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Monthly Archives: August 2012

Strange stories: The Many Shades of Boss

“I’m not your secretary.”

I looked up, startled.

“I didn’t say you were my secretary, did I?”

She smiled, lips as red as a British telephone box.

“You said ‘I’ll arrange for my secretary to send it over.  I’m not your secretary. I’m your personal assistant.”

Secretary, personal assistant, whatever.

“Sorry, slip of the tongue. Won’t happen again.” Me, CEO of Barrett Enterprises, apologising to my..my PA?  Who hired this woman?

She leaned over the desk, staring straight into my eyes with those bold, dark eyes.  I don’t think she was wearing a bra.  I looked away first.

“It better not.”

She left, shutting the door.  I pulled a tissue over my forehead, then called Human Resources.

“That sec – I mean that PA you sent me.”

“Yes? How’s that working out? She’s very well qualified, isn’t she!”

“Uh…yeah, she is.  I just called to say she’s – well she’s great actually, working out just fine. Just thought I’d ring and let you know.  Good work.  As always!”

I put the phone down.  Why did I do that?  The woman was insolent.  She was brazen.  She was..well endowed.  She should dress more appropriately for the office, I thought, swallowing a glass of water in rather a hurry.  I must speak to her about that.

I found myself thinking about her constantly.  It had been a week now, a week of agony.  Every morning she walked in, hips swaying as if she owned the place, anybody would think SHE was the CEO.  Then she issued her orders.  You have a meeting at 10am.  Don’t be late.  Read the financial reports, I’ll check on that with you tomorrow.  Where’s that project up to?  Didn’t I ask you to look at that yesterday?

My balls ached like a cow’s udders at milking time.  I’d given up trying not to stare at her ass.  She didn’t even notice.  Just looked back at me over her shoulder, teasing me, daring me to say something.  My mouth went dry.  I couldn’t.  She knew it and laughed, white teeth over lips like blood, eyes like a big cat.

I had to go to the bathroom.  A lot.  People looked at each other, I suppose they thought I had prostate problems. I didn’t care.  It was my sanctuary.  Nowhere else could I escape her, my lust, my bane.  In this little tiled cell, my own executive bathroom, exclusive to me, the CEO, I was safe and alone and could seek relief.

I sat there trembling – and heard the door swing open.  Her heels on the tiles.  What did she think she was doing?

“Open up.”

“How dare you!”

I felt her hot gaze penetrate the oak door like a bullet.

“Open up.  You know you want to.”

i wasn’t myself. The person I wasn’t, stood up and opened the door.  She stood facing me.

“You look delicious in that suit.”

“thank -”

“Take it off.”

“What?”

This was going too far.  I stepped out, ready to push past her.  With one hand, she took the collar of my shirt and pulled sharply downwards. It was an Armani shirt, $500 direct from Italy.  Buttons popped.  My god she was strong!

“Are those expensive pants, too?”

She gestured, meaningfully, hand on hip.

The man who wasn’t me, let them fall.  I was afraid.  I was erect.  She saw it, and laughed, with feline cruelty and joy in total command.

“Now who’s the boss?”

She slipped her dress from her shoulders.  I was right, no bra.  Her breasts were beautiful and frightening.  I reached out to caress them.  She slapped my hand away.

“I said, who’s the boss?”

“I am.”  I said.  Because, after all, I was the CEO, and she, the secretary.  Personal assistant.  Whatever.  Nothing could change that.

“You are?”  She put her hand down, closed her fist around me, came very close, eye to eye, breast to breast. I shivered – with desire, with fear, I don’t know.

“As to that, I think you’ll find,” she purred, pushing me back against the urinal, “that there are many shades of grey.”

Sex, Politics and Hotmail: Chapter Ten: Olivia Joins Up

A Tale of Two Women and their Push Up Bras

In a country not that far away, at a time not very long ago, a nerd with time on her hands hacked into the email accounts of two well-known women. She passed the shocking results on to a friend..who passed them on to a friend…who published them on this blog.  Can you guess who these women are?

THE STORY SO FAR….(Chapters One to Nine)

Olivia’s billionaire hubby Steve’s turned out to be a root rat. Not only that, but with a podiatrist! Will she leave him?  Will she get her feet done?  And will Rose find love through her ad in the paper – or just another tattooed man with a plumbers’ crack.

oliviah@hotmail.com

I’ve done it!

purplerose@hotmail.com

What???? Left him? You ROCK!  Serves the fucker right!

oliviah@hotmail.com

No of course not, don’t be silly!

