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Blow Up

  Sat 25th August 2012

"If you start messing about with my wife, I will kill you," said New Business Colleague.

Erica (last Saturday's bride) sends me a message. "What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?" "Getting pissed with you, what else would I do?" We chat for a couple of hours. Her husband of one week comes in. I like his solid handshake, his hand white with plaster. He's a rare and admirable man, totally trusting in Erica; there is love between them. Though he did leave Kirsty's bedroom in a fucking state when he did her ceiling.

New Business Colleague and his wife, my old classmate, whom I fancy a bit walk in. I do the introductions, comfortable that they'll all get on. "So when are we going to get to meet this Trina?" Erica said. "I don't think she exists." NBC went on a riff about her being a blow-up doll and did a good Welsh accent, since he knows Trina's half Welsh. "'Oh dear, have you got a puncture repair kit?'"

Erica's husband has got chattier with me since he saw me snogging Vicky at the Northern Soul do, which perhaps allayed his suspicions over why Erica and I are out so often. While the girls were chatting about something he was being pleasantly laddish about Vicky. Who is, very much, A-list, fuckable, single, Lancaster totty.

NBC's wife was a bit exasperated with him as he necked a bottle of cider. "Why are you drinking so quickly? Do you know, when you're working next week, I'm going to go out with Cl*f*ord (she always calls me by the elongated version of my actual name), and I bet he'll still be sober at the end of the afternoon." He was getting tired, a long week of perilous, technical, physical work behind him. I felt sympathetic towards him whilst looking forward to him leaving me alone with her. "When you're sober," I said, "we need to have a commercial conversation," hoping to remind him that he needs me as much as I need him. "Don't sleep on the big settee. Use the small one. Go to bed," she said, to his back.

She and I exhaled. Her cerise nails, the crease of her tits; black bra. "Do you know how much I was earning when I had my own salon?" I shake my head with a refusal to reply, as you can only disappoint in any answer. "Four thousand a week. I had a tin, full of twenty quid notes. I was minted". "Yeah, well," I say, the only people who say money doesn't matter..." "Are the rich," she enjoined, completing my sentence as I would have.

She got up to leave. The exquisite pleasure of holding her a fraction too long, of kissing her a little too sensually for friendship. Mutual, desired, never to be acted on.


Comment from: [Member]

Ummm…. Right.

(note to self: keep hands off NBC’s wife)

Sat 25th August 2012 @ 22:24

I NBC’s wife the same as NPC’s griend?

Either way, I agree with daisyfae. Don’t do it.

Stick a handful of crushed ice down your boxers and think of something else, like…oh, I don’t know, maybe decapitation followed by an acid bath?

Sat 25th August 2012 @ 22:27
Comment from: [Member]

Yes, sorry–it’s the same person. I didn’t realise till yesterday that they were married.

Yes I think we’d better steer clear DF.

Sun 26th August 2012 @ 08:54

Boy, you’d better not act on it! It’s sublime torture though, isn’t it? I know the dig of those talons.

I remember Vicky from a few posts ago. That face along with the accent would pretty much be the end of me.

Sun 26th August 2012 @ 23:02
Comment from: [Member]

The things you can’t act on are the more alluring. Everything has to be unsaid, understated, and because of this, you feel any little touch like electricity.

Vicky: all that you said, but then you see her dancing.

Sun 26th August 2012 @ 23:24
Comment from: young at heart [Visitor]

if you live by the sword…..!!

Tue 28th August 2012 @ 10:22

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The Comfort of Strangers

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