Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (4 page)

8 p.m.

Holy mackerel, Kitten, I’m just popping to the ladies to give you the latest! We’re at the Thai Garden, and he’s plied me with some kind of fancy white wine. Well, I let him ply me, let’s face it. I’m a pushover for Chardonnay, so I admit I’m a bit tipsy. Maybe that’s why Guy seems so sizzlingly irresistible.

But I have to hurry, so here’s a quick list, before I forget the story …

1. He picks me up in the most exquisite Mercedes – a silver convertible with seats that smell of leather – and, rather than just tooting his horn like Henry would have, he parks the car, comes to the door and greets me in person. ‘You look positively stunning,’ he says, when I answer the door. And adds, ‘A perfect wet dream.’ How lovely it is to be craved by this smartly suited thirty-something with eyes that undress me … starting – or maybe ending – with my gold, evening sandals. Seriously, these have stiletto heels to die for.
   
2. As he drives, he lounges there like a jaguar, a single hand leisurely draped on the wheel. I tell him what Janey said about women in the 60s who wouldn’t allow stilettos to disappear from the stores. He laughs, then says, ‘Women who wear heels are hard to say no to.’ Then he glances down at my flirty dress teamed with nylons, saying, ‘Especially when they’re as delectable as you.’
   
3. OK, Kitten, I’ve got to run now or he’ll think I have the kind of problems only fibre can fix. The waiters and waitresses, who aren’t all Thai by any stretch, are dressed in white with blue flowers in their hair. Also, there are coloured paper lanterns in red, gold and blue, and there’s a huge tank filled with tropical fish. Guy’s ordered us prawn crackers, spring rolls, little shrimp toasts with chili sauce. All gorgeous! And I do love Chardonnay, especially when it’s cold and served in crystal glasses, while the stud across the table presses his leg against mine.
   
4. I have to go now, Kitten. Back in a few …
   

10.50 p.m.

Well, that was quite a date. He was utterly charming, dreadfully seductive, and his clear interest in bedding me made quite a delicious distraction. That man has eyes that bore through your clothes and touch your flesh – not softly, but firmly, as if you’re an avocado and he’s checking to see if you’re ripe. But the most exciting thing was talking to him about shoes! Henry never took an interest in my shoe collection, or much else of mine for that matter. Guy, on the other hand, asked for the details of my every pair, not to mention my job at Pussyfoot Shoes and the women I serve. Now I’m not a fool, Kitten! I know he wants to imagine me touching women’s feet, and getting aroused by it or something. But the thing about Guy is how direct he is. Here’s an example …

I get back from the ladies to find our main courses in front of us – prawns with basil and chili for me; beef in tamarind sauce for him. As we start to eat, I can feel him watching me, but I don’t rise to it straightaway – partly because I like him admiring me, and also because OH, MY GOD, THAI FOOD IS GORGEOUS! (Why has no one ever mentioned this before? All spices and sweetness and heat.) Anyway, finally he puts down his chopsticks, takes a swig of wine and leans towards me properly. ‘I hope you don’t think me rude,’ he says, ‘treating you so directly. I find you very attractive. And the fact that you have such taste in shoes … well, frankly, I got hard the moment I met you and haven’t calmed down since.’

I flush, unable to meet his gaze. ‘Oh my,’ I say, ‘you’re very forward, aren’t you.’

‘It’s my way of saying, “This is who I am.”’ He pauses for a beat, as I look into his eyes. Then, with the most devilish smile I’ve ever seen, he murmurs, ‘I want to screw you, Deborah. Over and over again. And as I think you know, we’ll be leaving your shoes on.’ If I don’t feel the same, he says, I should speak up now. Like Gladys would, God love her.

I laugh. ‘That’s Gladys for you.’

‘I’m not really thinking of Gladys right now,’ he says, pressing his knee against mine. Oh, gosh, his attention is wonderful! It makes me feel all precious and twinkly – I haven’t felt like that in years. But I don’t know how to respond. And I know I should hint that I’m not a sex-on-the-first-date girl. Suddenly, I don’t want to look at him, so I gaze at the fish tank by the entrance, where large fish in all sorts of colours spread their glamorous fins.

‘I’m embarrassing you, aren’t I?’ he says, at last. ‘Forgive me. It’s the Dom in me. I should share some more about myself. Let me tell you about my own workplace.’

He talks on and on about his big fancy office, but I’m not really listening. I’m full of delicious spices and the feel of his breath when he leans in close, and the way he talks about his clients as if they don’t matter a jot. What a lean, mean man! And oh, my gosh, how sexy! As for me, I notice how fascinated he seems by my own work situation. He wants to know story after story of shoe sales – including what sort of women buy what, and why.

