Lucy's Bedroom

Trapped Down A Well

Imagine me trapped at the bottom of a deep, dark well (naked, naturally) because that's what it feels like with no internet connection.  This is due to (oh, I don't bloody know) and I now realise I will never do anything as difficult in life as try to speak to my broadband provider (because they're trapped down another well).

I'm about to disappear into operation land anyway so I've braved the gloom of the internet cafe to sign off formally for a few weeks.  When I'm back: gruesome details of my operation; more than you ever needed to know about landlord & tenant law in England & Wales; how D came to be living with Andy the Gay Policeman; and some more rubbish about cats and bicycles.

I'll just leave you with a fleeting glimpse of me turning a corner yesterday as a gust of wind billowed my skirt waist high, just at the moment a van load of builders, two nuns and a crocodile of small children went by.

 

Dashingly Villainous

As you may have observed from the previous post, D is starting to feel a bit better, even though he’s still signed off work for the rest of the week. He hasn’t been eating properly and is looking a bit skinny, but he’s doing his best to remedy this, padding round the kitchen with a bottle of strawberry milk in one hand and what looks like a bacon, cheese and sauerkraut sandwich in the other. In just under 3 weeks he has become impressively bearded, which I’m pretending not to like but secretly think makes him look dashingly villainous.

I’m led to believe there may be other benefits accruing to ladies with bearded suitors; especially those of us who defoliate our lady gardens. However I can’t yet comment on this as, for as long as I pretend not to like his beard, D is pretending to be too weak for foreplay.

He was not, though, too weak to attend to my moral correction, following my escapade last Friday. I’m currently sporting six livid stripes on my bum, which seeing as I have to spend all day tomorrow sitting on a hard chair doing six hours of exams, is particularly mean of him.

Meanwhile, ‘friend wars’ has broken out. My friends Jim and Itsuko have been dating for around three months now. They were always a deeply unlikely couple but everything seemed to be going well until today when Itsuko rang up in tears. Apparently it’s all over as a result of something he’s tried to make her do which she’s too shy to talk about. Well this won’t do. I immediately ring Jim.

“I’m bursting to know what it was you tried to make her do! Oh, and I’m very sorry to hear you’ve split up as well. Now what was it?”

“I’m not telling you; you’ll put it in your blog.”

“Was it terribly disgusting?”

“No. You’d have done it like a shot.”

“The list of things I’d do like a shot is pretty long…”

“It wasn’t terribly disgusting; it was just yet another indication that we’re not very well suited. If it hadn’t been this it would have been something else.”

“Are you going to drown your sorrows in random, meaningless sex?”

“I always do; which was partly the problem.”

There’s a long Jewish tradition of matchmakers. Whatever the opposite of this is, that’s what I am. I’ve been appointed by both parties to effect the return of personal possessions, door keys and some photographs that I am under strict orders not to look at.

New Phone

I have a new phone (my old one having plummeted down a stairwell during some ill-advised horseplay) and for the first time I’ve succumbed to a Bluetooth earpiece, because it was free and because I was feeling left out being the only person in London not to charge around the streets gabbling to thin air like a loon.

I’m not very good at getting free things. I have girlfriends who will blatantly undo an extra button, choose the youngest, most vulnerable-looking sales man, stare gimlet-eyed at him and go, “So what can I have free?” I’m too shy to do this. I think the kindly, middle-aged man who served me gave me free things just to get me to leave before I broke or knocked over anything else in his shop.

Full of the joys of a free thing, I wore it to Top Shop so I could phone D and say, “Hello, I’m in Top Shop!” I expect it’s just because he’s still feeling under the weather that he didn’t join in enthusiastically with the conversation about dresses. In fact I was going to give it up as a bad job (and start jabbering about sun glasses instead) when he suddenly said, “What dress are you looking at now? Describe it.”

“Um, it’s a backless, coral coloured sun dress with shoulder straps and three layers of flounce on the skirt. Why?”

“I want to be able to picture it. Go and try it on.”

The changing rooms were filled with American teenage girls, squealing and trying on armfuls of clothes; filming each other as they paraded up and down in an impromptu fashion show. I squeezed past them and pulled the curtain shut. “I’m in the changing room” I whispered.

