Que la bête meure

It's Saturday, and our Market Square is sociable. I meet my attractive gay telecoms engineer friend and we talk for a bit about him spending a hundred quid yesterday on the lash. But then my pupils widen with sex at the sight of Denise with her tallness, her long ginger hair, her red lipstick, her tight skirt. "You must excuse me Brian, I've just noticed a good friend of mine who I don't see often and I'd like to have a chat with her, especially as she's not with her boyfriend."

She's with her mother. I go up to her and pinch her bum. She looks round, shocked. It's a delight to so simply fancy someone. "I'm sorry about such a direct approach. I'll try something a bit more subtle in future. Although you do have an irresistibly sexy arse." Mum takes it all well and tells us about the damaged nerves in her fingers arising from a career in hairdressing. Her daughter and I are meeting up in the pub tomorrow.

Saturday night, and it's the Northern Soul night at the B--- Hotel. Erica's there, off her tits, with an attractive woman I can't place. Long pale blue dress, beautiful dark eyes. "Wow, you look nice" my involuntary first words. I'm struggling to remember her. "Yeah, it's Vicky, remember? We were at a party at Erica's and you said I came across as needy and prone to depression."

I'm shocked with a belated awareness of the offence I must have caused her, quickly followed by a sense of having ruined my chances for flirting with her that was stronger than any regret about what I'd said. "Oh... yes. Sorry about that." She replies surprisingly. "Haven't seen you for ages," and pulls me into an embrace.

Later, because it's packed, she indicates her lap as a place to sit. I stroke my arms around her back and across her shoulders, along her waist. When we dance together, I like the feeling of jealousy it creates in the men.

We sit down again in the same arrangement. My hands across her shoulders again. She tilts her head towards me, testing my kissing, which I try to make as slow and hesitant as I can manage. It's lovely, feeling the mutual newness of kissing.

Erica, e'd up, wants a bit more action, so we walk to another place where it's a bit more techno-y. My arm around Vicky's waist. "You're very affectionate," she says, not saying no.

A younger crowd, less convivial, and that flavour of bonhomie that I can read as indicating that no-one's on drugs. Erica invites me to hers, but I'm fairly sober and not on e and I want to go home. Vicky's wandered off somewhere and I don't say goodbye.

It was Frances's 58th birthday yesterday and I write a card for her and hand deliver it, remembering with longing, whilst bracketing out the overtalking that came afterwards, the night she invited me round to see a Chabrol film, fed me on delicious food, then fucked me, keeping on her gorgeous cotton thigh-length green dress with the pretty tie just above her tits; my cock stiff even before she came into the bedroom.

"I'm not sure if you'll like this idea," I wrote in the card, "but I'd be happy to practice my culinary skills on you at some point again," hoping to imply something else. Sealing the envelope and thinking of the mismatch. I can't be the boyfriend she wants, but I can't help fancying her.