The 62 -year-old post-menopausal woman
Since 2010, my fornication life has been 3D, retro and virtual. It commits Davy Jonesof the Monkees, David Essexand David Cassidy, all as they were between 1971 and 1975. They arrive in my leader, resplendent in flares and container pinnacles, gazing out through smoky, heavily flogged eyes and whispering in deep, dark tints that can only be detected by the ear of a teenage girl.
I try to arrange my fiction planned so they don’t arrive at once. This isn’t always possible, and I am then came forward with the capabilities of a mix-and-match knowledge, or drawing them queue. We always start with a time. The cinema, a Chinese banquet or a disco. If Mum and Dad are at bingo, we stay home and indulge in a Vesta Chow Mein and Bird’s Trifle.
Although ferociously anxious, each David has learned to tolerate the pictures of the other Davids on my bedroom wall. Each is passionate, adoring, strong, sensitive and generous. Our love-making is light-colored hitherto intense, each David taking me to targets only we have shared; our particular targets. Each recalls exclusively of me, always. All hymns are written for me alone, and in every photo shoot for Jackie magazine, he is looking down the camera exactly at me.
Afterwards, we smoke a Player’s No 6( without breath ), and discuss plans for a honeymoon in Marbella. I am saving Mum’s Green Shield postages for a canteen of cutlery. I sometimes worry that I am using them, that spending all this time with me will prevent them from congregating others. The guilt proceeds promptly, spurred on by the bald-headed, snoring and whisky-sodden mass who lies next to me.
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