“Strip off every stitch and put the dress on.”

I struggled out of my layers of t shirts and jumpers, hopping as I wrenched off my socks, pulling my jeans inside out as I kicked them off, dragging my knickers with them. Then I wriggled into the dress, adjusting its straps and fluffing out its flounces.

“Are you looking at yourself in the mirror?”

“Yes.”

“Lift up your skirt and look at your cunt. Describe it to me.”

I giggled. “I can’t, someone will hear.”

“Do as you’re told, you slut.”

I looked over my shoulder at the curtain, then leaned a little closer to the mirror and whispered, “It’s smooth and secret, its folds hidden away until I slide my fingers between them and spread it open. Then it’s rosy pink inside, swollen and damp, and when I draw my fingers back the hood of my clit is tugged up and the tip of my clit is red and shiny underneath.”

“Hold it open and stick your finger up it.”

I put one foot on the stool, spreading my thighs, and leaned my forehead against the mirror as I looked down and watched my finger disappear between the folds of my cunt.

“Is it in?”

“Yes.”

“Frig your cunt, finger fuck it until it’s dripping. I want everyone in the dressing room to hear your cunt slurping it up.”

I glanced up and looked with surprise at my flushed face, as though I’d never seen myself before, this girl wanking in a dressing room while her boyfriend told her that he was going to call security and tell them that I was trying to steal the dress. They’d send two burly security guards who’d strip it off me and drag me, naked and screaming, across the crowded shop floor and through a door into the stockroom where they’d bend me over a packing case and search me in the most humiliating fashion possible, using torches and truncheons to examine my cunt and arsehole. They’d offer to let me go without calling the police if I sucked their cocks and when I agreed they’d take it in turns, one of them with his hand splayed across my cheek, shoving my face down against the packing case while he brutally fucked my throat, ignoring my tears and laughing when I coughed up thick strings of saliva. Meanwhile the other would spit on my arsehole and force his cock into my tight hole with a series of sharp thrusts, smacking his hand hard across my buttocks each time I screamed, digging his fingertips into my hips as he buggered me, changing ends and grabbing hold of my hair, forcing me to suck his cock clean, slapping my face when I tried to squirm away, while the other plunged his cock into my still-gaping arsehole and flooded my bowels with hot spurts of spunk until it dripped out and trickled down my thighs. Then, when they’d tired of me…

“Please!” I said, too loudly, then quieter, “Please…”

“Do you want to cum, Lucy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to let you. Change out of the dress and go to the counter and buy it. Don’t suck your fingers!”

I froze, looking guiltily at my reflection, mouth open, fingers raised to my lips. With sticky fingers I carefully unpeeled the dress and put it back on its hanger.

Standing in line at the till, I could hear D still in my ear, like wormwood, whispering, “They all know. They can smell the cunt on your fingers. When you’ve gone they’re going to talk in shocked whispers about the whore who bought the dress that reeked of cunt.”

I was so flustered by the time I got to the front of the queue I almost threw my credit card at the poor woman and when she asked me if I wanted to keep the hanger I just stared at her and said, “I don’t know”.

Outside on Oxford Street I took my earpiece off and stood, dizzy in the crowd, listening to my heart thud, feeling the blood pulse heavily in my veins and in my clit and sucking my fingers, absently.

Azerbaijan

I have to admit a slight disappointment that Iceland didn’t win Eurovision. It’s all very well to see what oil-rich Russia can do with (apparently) 30% of the world’s LED screens, but how much more charming to see what bankrupt Iceland could do next year with a disused fish-packing warehouse and some crepe paper streamers. Andy the Gay Policeman was dismayed that Europe voted overwhelmingly for the elfin-faced Norwegian boy. “That’s so gay!”

We made up our own dances to the songs and, after a near miss early in the evening with some avocado, I took my spangly jacket off because it was expensive. D mooched by on his way to the kitchen and stopped for a moment to watch me standing and bouncing topless on the sofa while Andy vogued to the Azerbaijani song (and by the way, since when was Azerbaijan in Europe?) before shuffling wordlessly off.

I’ve had my first exam today and that seemed to go OK. I’m one of those horribly smug people who takes exams in her stride because I learned long ago that they’re nothing to do with being clever, just to do with a few simple revision tricks. Plus I took my knitted rabbit with me in my rucksack and that made all the difference. Four more to go.