I’ve joined the local branch of the Liberal party.  Steve is very supportive actually – although I can’t help suspecting it is only because it will leave him with more free time to pursue his ‘interests’ – but Victoria complains bitterly, as she feels her family merely exist to prop up a corrupt plutocracy.  I have to admit she’s very like I was myself at that age, in that regard.   She says if I have to ‘get involved’, why can’t I join the Greens, as at least they are quite ‘cool’ (except for the local Greens candidate, Gareth Fry, who is ‘hot’).

purplerose@hotmail.com

Oh.  Whatever.  You go girl!  I bet you’ll be an asset (literally). You know what, I’ve always wondered what Liberals are really like.  Do you reckon they really believe their own crap or are they just in it for the money?

oliviah@hotmail.com

What money? You do know that most right wing politicians are already successful businessmen, they LOSE money going into politics, darling.

Oh by the way, did you get any applications from lonely rock gods? I hear Mick Jagger’s free at the moment.

 purplerose@hotmail.com

 Don’t you laugh! I’m doing alright. No sex yet but who knows, who friggin knows, right?

Nah you’re right, Mick’s busy. But – I’ve been out every night this week – course I rang mum and told her I was much too busy to call in and see her and that cheered her up no end.  She doesn’t mind if she doesn’t see me for dust as long as it’s for a good cause – like, men.

oliviah@hotmail.com

Do tell!  I hope you’re being reasonably discriminating.

purplerose@hotmail.com

Fuck that. So let’s see – on Friday arvo I went out for coffee with a nice young man from the country, all fresh-faced and like, check-shirted.  Apparently there aren’t any single girls available in Coonabarabran or Warrawarrabegun or whatever and he says all he wants is an easygoing, simple kind of chick, I mean lady, with curves.  So that’s me. I got curves! I got curves where other people have got straights.

It was one of those awkward things though. Like “I guess you get a lot of drought down your way then..”, “Yeah, that’s right.”  “So, um…how are the sheep taking it all..?”  “Could be worse.”  “Yeah? How’s that?”  (that’s me trying to look interested)  “Yeah I guess. Floods are worse.”  “Oh yeah right I guess they must be.. fuck what’s the time I must be going!”.

Dunno about you but I don’t like country people.  I don’t mind eating chickens but farmers, they kill cows with their bare hands and then they laugh at you for not knowing where your meat comes from. Screw that.

And then, oh yeah, on Friday night I went for a drink with a Wiccan.  You know, I always thought Wiccans must be all women, cause it’s all about the Great Mother Goddess, but I guess they have to have the odd bloke along, representing the devil at meetings and all that. Wouldn’t be much fun otherwise would it.  You’d have thought though the blokes would have to be feminists cause otherwise the other witches would kick them out, wouldn’t you?  But THIS guy turns up in a blue singlet and stubbies with tatts of naked mermaids on his biceps and lets drop he had to smack his ex girlfriend around a bit to keep her in line.

‘Mate, you’ve gotta be kidding.’

‘She liked it’ says Tattoo-Man. ‘So when can you and me get together? Cause there’s definitely a vacancy right now, if you know what I mean.’

Yeah right.

Then Saturday I went out for dinner with a guy who said he modelled for calendars. Turned out he was Mr July 1976 but I can’t really blame him, I was pretty hot twenty years ago hey!  We were dining al fresco and he kept watching the cars going past and pointing out his favourite ones like “Hey will you look at that, that’s a 1962 Mazda convertible, they only made 6000 of them!” and “Look at the chick driving that Hilux, bet she has hairy armpits and nipple rings.’

Pretty weird.  Like, here’s me.

“So, you divorced? Single? Widowed?”

“Ahhh, yeah.” (him) “Separated.  Me girlfriend had this thing with her uterus?”

“Yeah? What kind of thing?” (what the fuck is a uterus anyway? Sometimes wish I’d paid more attention to those diagrams in high school?)

“Well she had, you know, a cyst or something, and she had to have it taken out, and she was real sick for months – said she couldn’t have sex, cause it hurt? So what was I supposed to do!”

“I dunno.  What?”

It’s like talking to taxi drivers. You ask them to take you to the airport, next thing you’re finding out about their mother in law’s gallbladder.

“Well I said, this isn’t going to work, I’ve got needs. So get your shit together girl, I said, or I’m out of here.  We’re finished, I told her.”

“And did she? Get her shit together?”

“Nah, we split up.”

“So, having much luck with the ladies?” I kind of thought maybe not.

