The 62 -year-old post-menopausal woman
Since 2010, my sex life has been 3D, retro and virtual. It involves Davy Jonesof the Monkees, David Essexand David Cassidy, all as the issue is between 1971 and 1975. They arrive in my honcho, resplendent in flares and cistern tops, gazing out through smoky, heavily flogged sees and whispering in late, dark colors that can only be detected by the ear of a teenage girl.
I try to arrange my imagination schedule so they don’t arrive at once. This isn’t always possible, and I am then presented with the option of a mix-and-match suffer, or forming them queue. We always start with a time. The cinema, a Chinese meal 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 furiously anxious, each David has learned to tolerate the pictures of the other Davids on my bedroom wall. Each is enthusiastic, adoring, powerful, sensitive and generous. Our love-making is light-footed yet intense, each David taking me to plazas merely we have shared; our special regions. Each believes merely of me, always. All ballads are written for me alone, and in every photo shoot for Jackie publication, he is looking down the camera only 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 emboss for a canteen of cutlery. I sometimes were concerned that I am have them, that spending all this time with me will prevent them from gather others. The guilt transfers quickly, stimulation on by the bald-pated, snoring and whisky-sodden mass who lies next to me.
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