Anyway, we eat dinner, exchange small talk and have coconut ice cream for dessert. Oh, my goodness! And when I insist on splitting the bill, we have a small tiff before he caves. ‘Gone are the days when a man could buy a lady a meal,’ he says, with a glare.

To which I say, ‘Instead, we have the days when a woman can pay for whatever she darn well chooses.’

He raises one eyebrow, but a smile plays over his lips. ‘You’ve caught my weakness, Deborah dear.’

‘Control,’ I say. And I have a sudden image of me sitting astride him riding up and down, while he grasps one of my shoes in his left hand and one of my breasts with his right. I’m going at it hard, with my wrists bound behind me, and he’s glaring at me, fiercely, like an angry dog and his lips are parted and wet with saliva. And I ride and ride, letting out cry after cry as he groans beneath. ‘All over your shoes,’ he moans. ‘All over your fucking shoes.’ But he comes inside me, long and hard, calling out my name.

Anyway, Kitten, I digress. Let’s fast forward to outside the restaurant, where I tell him he shouldn’t drive because he’s been drinking. ‘I’m going to drive regardless,’ he tells me, cool as butter, but he also reaches up and smoothes a curl of hair from my face. It’s begun to rain a little, but it’s more like a fine mist – like when film stars spray perfume into the air then walk through it, to make sure of an even coverage. (That’s what it says in
Cosmo
. I’m more of a ‘squirt and go’ kinda gal. These Hollywood women have more time than sense.)

So I tell Guy, ‘Fine, but I’m getting a cab.’ I hold up my hand as he tries to interrupt me. ‘I’m paying for it. No question.’

‘I wasn’t going to offer to pay. I was going to offer to stay.’

‘You’re a poet and you don’t know it,’ I say. (Terrible rhyme. Shoot me now).

‘You’re insufferable,’ he tells me, but he’s smiling a little, and his gaze softens thoughtfully as he cups the side of my jaw. ‘I’ve been trying to find a woman like you for a very long time.’

Bingo, Kitten. I beam away. ‘In that case,’ I add, ‘you won’t mind if I take a rain-check on the staying over?’ I explain that I haven’t been with a man since my husband dumped me, and Guy’s immediate response is to pull me into a hug. Totally unexpected from Mr Suave! ‘Of course I understand,’ he says, gently. ‘I’m sorry if my sex-patter makes me seem like a bastard. I can be very patient, I promise.’ And just as I get a lump in my throat, because I can’t remember how long it’s been since a man was actually sweet to me, I find he’s taking my face in his hands and kissing me on the mouth – it’s a soft-firm smoulder of a kiss that tastes of Thai ice cream. It’s been years since someone kissed me with such hunger and affection. And phew, I tell ya, I could get used to this, Kitten! I enjoy it so much that when he pulls back I must look like an idiot with my gob hanging open and my eyes all bugged. He smiles before lifting my hand and kissing it. ‘Promise you’ll take that taxi,’ he says. And, before I know it, he’s walking away.

I get a cab home, and when I arrive there’s a woman sitting on my doorstep in nothing but a loosely buttoned shirt that only just covers the tops of her thighs. She’s petite and tanned, with a black Cleopatra bob, and she’s smoking a cigarette with her slender legs crossed. At her side is a saucer – from my rambling rose set! – filled with cigarette butts. She’s clearly been out here a while. She’s a stunning girl and I’m transfixed for a while before realising the front door is ajar. I’ll bet the hallway is filling with smoke – it’ll take me a year to get that out of the curtains.

‘Hi,’ she says, on an exhale. ‘You must be Deborah.’

‘And you’re Lil,’ I say.

‘Jackpot,’ she says, turning her gaze away. And you know, I don’t like her, Kitten. She’s sullen, this one. To a girl with that kind of attitude, eye-rolls come as easy as pie.

‘We don’t smoke in this house,’ I say.

She sighs, slowly raising her gaze. ‘That’s why I’m outside.’

I ask where Janey is and she says, ‘How should I know?’ before drawing on her cigarette again and saying, ‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. We’ve fought is all.’ She watches me as she rises to her feet and shakes my hand. Her fingers are slender and cold. ‘Janey’s watching a movie.
Her
kind of movie.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll sort it out.’

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I’m sure
I
will.’

On the way in, I make a point of closing the door. And you know what, Kitten? I don’t bother to do it quietly.