“Oh yeah, well I go see this lady in Tuggeranong, she’s a sex worker – but, like, she really likes what I do.  See my specialty is going DOWN?  She REALLY likes it, she wants me to stay after the hour’s up so I can, like, really make her scream? I’m the best lover she’s ever had, she says.  What do yer think about that?”

“Wow.”

Liv, if you’re ever stumped for something to say, just say wow, gets them every time. Anyway I didn’t have to say much else cause just then he saw a really eye catching BMW with diplomatic plates, and then he said he desperately needed to drop a load, and where was the nearest public dunny.  So I pointed them out and ran for it.

Do you reckon he really was a sex god and I just missed out on the ride of my life?

Btw did Steve really sign a contract? He must be seriously devoted to sign a thing like that. Men get off big time thinking they’re the boss – well he can’t be under any illusions now can he!  I never could’ve got John to obey a set of rules like that – he would have said it made him feel like a pussy and told me to fuck off.  Does Steve feel like a pussy?

oliviah@hotmail.com

Yes I believe he does feel somewhat emasculated, but I told him he was lucky it was purely psychological.  But there’s nothing like a philandering husband to make a woman feel insecure.  You know I USED not to even think about my looks – well, not much, only when we went out to company lunches or something like that and I’d put on a bit of powder and lipstick –  and I hardly even thought about ageing – only to the extent of buying a few anti-wrinkle potions and they never made any difference – but I didn’t really CARE then.

But NOW!  I keep looking at myself in the mirror and thinking, oh my god Olivia, you are NOT twenty five any more.  SHE by the way is thirty two, so my friend said – the one who told me about the clippings.  Only Chinese women don’t age as we Australians do, which makes it all worse.

By the way, do you know anything about Botox? Everyone seems to be having it nowadays.  Of course, now that you’re on the market again you’ll probably be considering something of the kind, because it’s really a war out there and we’re not spring chickens any more –   I mean, what is it LIKE being single and mature.  You never know, I might be in the same boat soon.

 purplerose@hotmail.com

I don’t know much about Botox.  Seems to be the great moral challenge of our times.  I mean, if you could click your fingers and be ten years younger and with bigger lips and a cute little nose, wouldn’t you? But when it means going to some ‘clinic’ where the women all wear white coats and really thick makeup, and you get needles stuck in your face, that’s when you really have to think about your principles isn’t it.  I wouldn’t do it just to please a man but why the fuck else would you do it?

On the other hand – yeah, I’d rather be single and twenty five! Only when I was twenty five I wasn’t nearly so good at it, being single that is.  I take rejection better nowadays.  You have to, you get really used to it.

I wouldn’t worry too much about old Steve, it’s probably all talk.  You know what they say, the last embers of a dying flame. I think they all go through a stage where they want to run off to south east Asia where the women love you long time and aren’t too fussy –  but they’re usually too lazy to organize their own plane tickets.  Also he’d miss you and Vickie heaps.  He dotes on her still doesn’t he?  And, you know, if he signed that thing, he must be pretty damn committed – really.

oliviah@hotmail.com

He signed it because he was scared I’d take Victoria and three quarters of the joint assets.  He’s pretty committed to those assets!

Strange Stories: One Angry Man

Monday he felt fine. There was bacon and eggs for breakfast, and for once the eggs weren’t fried too hard.  He finished his breakfast with a sense of well being, looked out the barred window to the sunny morning beyond, gave his pecker a pat to make sure it was still there.

And then SHE came.

Brushing back long dark hair from her cunning, pretty face, wearing a cheap, low cut top, so he could see the swell of those tiny breasts he’d run his hand over so often, to her gasps and sighs.  Long sun tanned legs.

“How is she?”

“She’s staying with nanna and pop.”

“What?”  He couldn’t believe his ears.  “You GAVE my child to those people?”

She smiled, what she no doubt thought was a placating, soothing smile.  It felt like ground glass in his coffee.

“While I came down here to see you, Neville.  She’s perfectly happy there.  They love her, you know that – and they love you too.  Your dad sends his love to you, by the way, he hopes you -”

“He hopes I’ll die.  He hopes I’ll just fade away in  here, out of sight, out of mind, he’ll be able to forget he ever had such a defective son.  I know what he hopes.  Just tell him I hate him.  I hate him as much as he’s always hated me, I hate him more than you’ll ever understand, you bitch, you idiot….”

As he talked, his face reddening with anger, he watched her eyes downcast, her arms across her body.  She didn’t fool him.  She was hiding something.  She got up to go, reaching out to touch him goodbye.  He shrank from her furiously.

