It’s often said that, if ever life feels like it’s going too well for you, be ready for something to come along and fuck it all up. These past few days have been one such occasion, and right when I thought my to-do list was clearing at a rapid rate and I was long ahead of my game, things started to go terribly, terribly awry.
The first instance happened when I stepped out to clean the pond filter, a stinky ritual that I now find myself tasked with every Sunday. Side gate unlocked, I made my way around the back of our rear-facing kitchen and that was when it greeted me: Boom! Backed up drain.
“Not to worry,” I thought, “I’ll pop in a report form to our landlord and they’ll send someone out to fix it”. That’s the usual drill every time that fucker backs up, but to get that far, one must first kickstart the process.
Days later, our toilet starts taking a while to empty.
Now, add to all of this that I managed to rip the shower caddy off of the wall on Thursday while I was trying to clean the damn thing, my gradually clearing to-do list was now quickly piling back up. “Fill in holes”, “fetch paint from the shed”, “sand and paint”, “install new shelves”, it’s all on there.
But now added on top of that was one rather unwelcome addition: “unclog the loo”.
I’ve tried a variety of household hacks, ranging from bicarbonate of soda and white vinegar (twice), shampoo and hot water and dish soap and hot water, but all without avail. We even took turns repeatedly assaulting the bog with the plunger, but nothing seemed to work. Defeated and desperate to avoid the costs of the repair, Matt bought a drain auger on Amazon.
Mindful of the unceremoniously stinky job ahead of me when that thing finally turned up, I at least tried to have my five minutes of peace over breakfast. My phone vibrates, and I raise a weary eyebrow in its general direction.
Lo and behold, the landlord is sending out an emergency plumber. He’ll be here between ‘now and the end of tomorrow’. Fair dos.
I have to be honest, I’m quite amazed because normally not even half a tonne of TNT can get Bristol City Council off of their collective asses when needs be. Still, I know that they’ve recently reformed the way that they do housing, so maybe drainage issues are now met with a sense of urgency?
At ten in the morning there’s a knock at the door. I thought it was the plumber, but there’s a box on the doorstep – well, I am expecting a variety of things. I take the box into the lounge and open it, inside is my new silcone dildo and my new “girthy” vibrator, both in smaller boxes. Both are only six inches but “going bigger” is a conversation still yet to be had.
I take the two smaller boxes through to the privacy of the bedroom and open them up. As I do, Matt is working at his desk. Or at least trying to work, anyway.
The silicone dildo is first to be examined. I’m pleased with its structure, its shape, everything about it. It does feel quite girthy, and solid too. I don’t take too much time examining it, I have other things to do.
I unbox the vibrator and hold it in my hands. As I examine it, one notable feature stands out – it’s kinda squishy.
“Oh, I like that” I laud, “it doesn’t feel like it’ll be so hard on my insides. It feels softer, more lifelike.”
I wrap my hand around my new battery-operated boyfriend and massage it firmly. I can’t help but be drawn to it, to its smoothness, its softness, its firmness and squishiness. It feels… promising.
In my peripheral vision, I see a dark red van pull up outside of the bedroom window.
“Shit! The postie’s here” I say, I stuff my new toy under the blanket and try to regain my composure.
Worse than that, it’s the emergency plumber.
I take a moment, trying not think about wrapping my hand around cocks of various ages and sizes. I feel caught, ashamed; how the hell am I going to swap pleasantries with him now?
By nightfall then our kitchen drain is now running smoothly again, but the toilet is still backing up. Frustrated and desperate (at least not to flood the bathroom), Matt decides to put in an emergency repair. It takes Bristol City Council a full twenty-five minutes to answer an “emergency” call, so like I was just saying, they’re pretty useless.
“This is poor” Matt says, I giggle softly, apologetically. I should imagine that somebody who works in a similar role would have a lot to say.
“Just to let you know, I’m going to ham this up a bit” he says with a wink, I shake my head at him. I want to argue, but i know better than to try. This is his domain after all.
“It’s the only toilet we have… unsanitary conditions… disabled wife”. Well, he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely milking it too.
The plumber comes out about an hour later, or at least his accomplice does. It’s the same company, but my guess is the old boy does the day shift, and the younger chap covers the nights. As he tries plunging and snaking the toilet again without luck then I find myself making suggestions from what I’ve read on Google.
“Could it be the vent on the roof?”
“It could be, where is your vent?”
It baffles me, am I really a housewife now telling a plumber how to do his job? And more importantly, why does he not know where the vent is? Follow the stack straight up, and it’s going to be up there, surely? On the side of the building. People amaze me sometimes.
Our not-exactly-honest upstairs neighbour, Martin, comes outside and Matt gives me a weary look. Yet again more shit spills out from Martin than does our blocked up bog itself, though to be completely honest, I’m not really listening.
