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 head, resplendent in flares and container tops, gazing out through smoky, heavily flogged gazes and whispering in deep, dark tones 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 experience, or realizing them queue. We always start with a date. The cinema, a Chinese dinner 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 intensely jealous, each David has learned to tolerate the pictures of the other Davids on my bedroom wall. Each is passionate, adoring, powerful, sensitive and generous. Our love-making is light-footed yet intense, each David taking me to regions only we have shared; our special regions. Each speculates only of me, always. All lyrics are written for me alone, and in every photo shoot for Jackie periodical, he is looking down the camera exactly at me.
Afterwards, we smoke a Player’s No 6( without inhaling ), and discuss plans for a honeymoon in Marbella. I am saving Mum’s Green Shield emboss for a canteen of cutlery. I sometimes worry that I am using them, that spending all this time with me will prevent them from converging others. The guilt moves promptly, stimulus on by the bald-pated, snoring and whisky-sodden mass who lies next to me.
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