Tuesday was not so good.  He was consumed with nightmares.  What would happen to the child?  His child, with those people, who had tortured him throughout his own childhood, thought he was worthless, and now had his precious, hard won daughter in their steely grip.  Oh they said they loved her, they loved everyone.  Nobody knew what they were like – but HE knew.  He was so angry he almost forgot to eat his dinner, but it was roast lamb and mint jelly, his favourite, and he had to keep his strength up.

Wednesday he remembered the knife he’d hidden under the mattress.  He’d persuaded Paul to bring it in, saying they wouldn’t even let him cut his own meat here, he was starving.  Paul was his friend.  Paul knew he wasn’t supposed to be here.  SHE had put him here.  Paul knew there was nothing wrong with him, he was just a little nervous.  Highly strung.

She would visit again on Friday.  Mouthing all those meaningless words.  You’re sick, Neville.  Your parents love you.  If only you weren’t so angry, you could see….  Have you talked to the psychologist?  What does HE say?

He felt under the mattress.  There it was.  He felt a surge of heroic power.  So must Beowulf have felt, and Cuchulain.  There comes a time when a man must stand up for what he believes.  A man must have courage.  SHE thought he was weak, defeated.  She thought they could take his child and raise it in the ways that had destroyed him.  That fat, smirking bitch his mother, with her veined legs and her innocent snow white hair, and the father, brilliant, academic, feted – and with not half the genius of the ‘mad’ son he put away for life in this…hellhole.  Though, at least he had his own tv, that was something.

On Friday, he would be smooth and unctious.  He would confess his misunderstandings, look deep into her eyes, tell her the psychologist had done wonders.  She would look back at him with those long-lashed deceiving windows, reach out to hold his hand, perhaps sigh a little in relief – and then he would strike.  No qualms, none.  Saving his only daughter from a life with such a mother, such grandparents.  Death, yes –  she thoroughly deserved it, he would feel nothing, only pride.

He felt the point of the knife. It was sharp, pricked his finger a little so the blood ran.  He went to sleep on Thursday night thinking of her screams, her body awash with red, himself standing over her like an avenging angel, then, then…

The next morning, he could not wait for her footsteps on the lino.  His heart beat faster than a baby’s, his face and body hot, then cold.  He went to the bathroom, again, and again.  His nerves seemed a mass of cut wires, jangling and fizzing.

She came.  He smiled, sane.  Her eyes widened in pleasure.  She sat on the bed beside him.  He smelled her perfume, jasmine – it reminded him of freedom.  And his daughter, the only one who would really understand the gift he was about to give her.

He felt beneath the bed.  A present, he said, for you.  Something I made in craft.  Something to make up for it all, all this trouble I’ve put you through, and them too.

It wasn’t there.  He sank back, in despair.  They must have taken it, while he was in the bathroom, voiding his bowels and guts in anticipation of the last, heroic stand against insanity.  He groaned, suddenly, and turned his face to the wall.

She exchanged glances with the nurse, waiting at the door.

“What’s wrong? Is he on different pills this morning?”

“He thinks he’s lost something,” said the nurse, kindly.  “He’s been checking under his mattress all week.  At first we thought he’d hidden something to eat under there – they often do, you know – but we checked and there was nothing.  I spoke to the psych about it, it’s just a side effect apparently.”

She’s lying, thought Neville, lying in a dark haze, hearing the hated voices as from a distance.  She took it.  If I sleep, she’ll cut me with it and say I did it to myself, it’s suicide.  I won’t sleep, though, I won’t.  That night, as he drifted off despite himself, he wondered briefly, but what if there was no knife?

Then what am I?  Just one angry man, helpless against the world.  And he slept.

Strange Stories: One Sided Conversation

Hi.  I’m Mike.

And you’re…?  Mary?  Like the virgin, ha ha.

No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be in bad taste.  Did I tell you you must be the best looking girl in this place?  No?

So what’s a nice girl like you…

You’ve heard that line before?

Oh, sorry.  So what do you do?

What do I do?

I’m rich.  Actually I can’t tell you exactly what I do because it’s secret – classified work, you know what I mean.  But I do own a Porsche.  And, yeah, I’m travelling for work.  It’s so boring being a senior manager – you get so sick of all the pressure.  People bothering you for decisions, decisions – and you work fourteen hour days, never get to see your family – not that I have a family – never get to go out and just have a good time, let your hair down…

Yeah, well, alright, I’m out now, but usually – god you’re a goodlooking woman.  Care for a drink?

Uh huh.  Cocktails make you drunk quicker, you know.  Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a beer?  No?  Right, an Orgasm thanks and – how much is that?  Uh, right.

So, um, tell me about yourself.