“I’m going to go and check my toilet, make sure it’s working” Martin says.
“It won’t affect you mate, you’re upstairs” comes the faintest voice from the bathroom. The plumber doesn’t even look at him, he just tells Martin how it is. I stifle a giggle – I’ve never seen Martin shut down that quickly before.
“Oh, right. Well, good luck” Martin says, he presses his lips into a faint smile and walks back upstairs and, once I know he’s out of earshot, I finally let out a small giggle. Why hadn’t I thought about using that technique before? Possibly because Martin will escalate it to a confrontation and I’ve always been non-confrontational. Still, it’s genius!
Unfortunately the plumber can’t fix the toilet, so we’re told that we can “still use it if you have to” and that “someone will be out tomorrow”, but now things are even more complex – “they may have to take the toilet out to unblock it”. Great!
Friday morning and the now-familiar red van pulls up. I pull my just-brushed hair into some semblance of a pony and rush to the door. There he stands, the old boy from the drain company is back again. Fortunately there we no welcoming demonstrations this time.
“You seem familiar, but I forget where from” I joke.
“I know, I thought I’d pop back for a bit” he laughs. His accent is thickly southern Bristol and it feels warm and familiar – it’s the same sound as my Dad.
To his credit he worked hard, jet spraying the pipes, snaking the loo at least three times (including once with an electronic, heavy duty thing) and rodding the drain again. He checked our neighbour’s drain and our drain, but nothing seemed to check out. Defeated, he said he thought it might be a limescale build-up and that someone would have to come out to do a video inspection. All of this for a blocked up loo? I just want to get on with my life, and to be able to use the facilities in peace!
I lay on the bed in a state of defeat when there’s a knock at the door. What now?!
“Alright? It’s me again” he says, “I’ve just been up the top and rodded it all through. It was blocked up up there” he says. “Up there” – the main drain lines on the adjoining road. Ours simply isn’t big enough nor straight enough to house them.
“That should all be running smooth now” he says. He presses the flush and, after a few goes, it fills fine and levels out again. Hallelujah!
“I just had a feeling summat was blocked somewhere and I just thought, no, I can’t leave this one” he says.
“You’re like me, eh?” I laugh, “like a dog with a bone once you’re onto something.” He laughs.
Thursday saw an amazing opportunity for me with my involvement in a piece for Gawker.com. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I very nearly passed up that opportunity and now I’m so glad that I didn’t. It has got me thinking though more generally about my blog, because somehow and in some way, I do want to turn Kinky With A Twist into an earner. I have to – it’s not even about wanting to be humble and nice anymore, it’s about recognising my worth and the worth of what I give to the community. I deserve recognition and I deserve to ask for donations to help pay for the costs of doing what I do. I’m soft, and I need to not be soft anymore. This is me kicking my own backside now.
“Right, we’re celebrating. What do you want to celebrate?” Matt asks. I shrug, I never want for much.
“Surprise me” I say. He always does.
When he returns from the store, he has a tray of Thorntons Classics tucked under his arm. Only the best for his girl.
“Well done, I’m so bloody proud of you sweetheart” he says, handing the tray of chocolates over and kissing me on the forehead. I feel elated.
Over dinner, the advert for Carolina Herrara’s new perfume, Very Good Girl, comes on the TV. I grin at Matt.
“So, you asked me what I want to celebrate my successes?” I begin. He looks at me and I nod towards the TV.
“Christmas, if you’re a very good girl” he smirks.
“Literally not fair” I sigh.
Alone and naked last night in my room, I decided to find out what my new friends could do. I’d been hinting at sex for three days now but, with work stress and backed-up bathrooms dominating his mind, I knew that our desires were different. Not to worry, at long last we have a way to manage our differences.
“Girthy” definitely lives up to its name and, to be completely honest, it was pretty painful. My new purple silicone friend was a delight though and one that I plan to repeat, often.
I felt liberated, freed to have and enjoy sex again without depending on my husband. I felt pleasure again and content knowing that he knew about these toys. None of it felt wrong, everything felt good. Very, very good.
Perhaps the weirdest part was the returning desire to share my experience with another woman, not another man. I’ve known for a long time that I’m bi-curious, but the opportunity hasn’t and doesn’t present itself like a lot of people seem to think it might. I don’t have girl friends, and so there’s no chance of a one-margarita-too-many situation for me. In fact, the only fellow bi-curious friend I had became incredibly flaky once she got a boyfriend and told me at one tell-all sleepover that she saw me more as a sister than as a girlfriend. Needless to say, both of those circumstances put a dampener on things.
Even still then I don’t ever rule the idea out, but I would want a relationship with another woman, not just sex. It’s just the way that I am built, to love, to care for and to… well, anyway.
