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I see Wendy's knickers

  Thu 21st July 2016

To the opera. Well, a recording of it anyway.

A plot so predictable -- the maverick outsider winning a song contest and thereby a girl offered as a chattel -- allows you to concentrate on the orchestration and the grain of the voice. It's an idiotic artform and I don't find it musically interesting until you get to Die Soldaten or Lulu, but there's something luxurious about being in an era where massive resources are put into making something so silly, elaborate.

The cheapest seats with an unrestricted view at Glyndebourne are £80, so £13.50 translates the discount for a vicarious night not at the opera. The theatre's bar is staffed by young people whom I would have assumed, when those in that age group were less conservative than they are now, to be stoned. I think they're just self-absorbed. In the intervals, they dreamily offered up chocolate bars and crisps. It was a pity we couldn't have started an hour earlier and had a proper "long interval" with frocks and canapés and cava. They had us in there for five hours, and nothing to eat, although given the speed I was able to key up in the darkness, the amuse-gueles might have been wasted on me.

Thursday, and the First Test against Pakistan, and Mohammed Amir's first international match since spending a couple of years by himself in a small room for match-fixing. I got sozzled in my back yard listening to it. I was supposed to be going to Manchester that evening for a talk by some Cubans who were jailed for a longer time than Amir, over something or other, but I rang the co-ordinator up half an hour before the train went with a story about being detained in Preston having to wait for my daughter. Getting out of bothersome obligations is a rarely announced benefit of parenthood.

And inevitably, we come to Wendy. I wish I could come in Wendy, on Wendy. I would like to do everything short of coming, with Wendy.

We bought two bottles of cava from Tesco, straight out of the fridge, went to a chazzer and bought two glasses for a pound, each assuming the other would bring them. We sat sun-speckled under a tree in the castle's grounds. All afternoon I could hardly keep my eyes off her dress hem. She reclined back onto her elbows and I was full of desire for her; specifically, to stroke her. "Wendy, I think your dress would look better like this," as I took her hem half way up her thighs. With the exception of what I really want to say, I talk freely with her, almost like word association. We keyed up some mdma and she had her vape thing for the kush. There was a gust of wind and her dress blew up over her knickers.

She texted me twice later that evening. "Thanks for a blissful episode -- spots of time we won't remember xxx." I was so off my head on mdma, and so enjoying the headphoned techno, and the tesselated, fractal patterns that were appearing on my bedspread when I opened my eyes, that I couldn't reply until the next day. "Oh Wendy, I was so deliciously wankered yesterday. Had a few more sparkles and was high as a kite all evening. Twas a lovely dappled afternoon. And I finally got a look at your underwear. See you as soon as possible. PS. You are so effortlessly sexy. You have little idea of what a pleasure it is simply looking at you Xx."

Trina texted me at about 10pm, annoyed that I had turned my phone off. "Is there a day in the 4 years I've known you when you haven't protected me from the truth. I doubt it. Whatever, I'm getting a bit fed up with it all, actually. You don't have to come round tomorrow. I'll just see you on Sunday for [a dance night we're going to]."

I went round in any case. She said she'd forgotten her messages, which became increasingly hostile after the one I've quoted above. We sat in her garden and got through five (oops) bottles of cava, then had sex. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But not wrong enough to stop me sexually exploiting her. The girl I want to reject me pushes herself towards me; the girl I want reminds me wordlessly fifty times in an afternoon, of the boundaries that she has set.


Five hours. Who do they think they are? What a bunch of narcissists.

As inevitably as the sunrise. She loves torturing you. Bet on it.

Five bottles is an amazing feat of debauchery. At least you’re HAVING sex. Is it still satisfying? Or is it more like scratching an itch at this point?

Fri 22nd July 2016 @ 12:05
Comment from: [Member]

I really don’t think Wendy deliberately tortures me. She hasn’t got a bad intent in her body, least of all to make someone she likes (but doesn’t love nor fancy) feel bad. It’s just the way it is. It’s just that occasionally, for me, it makes me feel sorrowful.

Sex with Trina makes me feel bad. I always feel regretful afterwards. And whilst sex isn’t a technical issue, to be honest, it’s pretty vanilla. Frances was a fucking nutter, but Jeez, she was good at it, so we tacitly recognised that. Trina accepts average sex because she doesn’t know anything better and invests a lot in what she calls the relationship that she imagines it represents.

Fri 22nd July 2016 @ 16:42
Comment from: Daisyfae [Visitor]

Opera is my very definition of hell… Have tried to appreciate it, but even being drunk doesn’t help.

Trina is jus now becoming “a bit fed up with it all"? She has quite a high threshold…

Fri 22nd July 2016 @ 18:52
Comment from: [Member]

She’ll never get fed up of it. She’s needy – maternal and paternal neglect being writ in later life.

As to the sex, I’m only her second sexual partner and she thinks I’m great. I would show her some new tricks but that’s not really worked in the past. She giggles with a mixture of embarrassment and residual Methodism.

Sat 23rd July 2016 @ 01:34
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

“Getting out of bothersome obligations is a rarely announced benefit of parenthood.” Spot on my friend, spot on.

“wrong wrong wrong, but not wrong enough to stop me” i should have that tattooed on my forearm to remind me to stop, of course i wouldn’t stop but at least i could claim i tried or thought about trying, and i do love women like Frances, the nutter’s are like great drugs, seems no matter how much you get you always want more even when you know it’s a bad idea… and even as i approach the ripe old age of 46 i find i’m still functioning like a 16yr old, most of my suburban thoughts center around all the dirty and kinky things i’d like to do to some of these suburban milfs… long live us low-lives for we shall inherit the Earth… or something like that…

Sat 23rd July 2016 @ 13:56
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

So am I kono. I’m 52 and I think about sex all the time and fancy women more than I did when I was 16. I love flirting and letting women round my age know they’re attractive and that I see them in a sexual light.

Frances was incredible. I had a night of absolutely rubbish sex with her when I was 18. Then I didn’t see her for another 35 years, before I bumped into her one day in town and took a bottle of wine round a couple of days later. Soon we were having some of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. I was 50, she was 60. She had the body of a 25-y-o and just was so good at it. She was into the reverse cowgirl and all sorts of other things. We watched porn together. I couldn’t get enough of her. I liked fucking her from behind in the kitchen when she was wearing this lovely green dress she had. Once, she said “Next time, why don’t you just walk in and take me upstairs straight away?” What a fucking invite, literally.

She was a mental case though, like many girls who are good at sex are. Very jealous and almost determined to sabotage happiness sometimes. Didn’t last more than a few months but she lives five minutes’ walk away and I would absolutely pounce on that girl if I had my way.

Sun 24th July 2016 @ 05:48

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 58 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
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