An intelligent woman!  I like an intelligent woman.  I like a woman who is capable of understanding me, really understanding me, having a real conversation, you know what I mean?  So..do you mind if I ask you how old you are?

You’re kidding?  I would have guessed you were twenty-five at the absolute outside!  You certainly look pretty good for your age..

Yeah.  Well, like I was saying, my work is classified, really, but I can tell you a bit about it, since you’re a friend of mine now.  We work on decoding satellite data for NATO, you’d be fascinated to hear the little things we find out…I mean those Iranians get up to things you wouldn’t believe, in a Moslem country..

A woman like you, I suppose you’ve got lots of boyfriends…

No?

Yeah, I’m divorced.  My wife is..I mean she was a bit of a ballbreaker.  Executive type.  I mean I love intelligent women but there’s got to be some softness there, don’t you think?  Femininity…

Relationships?  I love women and leave them – until now, that is.  Until I met you!  I mean, they’re always trying to pin you down, leaving their shit at your flat, wanting to buy furniture together…I never date a woman who lives nearby, she’d always be calling round to see what you’re up to…women tend to pursue me, you know what I mean?

Sure, all that’s changed now.  I’m a reformed man.  I just came to this place for a quiet drink, anyway.  I wasn’t thinking about sex, I mean women, at all – but then I saw you and I was just bowled over..

Oh yeah, I love dancing, but I get this pain in my leg….old war wound, from Vietnam, I mean Bosnia

Sure, I was in Bosnia – that was when I was a war correspondent.  People think it’s all drama and excitement and danger, but you get blasé about all that after a while, bullets and risk and saving lives and getting scoops and so on..

You know, we’ve been talking for – what’s it been – it seems like hours.  Twenty minutes – no, it has to be longer than that.  Anyway, I need to tell you,  I’ve got this feeling about you.  You’re something special.  I look into your eyes – has anyone ever said what beautiful eyes you have – and you know what, I think I’m falling in love.  I think you may be the one I’ve been waiting for all my life.

No, this is only my third drink.  I can walk a straight line any time, you watch me.

I don’t usually do this, but would you consider coming out with me?  I mean, we could go to the movies, the theatre…I’d just love to take you out to dinner, somewhere special, somewhere really expensive…

Let’s go out and take a walk.  Look at the stars.  I love nature, don’t you?  Where’d you say you parked your car?

Do you mind if I hold your hand?  No?  I love liberated women, they’re so sexy.  So…liberated!  Some women are afraid of their sexuality, don’t you find?  But you’re so lusty, so assertive…I find it devastatingly attractive…

No, let’s go in your car.  Mine’s….in the garage being fixed.  I mean, having a new cocktail cabinet fitted and an in-car tv.

You want to do what?

Uh, yeah.

You’re into…come again?

I mean, I’m really glad you’ve got a healthy sense of your own sexuality, it’s really great but…did I hear you right?

Wait a minute – oh, I think that’s my mobile buzzing – I’ve got one of those vibrating ones, the latest model…

You mean you want me over there right now – but I’m – well, ok, if it’s that urgent, I guess…

I’m so sorry, something’s just come up.  Looks like I have to go in to the office and save the nation…

Sure I”d love to see you again.  Now let’s see, what’s your phone number?  I’ll call you, alright?

Great, well it’s been lovely meeting you too…

Oh, fuck, that was a near one!  Mate, I may be open minded, but I don’t go that low…if she wants to talk about post-structuralist modern art and Jungian theories of identity – phew – she’d better get one of those..gigolos or whatever  – I’m not into that kind of kinky stuff,  man…Fuck me

The long kiss goodnight..

The kiss. The thought of it hung in the air.  He cooked boiled cauliflower, not a kissable vegetable at the best of times, and you looked at him and wondered, when will it be?

You curled on the couch next to him, eyeing him like a crocodile.  You wanted to know all about him.  What he ate. What he read.  When he slept.  How he..kissed.

A kiss is a beautiful thing, you said. You wrote it – distance your protection. A kiss is an art form.  I am the artist.  Are you marble, or clay?

It is indeed, he said.  Did he mean your kiss? Or just those anonymous kisses, offered by anonymous women, women who have no gift as you do, for the sensuous metaphor that is kissing.

You smiled at him from feet away, willing the inches to close.  You ate chocolate, he did too.  You gazed at him and licked your fingers, one by one.  They were a mess!

I always get it all over me when I eat chocolate.

Me too.

You touched his hand, turned it over.  It’s a small hand, but then, he’s a small man.  There isn’t any chocolate on his fingertips.  He was lying.

How come it melts on you and not on me?  Your hands feel cooler than mine.

