so that the ball curves over the dog and rolls, rather than fires at full velocity and bounces hard off of whatever available surfaces that it can find. For a time, I use a slightly harder shot and repeatedly aim or the open top right-hand corner of the cutlery drawer.
After at least a dozen tries, I finally manage to clip it strategically enough to close the drawer. Ten points to me, I smile.
Dog tired out, it was time to get on with some writing.
Since slowing down somewhat, I’ve found that the basics of a blog post are easier at least. There’s no pressure, and I can spare enough time to come back to it later or rehash it a bit another time. Being something of a perfectionist, I don’t believe in delivering anything that I’m not happy with, and if I spot a mistake, I usually kick myself. Now that I can spare enough time to proof-read a bit more, I’ve been kicking myself a lot less.
“How the hell did that go so smoothly?” I asked through to Matt, “I just started and poof – done.”
I was in disbelief, it was only 5PM and I had a rough draft down. It was too early for dinner and I was pretty much done for the day. I’ll just do some housework instead.
“Shit, I need to get some mince for dinner” I concluded. Somehow, I’d missed half of the items off of my intended grocery shop and tragically, the minced beef was one such item.
“Do you need me to go to Tesco?” Matt offered.
“Or I could just do a co-op shop?” I smiled.
In lockdown, Co-Operative shops were delivered by Deliveroo, and they were frighteningly easy to use at a time when we were all supposed to be staying at home and social distancing. They were by no means perfect, but our normal grocery deliveries were gone and so Deliveroo was all that was left. Even as restrictions have eased, there was no denying that we’d become creatures of habit when it came to getting a few necessary items delivered. Lazy? Yes. Expensive? Probably. Imperfect? Absolutely, but it still saves time and at least we still cook our own food.
Order placed, I nestled down next to Matt for ten minutes. I kissed the paunch of his belly, the little bit of him that overhung his jeans. What started off as affection progressed, and before too long I was tracing the tip of my tongue over his skin, tasting him, teasing him ever closer.
“Stop it…” he warned.
“Stop what? I’m just being affectionate” I shrugged.
“You know what you’re doing, Mrs S, don’t try and play innocent with me.”
I smiled wickedly, when in Rome.
“I’m not doing anything, Mr S, but if I stand accused then I might as well” I muttered as I traced my lips along his outline. Oh, I was doing something alright. Even if not at first, then now I am. Now, I want.
“What do you say?” he asked.
“Please can I suck your cock?” I whispered.
“Louder, so that I can hear you” he commanded, I whimpered.
“Please can I suck your cock?” I pleaded. Oh, what had become of me?
“I love it when you beg”, he mused.
Tuesdays aren’t usually playtime, and yet as the moment took us, neither really cared. The more he used me, the freer I felt, I didn’t care anymore. No chores. no tasks, no errands, just service.
“I have to go and meet another man, or maybe a woman!” I shrugged suggestively. The not-too-clear message had displayed on my mobile phone: Outside.
“Go on then” he smirked, pulling me onto him one last time before releasing me. I gagged at the unexpected gesture and tears formed in my eyes.
“Bastard!” I scorned as he released me, he laughed.
“Come back here after” he commanded, “I’m not done with you.”
Outside, I met the Deliveroo driver. Despite out very clear signage, he was still confused about the number of our flat.
“Just put ‘flat’ in front of the number.” he said, “then we will know.”
Nobody else has had an issue there, buddy. It’s all you.
To be fair, I’d always said that I’d never met a bad Indian person, and yet just maybe, finally, now was that one time. As a rule I adore people from India, I embrace their humility, their kindness, their warmth and their sense of humour. I’ve bonded with many, many Indian people throughout my years and for different reasons, and to date, I didn’t think anyone could upset me. Maybe that was, until now.
To me, it all seemed a bit pedantic. If the number matches, what difference does the word ‘flat’ make? Nobody else had ever challenged it, not couriers nor other Deliveroo drivers. Still, it can’t have been a busy day.
“Come on then, up we get” I teased as I returned to the bedroom. I danced precariously in the doorway, taunting, knowing, wondering. How close can I get? How close do I want to get? Very, that’s the answer, very.
