Short Stories for Adults: Sex, Lies and Tit Tape (Part 1)
You sit at the bar like a reluctant lamb chop in a butcher’s window, not caring if anyone will buy you, but hoping the day never comes when they don’t.
“You do still look good, Marsh. But you probably should think about finding Mr Right.” As I sat, like a reluctant lamb chop, those words (spoken by my delightful mother) came to me. As age groups go, I’m in a sort of no man’s land. At forty, I’m not young but I’m not old either. And, hilariously, I have no man in this no man’s land and so, according to many, I cannot be a complete human. I better hurry and find one before I turn into a lonely hag: “Tick tock, Marsh, tick tock”.
Can I just pop in here? Thanks. Because I’m incredibly generous, free subscribers now get to read Sex, Lies and Tit Tape (Part 1) for nuffin’, gratis, nada, FOR FREE. Obviously, I want you to feel so invested, that you simply must switch to a premium sub to find out what happens next. A girl can dream, can’t she?
As you were…
One of the few things I have going for me, as an aged female, is financial independence. In that respect, I don’t need a husband. But no husband/partner also means no kids, and for Mother, that’s unforgivable.
I’ve never had a burning desire to create life. I wasn’t against the idea, it just didn’t happen. And it was unlikely to happen now. With the marching of time, I do feel my currency isn’t what it was. As my ovaries dry up so too does my fuckability.
It was a busy Friday night in the bar/butcher’s window I found myself in. Entitled professionals were pushing through, trying to get drinks or find a table. It had been a long day and I wanted booze. I arrived before the rush and managed to claim a relatively quiet spot at the end of the bar. A well-groomed man, around thirty-something, stood next to me and ordered a drink, “Can I get a vodka and tonic?” I continued to face forwards and watch him in the mirror. He saw me looking and we briefly held eye contact. He reached for his drink and in the process, nudged my arm, “Shit, I’m sorry, did I get you wet?” I raised an eyebrow but resisted the urge to say something rude, “No, I’m good thanks.” He began to walk away when he stopped and considered me for a moment.
“I recognise you.”
Here we go, “I have that kind of face.”
“I’m actually being serious. Don’t you work for Jobey and Rigg?” I did. “I could swear I’ve seen you there, you’re finance, right?”
“On both counts you are correct.” Now I had engaged him in conversation, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Do you often drink alone?”
“Only if I work late—or I’m picking up guys.”
“Which one is it tonight?”
“Neither. I’m just having a quiet drink tonight.” He took that to mean I wanted him to fuck off.
“Understood. I guess you don’t fancy having another drink then?”
“I still have one, thank you. But you’re welcome to watch me drink it.”
“I’d like that,” he sipped his vodka, “I imagine your success rate is pretty high.” I had no idea what he was talking about and he noticed. “Picking up guys.”
Ah, he’s so smooth, “Not particularly.” His low-key confidence was effortless.
“What’s your name?”
“Marsha.” He cupped his hand to his ear, I repeated, “Marsha.”
“That’s nice—different.”
“My dad had a thing for Marsha Hunt.” Not a flicker of recognition could be seen on his face. “She was an actress in the 70s.” Still nothing.
“My name’s James, in case you were wondering.” I wasn’t.
“Well, James, that old clock on the wall tells me it’s time to go home.”
“Really? That’s bullshit. I need to work on my small talk.”
“Not at all, I’m used to men in bars being pretty monosyllabic.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I looked at him and wondered if fucking him might be a good idea. “So I really can’t interest you in going somewhere else? Somewhere where we can actually talk and hear properly?”
I thought for the slightest moment, “Sure.”
“Do you know anywhere that fits the bill?”
I finished my drink, “What about your place?”
His flat was swanky—he probably called it an apartment. He poured me a Pino as I stood near his beautiful (no doubt uncomfortable) sofa—which he probably called a couch. “That’s quite a view,” I walked towards the huge window. It was quite a view, god only knows what this place was costing.
I could feel him move behind me, “You’re quite a view.” Fucking hell, mate, really?! His hands fell to my waist as he kissed my neck. I continued to drink. He turned my whole body around causing the wine to spill, “You’re a bit of a klutz, James.”
“I am tonight. What can I say, you make me nervous,” he gestured to the glass, “Shall I take that for you?”
“Not until I’ve finished it,” I sunk the rest and handed it over. I pulled off my dress and moved on to his shirt, which I nearly ripped off because the buttonholes were so fiddly. The belt on his trousers was also problematic, out of irritation I pulled the fucker hard which made him jolt forward.
“Blimey, who’s a klutz now? You’ve made quite a hash of the shirt so can we take more care with the trousers?” I didn’t respond, I continued instead to roughly undo his fly. I left him to remove his shorts (for which he was grateful) and I took off my underwear. The sofa would be less than ideal but before I could suggest his bedroom he started kissing me again, pushing me against the wall near the window. Pinning me back with his mouth, his hands on my body, a palm reaching between my legs.
“We need to get you on your back,” he made it sound like I required urgent medical attention.
“I’d prefer you on your back.”
“We can do both, Marsh,” he hadn’t called me that, it was unexpected—and weird. “It’s not a race, love.” Love?! Pet names aside, I didn’t want him to stop doing what he was doing with his fingers. He pressed his cheek against mine, “You would tell me if you didn’t like this, wouldn’t you?” He looked smug because he knew only too well that I liked what he was doing. His hand moved away for a moment before he unceremoniously transported me—like a sack of King Edward’s, to his bed. “You don’t mind if I throw you around a bit do you?”
“You’re supposed to ask before you throw me around.” He walked off, sniggering to the bathroom and came back with a familiar square packet. He sat astride me as he slid on a condom. I was pressed against the bed, his body weight bearing on me. I could feel his erection on my thigh, why was he taking so long?
I fumbled for his cock, “Do you have to be somewhere?”
“Just get it—” and before I could finish the words, he had. He was getting it in until there was no more to get in. “Fuck!”
“I’m doing my best, Marsha.” My head edged up towards the headboard.
“Please don’t break my neck.”
“Shit, sorry,” he pulled me further down the bed, “Better?”
“I’ve had better.”
He was laughing, “I’ve never fucked anyone so bloody rude!”
“Snap.”