And you touch his fingertips.  With your fingertips, you send a message.  Kiss me.

You like each other. You talk, you laugh, you smile.  And all the time you wonder, when..

So how’s it going, this dating? he asks, bringing his face forward, eye to eye.  You’re confused.  You blush.  You are not witty, you’re one -tracked.

Oh, well…

And you’re about to say something, something bashful and stumbling, when his lips swoop upon yours – just like a magpie diving on a bicyclist, or a seagull on a chip – and kiss you – KISS you – and then swoop away.  There, he’s done it.  You laugh, at the absurdity of it, and out of sheer joy and lust.

You try every kind of kiss that night.  The feathery sort, that sort of lands and then sort of hovers away, sucking the nectar.  The snake kiss, with flickering tongue touching and quickly pulling away to laugh and try again.  The lover’s kiss, mouth on mouth, feeling the stranger’s soul.  The urgent kiss, which clamps the pair of lovers together while their hands work on bra and belt and shirt button and back of waist and down pants and towards the bedroom or the floor.

And then – you stand back and look at your mobile.

I’ve got to go.

Do you? Do you really have to?

I really have to.

You’re fizzing with sex, you can feel it sparking down your ribcage and pooling around your thighs, you would like nothing better than to carry him off or be carried off by him, even better, and still clamped at the mouth, to weld yourself together at every other point – chest, stomach, crotch, legs.

But you have to go.  You don’t want stationery cupboard sex – and you have somewhere you must be.

You kiss each other good night.  You go home, and wait.  You’re still waiting.

Sex, Politics and Hotmail: Chapter Nine – Beware the Podiatrist

A Tale of Two Women and their Push Up Bras

In a country not that far away, at a time not very long ago, a nerd with time on her hands hacked into the email accounts of two well-known women. She passed the shocking results on to a friend..who passed them on to a friend…who published them on this blog.  Can you guess who these women are?

THE STORY SO FAR….(Chapters One to Eight)

Olivia Harris-Finke, with her adoring billionaire hubby and jetset lifestyle, is the envy of lonely recently divorced Rose.  But Olivia’s casual bragging hides a major crack in her oh-so-happy marriage.  Rose, as usual, puts both feet right into it.

BEWARE THE PODIATRIST..

purplerose@hotmail.com

Oh baby I’m sorry, I never should have said that!  Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be such a fucking cow.  You’re my bestie, you should be crying on my shoulder only you’re so damn far away I can’t hug you but honey I’d really like to.

I didn’t mean to go on all the time about you being happy.  It’s just that I thought you were happy. You never said you weren’t.  Every time I wrote you about how much John was getting up my nose you used to write back and say marriage is something you have to work at, and we just need to communicate about our feelings more and shit like that.  I thought you were a real guru!  Or at least, I thought you probably read some guru’s book or other and you were like passing it on?  Work at it, you said.  But like, fuck – you go to work to do work, then you come home, you don’t want to do more work.

So what’s the problem? Is it Steve? Tell mama Rose!

oliviah@hotmail.com

Yes of course it’s Steve.  Who else!  Oh, there’s Victoria, of course, things are not too good in that department either, I might as well NOT have been a stay-at-home mother for all the difference it’s made! In any case, that doesn’t make it any better.  Sometimes it seems like my whole life is coming apart at the seams.  Does life have seams? Anyway.

purplerose@hotmail.com

So what’s up with Steve?  He’s not looking around is he? I always thought he was pretty hot for you.  I remember the way he always used to be hanging around with his hand up your skirt or down your front.  Guess that wears off after a bit, did with us.

Go on then, spit it out. Can’t he get it up any more?

oliviah@hotmail.com

Oh no! There’s nothing wrong with Steve’s sex drive, nothing at all!

In fact last year he had an affair. With his Chinese podiatrist, which I only happened to discover because she told an acquaintance of mine that she kept his toenail clippings in a jar so she could make him fall desperately in love with her.  I hope she had to put them in a drink and swallow them, it would serve her right.

How anyone can fall in lust with a woman who earns her living by snipping corns and putting fungal powder on athletes’ feet is beyond me.  I was tempted to stand outside her office with a placard reading ‘Home Breaker Within’ – or run her over in the Mercedes – but in the end I thought that would be in bad taste.

purplerose@hotmail.com

Fuck the bitch!  Want me to come over there and glass her for you?

oliviah@hotmail.com

Certainly not.

purplerose@hotmail.com

You must be frigging furious!  What a little shit!

Apart from like, being really ratty, sounds like he had totally bad taste anyway. Do you reckon there’s such a thing as sexually transmitted verucas?  A podiatrist! WTF!

