In which The Author explores a parallel universe
Yes, once again I’m going to delve into the weird and wacky world of Doctor Who. Not your thing? Piss off now. I’ve been writing this blog for four years or so. There are plenty of opportunities for you to catch up. Go to the bottom of the page and (as Dylan Thomas had it) begin at the beginning.
The Black Lion in Aberdare was still open, and still worth going to. Wednesday night was karaoke night. A gang of us used to make it our regular midweek rendezvous. Denise was in charge of the set-up. After a few weeks, she and I developed a bad rendition of ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ as an opener. After that (in theory) anything was better.
Anyway, one Wednesday night I was there with yet another female friend of mine (Christina), a fine singer. My mate Steve was doing his usual Eminem white-rapper bit, so I called them together by the bar. They’d never met before, never mind rehearsed – but Denise lined up ‘Stan’ and they creamed it.
At some point during the evening, two young girls came in. Both were small, punky looking, a bit mental, and I fancied them both. One was called Gema. The other was Helen R. At first glance they could have passed for sisters. I knew Gema by sight, because she was going out with a friend of mine. I don’t think I’d met Helen before. Both of them were wearing dog collars (as regular readers will know, the Holy Grail of totty for me.) After several pints, I caught Gema’s arm and said, ‘Get your lead, you’ve pulled.’
After a lot more drink in Judges, we decided we weren’t drunk enough. Gema, Helen and I went round to Kerry’s parents house. Kerry sold us most of a bottle of Smirnoff (which she’d been hiding from her parents) and we went back to my house. Helen was intrigued by my bondage gear; Gema just wanted to go to bed. At some point, Helen left and walked home. I woke up the following morning with Gema beside me.
I still love Gema. She’s lovely and bright and creative. She’s also seeing an old friend of mine. We meet up every so often and have a laugh.
Helen has recently split up with her boyfriend of four years. She’s bringing up two lads from her first non-marriage. I’ve got to know the boys very recently. They were too young to remember when I used to call to Helen’s place every so often. I’ve become an honorary uncle (again) to them. It’s cool.
Helen is kinky. There’s nothing more to be said. I told her ex-boyfriend years ago that she was into it. He asked me how I knew. I told him that she’d told me. She’d seen my magazines and been switched on by the idea. When I built the pillory upstairs, Helen was the first woman to try it out. It wasn’t stable enough. She’s only five foot and a fart, but she was still able to move around in it.
We had a drink this week. I reminded her of that afternoon. She got a bit embarrassed. I told her, next time I’ll secure her ankles as well, so she won’t be going anywhere. She told me she thought I was about 33 years old. Yes – four years older than her. As if. For some strange reason, she talked about being pinioned with bamboo canes, with her arms stretched out. I told her I’d take care if it. She gave me an odd sideways smile before going to the loo.
Helen’s gone to some dance party tonight. She’s borrowed my red leather gloves and a red leather collar. I know she’ll take care of them. But she’s probably entwined with some guy she’s never seen before, and never will again.
Beyonce has a song called ‘Put a Ring on It’. Helen is pierced in several places. I’m not. We’re both tattooed, but I’ve always cried off from the needle. When I was potching in the house last weekend, I found a brass ring (approx 32 mm diameter) from an old light fitting. I slipped it over my penis as an experiment. I’m fed up of waking up in the morning with an erection and nowhere for it to go. I thought, maybe I can (through aversion therapy) get rid of the morning glory altogether.
When Helen and I were out, I knew that the ring was a bad idea. She’s beautiful and intelligent and sexy, and our kinky talk turned us both on. But my John Thomas wasn’t able to rise to the occasion. Deliberately. I’ve a feeling that Helen would like the whole scenario. But then, I’ve promised to tie her up, shibari-style, with bamboo canes and yards of hemp.
We both know that our flirtations are nothing more than flirtations. I’m forty-five and single. Helen’s twenty-nine, with two young sons.
And yet, ten and a bit years ago, on karaoke night in the Black Lion, if I’d turned left instead of right at the bar, who’s to say what might have happened?