In the living-room, Janey is asleep along the brown leather sofa, in the most lovely nightwear I’ve ever seen. Her tiny shorts are made of grey silk with polka dots all over them, and her matching top has spaghetti straps – one of which has slipped down her arm – and a trim of black lace. On the TV, a film plays along. There are gunshots and witty quips, but I take no notice. All I can see is this beautiful girl curled up on her side, an arm draped over the edge of the couch, loosely holding the remote control. Her skin is white as a pearl and, with her legs bent up towards her belly, her tiny shorts can’t quite contain her buttocks. Honestly, they’re so smooth and tight and curved that all I can think of is running my hands up her thigh and exploring that beautiful behind. And there’s something so miraculous about the past few days – what with Guy asking me out, and Janey moving in – that I go a little zany. Down I sit on the sofa next to her, and, leaning over the bottom half of her body, I gently stroke a loose strap back into place. She doesn’t even stir, though her breath changes a little and she makes a tiny moan.

Oh, dear God! Burning to touch more of her, I whisper, ‘Janey?’ and when I get no response I rest a hand on her waist. When this doesn’t wake her, I slide my palm round the dip of her hip, down to her perfect buttock, and I gently stroke her there, exploring the tight flesh. Oh, Kitten! I’m an abuser! I’m guilty of assault! But my pussy is burning so powerfully as I stroke and explore that I can’t seem to stop, and Janey lets out more little moans of pleasure – obviously she thinks I’m Lil. And she even whispers, ‘Oh, God, spank me,’ as she rolls onto her front – and even though it’s nothing more than a dreamy murmur, I’ve never felt so turned on in my whole darn life, especially when the flimsy shorts ride up between her bum cheeks and I can see her buttocks perfectly, rounded and ready.

Now, thank heaven you’re only a notebook, Kitten, because what I did next is dreadful. But I promised to tell you everything, so here goes. I part my knees and slip my fingers up between my thighs and rub myself through my lacy knickers as I imagine slapping Janey’s bum. Just the thought of her lying across me while I lay right into her, making her eyes brighten as she claws my skirt, crying, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ is enough to make me come in mere seconds, arching and groaning as the orgasm swallows me.

As I collapse back, stunned at myself, I hurriedly try to make myself decent, but Janey is still sleeping, thank God. So I sneak away, devastated at what I’m turning into. Tonight I said no to a man who actually wanted to bed me, and came home to assault my twenty-three-year-old tenant.

I’m turning into a pervert. And I need to take action right now.

So upstairs, in my bedroom, I tell myself, ‘Never again,’ and I vow that, tomorrow, I’ll make plans to meet Guy for dinner and this time we’ll screw one another. Then I won’t think of assaulting Janey Prince again because Guy is a man with a cock – and men with cocks are the only thing I’m into. Really, deep down, I’m a man’s kind of girl.

2.30 a.m.

I can’t sleep, Kitten. All I want is to touch my poor pussy, thinking of Janey’s buttocks. But that’s as bad as touching her again without her permission. And I’m not going to do that, I promise, Kitten. This shoe shop manager had a strange, twisted blip, but she’s committed to becoming respectable again. And so, Kitten, goodnight.

Wednesday, 7 March

Dear Kitten,

Today was – and still is – grey and rainy. And who buys shoes on a rainy day? Answer: an elderly woman who has a funeral to dress for and shakes her stick when you suggest court heels. I thought elderly people were usually polite, but since I’ve been working at Pussyfoot I’ve met all types. So, by the time lunch break came, I was relieved to meet Gladys for lunch at the Spring Onion Café. It’s our favourite place because it’s never too crowded – plus their baked potatoes are to die for. Turns out, Gladys is making the most of reverting to being a meat-eater by stuffing her face full of sausages, no less. ‘You’ll starve,’ she tells me as I dip into my baked potato. ‘You need some extra weight,’ she says, glancing at my waistline.

‘Just because I’m not a porker like you are,’ I say. And we both burst out laughing because we’re silly beyond words.

Truth is, Gladys has surpassed herself today. She’s wearing a peacock-blue shirt with a topaz pendant and her hair is up in a bun, little tendrils framing her big brown eyes. She smells of expensive scent and she’s a bright vision on a rainy day.

Anyway, she soon has me spilling the beans about my date with Guy. As I tell the story she watches me, sipping her tea, the topaz pendant around her neck gleaming away. And even when I get to the bit about kissing Guy goodbye, she only gives a little sideways smirk, because when I’m down about something, Gladys can always tell.