You know it’s probably just male menopause. Guys get to their forties and start going bald at the back, they think if they go stick their dicks in as many random chicks as possible, the rest of their hair won’t fall out?  It’s just a phase, it’ll pass. Come to think of it isn’t that what they say about teenagers?  God I’m really sorry if I said the wrong thing though.  The bastard.  If I was there I’d sock him for you.

oliviah@hotmail.com

Thanks Rosey. That’s so sweet of you to offer.

I really don’t know if it’s a phase.  He was certainly very sorry when I found out –  particularly after I threatened to report HER to the Australasian Society of Podiatrists for having a relationship with a patient, and I said I’d tell Victoria her father is an ADULTERER.  You should have seen the look on his face, I almost laughed, if I hadn’t wanted to defenestrate him.

I don’t think he’s done anything like that since – but then once they do it, you never really know do you? It’s like living with someone who’s on the bottle but says they’ve quit –  all you really know is that you haven’t CAUGHT them doing it or at least found the paper bag in the underwear drawer yet.  I feel – unrugged!  As in, when the rug is pulled out from under you.  He made a promise, I made a promise – turned out HE had his fingers crossed!  Men!

How can I trust him anymore?

 purplerose@hotmail.com

Well yeah I totally know how you feel.  Actually I don’t know why I said that, I don’t though. John never cheated..the bastard.

Blokes though, they’re not the same as us.  Some random chick says how about it, they’re in there, it doesn’t mean anything. Anyway you know he’s not gonna leave you.  My mum used to say men are like hermit crabs, they don’t leave one shell until they can see another empty one nearby.  I bet you that podiatrist wasn’t empty – probably had kids or a boyfriend or something.  Or a spell circle.

Bet you felt like tearing her limb from limb though. Wouldn’t it be great if she got scabies or mad cow disease or syphilis or something like that? Do people still get those?  You know I wouldn’t have given a rat’s arse if John cheated on me, but I’d be ropeable if it was someone I fancied. Like, that guy I went out with in the last year of school, the one with the Labrador eyes that used to go to St Stephen’s up the road?  When he went off with Wendy Whatmore I could have fucking eaten her alive!

 oliviah@hotmail.com

Oh yes. I cried for days, and then I put all his white business shirts in the wash with a new pair of flannelette red pyjamas I just bought for Victoria and they came out pink tie dye – and then I made him tell me all the details – what kind of underwear she likes, whether she likes to get on top, if she’s had a Brazilian or a landing strip.  It was a Brazilian.  I don’t know why, I didn’t want to know any of it but I just HAD to ask.

And then I cried some more and wouldn’t let him touch me.  And then we had angry sex!  I thought about going over to HER office and shouting at her but then what are expensive private schools for if not for preventing one from just that kind of excess?

purplerose@hotmail.com

Oh yeah angry sex.  That’s the good bit about fights isn’t it! Like, when you say, I wouldn’t fucking nail you if you were the last man on the earth, and he grabs you and pushes you over on the bed and says if I were the last man on earth I’d bloody well make you nail me, you bitch! And then he’s got a stiffie like you’ve never seen before and he’s kissing you like he wants to dive down your throat and grabbing your hair and you’re scratching his back and – oh yeah baby!

Me and John had that once, hard to believe, it was after he thought I flirted with the plumber. If he’d been able to do that regularly I might not have left after all.

oliviah@hotmail.com

Oh yes and I drew up a list of rules for the future, a sort of contract if you know what I mean, and I made him sign his name at the bottom – it went more or less like this –

  • No female medical specialists under 50 (you know he’s obsessed with self-diagnosing rare conditions and then having hundreds of tests run to see if he has them)
  • To remain in mobile contact at all times except when in meetings (verified by personal assistant).
  • To be home for dinner unless furnished with a cast iron excuse, again verified by personal assistant.
  • Text messages and receipts to be available for my scrutiny at any time (not necessarily pre-arranged).
  • If caught cheating, Steve agrees to hand over at least 80% of our joint assets.

purplerose@hotmail.com

But if you felt like that about it, why didn’t you just fuck off and leave the creep?

oliviah@hotmail.com

I could have left of course, but what would I do? Where would I go? Back to Mother? I really couldn’t stand her for more than an hour or two, besides, she’s permanently gin-soaked, these days.

Besides –I really don’t want to be back on the market at my age, it’s so dispiriting, as I’m sure you’ll find yourself soon enough.  And, I still love Steve – I think – and I suppose he still loves me. Otherwise that Chinese woman wouldn’t have needed to bother with the toenail clippings. I am not sure I believe in the male menopause.  I suspect that men just want to have one as an excuse to get away with things like women do.

