Behind the mask

When one is stepping out with a new squeeze, there are always things one would prefer them not to see…for at least the first few dates.

I am not proud of my verruca that won’t go away, or that I have to use haemorrhoid cream from time to time, but I know there are far, far worse things lurking in other people’s bathroom cupboards, pant drawers, spare rooms and secret vaults.

Imagine wandering up to the bathroom on your first visit to your new chap’s house, accidentally opening the wrong door, leading you into the spare room and his vast china doll collection. And I don’t mean two or three rosy-cheeked Victorian girl dolls, standing on a shelf, but a room brimming with the things, their eyes staring out at you from every nook and cranny.

Or that spare room with the jammed door could reveal a wall of photos of you, taken from months ago in every bit of your daily life, long before you met him. It may include souvenirs like your old knickers or items from your dustbin…

In the bathroom you may open the cupboard in an innocent search for toothpaste, but instead cause an avalanche of incontinence pads, hair restorer, denture fixing gel or a penis pump…

But even his bedroom may not be completely safe. You would have hoped it had been vacuumed, tidied, freshly laundered and generally spruced up, but ‘nasties’ could still be lurking. You could bend over to unbuckle a shoe and brush your hand against a crusty pair of old boxers, or on checking the view from the window, stumble upon a forgotten cup of stale tea complete with floating mould. If he has been even more careless in the cleaning department, you may step on solidified tissues, or even uncover another woman’s lacy smalls under the bed.

“But what about you women?” I hear a few male voices call out. “You aren’t perfect or that clean yourselves!” Yes, fellas, I admit we are not guilt-free.

Some of us may be hiding a little more than a pair of breasts in our bras – those chicken fillet inserts come in handy, but would we want them jumping out in a moment of passion? Control pants have been very good to me on a number of occasions, but I am very aware that they look a lot like old lady ‘belly warmers’ when seen in isolation. And on a particularly ‘fat’ day, my tum may pop out like an airbag on their removal.

False eyelashes are also quite popular right now, but not something you want to start peeling off mid-snog.  What if they head south and end up as a makeshift Charlie Chaplin moustache? Which brings us to hair: Us ladies all want luscious, thick locks, but some of us need a little extra help, be it hair extensions, extra pieces or furious ‘Hell for leather’ backcombing (my usual choice). So imagine your beau’s horror, when he’s running his fingers through your hair, and pulls his hand away to find something resembling a gerbil attached to it.

So, none of us are the perfect, flawless creatures we would like a new dance partner to think we are. So we should be either extra thorough in our preparations/deception or just ourselves, minus the smoke and mirrors.

Now you tell me!

Now you tell me, after five years of waiting and hoping, five years which made me question everything. Five years of hurt, self-doubt, endless tears and heart ache.

I gave you my body, my heart, my soul. I sacrificed time with friends, time with my kids, time for me. I looked deep into your eyes for even a speck of the love I craved, but it never came.

For years I waited, hoped, wished, but it never came. “Forget him, move on, find someone who really cares,” inner and outer voices told me. But no, I carried on hoping; feeling that nothing, no one, could match up to you and the feelings you ignited in me.

You were my world and every decision I made – what I said, wrote, planned, dreamed – was for you or because of you. I was utterly, hopelessly under your spell.

Yet still, you were indifferent. You left it to me to contact you, you never even told me you liked me, or held my hand in the street, never called me your lover or girlfriend. Everything we did was down to me. Weeks, even months, could have passed before you contacted me.

And now the spell is broken. I am bled dry of love for you.

All these years of digging for the treasure of your heart have exhausted me, left the soil dry, empty, spent. I have finally accepted that the inner and outer voices were right. Only now I ask myself why I defied them for so long, for years of my life which I will never get back; years of my life when I could have been happy with someone else.

I am finally moving on, planning a brighter future, without the second-guessing, endless waiting and pain you caused. There is someone else who cares for me, who wants me, whose heart is open. It is early yet, so the buds are only just starting to form, but I can finally smile with true hope.

YET NOW YOU TELL ME YOU LOVE ME. After all this time, all this hurt, now you tell me. It is too late. You bled me dry, used all I had for you. You say love is an infinite resource. Not so when you rip out someone’s heart and stamp on it. You cannot fix it, but someone else may have a chance to help me grow a new one. I cannot and will not go back.

I wish you well, but please do not tell me you love me.


How soon is now?

How long can I wait? How long should I wait? How long is it right to wait.

You say it can happen when I think it is right to happen, but I no longer know what is or isn’t right. Part of me wants to hand this decision to you; part of me wants it to happen now.

I want you to kiss me hard, to catch your teeth on my lip, to propel your tongue inside my mouth. At the same time I will stand on my tip toes to be nearer to your height and your hands will grab and squeeze my buttocks.

Then you will run your fingertips up my back, flick open the fastening of my bra and tear off my dress. You can push me back onto the bed, dive into my chest and nibble, suck and caress my breasts while I writhe under you, feeling the hardness waiting inside your jeans.

Your fingers will find my damp cavern below and fiddle me into a foaming frenzy. Under my breath I will whisper: “I want you, I want you now.”

I will fumble with your belt and zipper until I capture your throbbing beast, to explore his length and make you sigh in ecstasy. And sigh again, you will, as I crawl down the bed to tour his shaft with my tongue and take as much as I can inside my mouth.

I will do this for as long as it takes for you to writhe and pulsate, before cat-like, I will slowly crawl up your body, brushing my mound along your legs, lingering over your beast.

I will brush against it a little longer as I kiss you hungrily, then slowly, slowly I will lower myself over it, guiding it into my cave.

We will fuck fast and hard, first me pinning you down to enjoy your sighs and ‘Oh Gods’. Then you will sit up, firmly push me onto my back and take me hard and deep, my legs pointing at 90 degrees, my feet near your shoulders.

You flip me over and take me from behind, hard, fast as the bed creaks and bangs against the wall. “Go, go, go!” I will exclaim, as you start to tremble. Then it happens; you spasm, pull out and your seed spurts over my breasts.

Sated, we will collapse together in a sticky heap, exchanging numerous kisses, feeling closer than ever.

So, my original question – how long can I wait?