“Go on then, I’ll be out in a minute” he said, returning to his phone.
The beefburgers that I prepared were a bit of a hodgepodge of ingredients, and quietly, I hoped that they’d turn out okay. I couldn’t get the mint to make up a chimichurri mayo, so I ummed and arred over what to serve them with instead. In the end, I settled for spicy onion rings, tomato salsa, tenderleaf salad and regular ol’ mayo. Keep it simple, I guess.
“What did you put in your beefburgers?” Matt asked.
“Stuff” I offered, rather unhelpfully.
“Well, whatever ‘stuff’ it was, remember the recipe. These burgers are really good, very steaky.”
“Mmhmm, quite possibly the best you’ve ever made.” I was blown away.
“We aim to please, Sir” I smirked.
“That’ll do us, 999: What’s Your Emergency? Naked Attraction, Then two lots of Gordon Ramsay. Joining me?” he said, placing the remote control back down on the sofa.
“Do I have a choice?” I teased.
As we cleaned up after dinner, I knew that discussions needed to be had. After a recent episode, I needed a TV programme abolished from our household, for the sakes of my mental health.
“I was going to ask you, too,” I began, “can we not watch 24 Hours In A & E anymore, please? It’s just that after the last episode, seeing people say their farewells in hospital and stuff, you know…” I sighed, Matt hugged me.
“Dad?” he whispered, I nodded weakly as the tears prickled my eyes.
“It’s a tough one” he agreed. Of the two. while 999: What’s Your Emergency? shows the stresses and struggles of frontline workers, 24 Hours In A & E typically shows the emotional toll of emergency personnel and families, especially during the current pandemic. I had no intentions of turning my back on these hard-working people and I had no intention of denying that people didn’t have to have agonising conversations in hospital settings, either. It’s just that, for me, seeing other people have these conversations reminds me too much of my own.
“We’ll get through this” Dad promised as he squeezed my hand, but he never did. I was angry at him, but I missed him, too. Sometimes I put on a brave face, but sometimes even I’m not quite sure just how strong I am on the inside. I often hide my tears from view. To me, psychologically, tears are weakness and are to be had in my own time, alone. The world sees my strength, I won’t let it see my softer side. I won’t let the world see the little girl who still runs and plays and challenges, who stares at the world with a mix of fear, determination and curiosity. We’re all still little children on the inside, I believe, it’s just that the small ones haven’t got their adult shells yet.
“Okay, time to laugh at the kinky people” I concluded of Naked Attraction. It was good for some light-hearted TV, but the attitude towards kink and BDSM was so typical of Channel 4.
“Butt plugs” said the lady on the screen.
“What’s so kinky about a butt plug?” Matt asked, “they’re like the most basic thing!”
“Not for some people. Naughty Daddy, surely you wouldn’t be kink-shaming?” I said, wagging a finger. He bit it softly.
“I’m just saying… ”
“So let me do it to you, then?” I offered, “real easy, just…” With one hand clenched, I thrust it against the palm of my other hand. He gasped and shook his head.
“Well then” I said, matter-of-factly.
Once we got to bed, I was quietly hopeful that we would pick up where we left off. Maybe he was still in a kind of mood with me? Yeah, maybe.
Maybe, maybe… you know…
Instead, he almost ignored my advances.
“Sorry love, I don’t feel too good” he said when he finally spoke. I put it all down to a smudge of hypochondria, just maybe. He’d been in the office and he’d condemned a colleague who had been coughing and spluttering. Despite my assurances that he probably didn’t have Covid if he’d taken precautions, he was still nonetheless concerned. If you’re that worried, I’d told him, get a test.
I eventually rolled back to my side and stared at the ceiling for a while. I’d wanted, and now what I’d wanted wasn’t happening. I’d wanted ‘more’ since Monday, which is totally not Kinky Fuckery Friday, but fuck it, maybe we needed that flexibility.
I eventually rolled over and hugged my pillow to me, cuddling it to me like I would have cuddled him had he not turned me away.
Sometimes, there’s just sex, no pain, I concluded. Other times, there’s sex and pain. But sometimes, I thought as I let out a sigh, there’s just pain, after all.