But, you know, sometimes I feel so dreadfully down about the whole thing.  I mean, everybody thinks I’m so privileged, to have a rich husband like Steve and a lovely house and a beautiful daughter but it isn’t always quite what it looks!  I’m getting older, Rose!  And Steve, well he just isn’t. I mean, he is, but not in the same way! Women still look at him!  And if we did get divorced, what would I do?  It’s not like I really have any skills any more.  Victoria is almost grown up.  She’ll have eloped to Paris by the time she’s eighteen.

I’ll be all alone!

purplerose@hotmail.com

Cheer up. So will I.  You could come and paint the town red with me Liv! Plus you’d probably get most of his stash.

oliviah@hotmail.com

Trust you to look on the bright side.

Oh well, I’m sure I’m over-reacting. It’s just hormones, isn’t it.  We all get them, at our age.  I’m post-menopausal, by the way. I had the Change the year before last.  Hot flushes, mood swings – horrible!

purplerose@hotmail.com

Tell me about it. Getting older I mean.  I’m no spring chicken either, mate.  But at least you’re still married.  Trying to find a man when you’re in your forties is no joke, I can’t pick up like I used to.  Not even guys in singlets whistle at me any more, it’s a real bummer!

No, I mean, I’m sure it’s gonna be alright, Liv.  It was just a mid-life crisis, all guys get them when they’re that age, they get over it and then they see how stupid they were.  Anyway you look pretty damn good to me on facebook.  All those expensive creams must be doing you good hey.  Hang on in there, it’ll be alright, trust me. Steve’s not the leaving kind.

oliviah@hotmail.com

How would YOU know. You haven’t seen what he’s like now! He’s taken to wearing a pony tail, for Heaven’s sake.  And ripped jeans!

purplerose@hotmail.com

You’re right, what would I know. Tell you what, Liv, what you should do is go into politics, like you said.  I always thought you were fucking made to be a pollie!  Go round giving speeches to people, shaking hands and kissing babies, that sort of crap? You could do that, I know you could, and it’d take your mind off Steve and his shit.  What do you reckon?

Oh and about Steve’s idea about meeting men by walking the dog, tell him to try it himself!  I went to the park with Pooch and he zeroed in on some lawyer on his evening jog and went for his ankles.  The guy went completely mental and chased him round and round yelling “I’ll kill the ffing mongrel” and Pooch thought it was a game and kept dodging and nipping and I couldn’t catch him for ages.  And he did ask for my phone number but somehow I don’t think it was for a date and anyway I said my name was Smith and I gave that bogan’s number with the tattoos.

Go get em!

Relationship half truths..

Warning: Negativity Below. Do not read if you suffer from allergies.

Sometimes, in my darker (or let’s say more argumentative/contrary moods) I want to be NEGATIVE.  We all know those phrases that we tell ourselves and our best friends and the people we care for, while thinking, somewhere in our heart of hearts ‘Do I really MEAN that?’.  For instance:

He just doesn’t deserve you.

Actually, you ARE very irritating, and did anyone ever tell you NOT to try to make your lips look bigger by drawing them on with lipstick?

Honesty is very important in a relationship.

Sure it is. As long as you don’t have anything too awful to say.  In a relationship, you have to decide early on if you’re going to be honest, or liked.  If you ARE going to get into major lying, don’t sprinkle it with occasional truth, it’ll only spoil the flavour.  The best lie is a rich, full-bodied red.

There’s someone for everyone.

There’s a lot of people on the Earth, it’s true. But most of them don’t fancy you.  Do you really think the Universe has carefully hidden the right mate, like an Easter Egg, under a bush somewhere for you to find?

Love will find you if you’re not looking

Maybe. But not if you’re sitting at home watching tv (unless you happen to live in a novel, in which case, relax, a handsome stranger will break down outside your house any day now).

You’ll find love again.

You MIGHT.  A lot of people don’t.  Romantic love is not some kind of universal human right.

I love being single.

Then why are you dating? Loving being single is about as genuine as liking dinner without dessert. Ok, sometimes we do, but come on, does anyone really WANT to live and die without sex?

You’re beautiful just the way you are.

Define beautiful. You’re just the way you are, beautiful or not.

Things happen for a reason.

Yes they do. They happen because the things before them happened. Life is not organised FOR you, to teach YOU lessons.  It just is.

Are YOU negative sometimes? Can you add to this list? Or am I just being horrible?

xoxo Rose