Once upon a time, the British could win international song competitions with stuff like this.  Meanwhile, in a parallel universe at exactly the same moment, John Lydon was getting into a fight with the audience in the 100 Club.

 

Apology

D got out of bed today. He’s still far from well but we drove up to Hampstead Heath and he sat on a bench in the Hill Garden in the watery sunshine while I climbed up onto the pergola and waved down at him. He’d had enough after a few minutes. His first cigarette in days set him off coughing and then his ribs hurt and his scabby shingles started to weep. Poor mite, he’s falling apart. We went home and I soaped his back in the bath and dabbed calamine lotion on the shingles that haven’t blistered yet and are still irritating him.

I feel very sad about my adventure the other night. We’d been doing so well with the whole monogamy thing all this year and now I’ve spoiled it for a fumbled, unsatisfactory fuck. And while D’s sick in bed. I’m a horrible, horrible person. So I did something I’ve never done before; I apologised to him.

Oh, I’ve apologised for things before now. I apologised the time I climbed up a ladder he was holding to get a box of books out of the loft and the bottom of the box gave way and all the books landed on his head. I apologised the time I reversed over his foot (though I still think that was partly his own fault). And I’ve apologised on countless occasions while naked and under threat of another six strokes unless I confess my shame at my wicked wantonness (not that there’s any point to this as I always seem to get the whipping anyway).

No, I mean a proper apology. I’m sorry that I let you down.

D put his arm round me as we lay on the bed in our bathrobes and said, “It’s OK really, you know. I think you upset yourself more than you ever upset me.”

But I’m not sure this is true anymore.

Anyway, to employ a jarring shift of tone worthy of any nightly news programme (“Thousands of Tamils trapped in bloodbath as Sri Lankan forces advance. But first, some kittens who’ve found a new mum in the shape of Mildred the hen.”) I’m all set for Eurovision tonight. I see Moscow riot police have violently broken up a gay rights demonstration already. Moscow’s mayor has branded gay parades as “satanic” and called gays and lesbians “weapons of mass destruction”. If you can’t be gay at the Eurovision Song Contest then for heaven’s sake where can you be?

Andy the Gay Policeman is coming round to keep me company through the many hours of Euro pop so I don’t imagine this news will put him in a good humour. I’m hoping he’ll be distracted by the fact that Albania’s act apparently includes a large green dancing man and two small white-faced mimes who spin on their heads. Meanwhile, the Germans are fielding Dita Von Teese, presumably in the capacity of getting her kit off rather than singing.

Because it’s not Eurovision unless you dress up (and Dita would agree with me), I’ve assembled an outfit consisting of black velvet hotpants, black and pink hooped stockings, black laced ankle boots, a silver sequined jacket and a pink feather boa. I’ve been singing along to the hits of Abba (harder than it seems; those girls had a two-octave range) and preparing suitably retro food. We’ve got cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks, stuck into half a grapefruit, pigs in blankets, prawn cocktail, avocado vinaigrette and sandwiches cut into star and heart shapes with a biscuit cutter. I’m going to make sangria and I’m toying with whether I can be bothered to make lemon meringue pie, which is a complete pain to make but D likes it.

Does that sound like a fair exchange? “I might be morally depraved enough to screw around while you’re on your sickbed but look, I’ve made you this lovely pudding!” No, you’re right, that doesn’t work.

A Stray Fuck

You left me yesterday, trying to find a skirt that covers my knees. In the end (and in honour of the late-fifties-ness of ska) I chose a circular skirt printed with big blousy tea roses and with a rustling petticoat underneath. Afterwards, he said it was the rustle when I walked that attracted him. I told him it was his hands that attracted me. He was the quietest of Lynda’s paramour’s friends, happy to sit back and listen and laugh at jokes but with little to say for himself. I would have given up and ignored him except I caught sight of his hand, wrapped around his glass.

It was broad and long, with thick, strong fingers, roughened from work, his nails slightly ragged and bitten. Lucifer on my shoulder whispered in my ear, “Imagine his hand resting on the curve of your hip” and that was all it took.

At 3 in the morning we stood shivering in a taxi queue. How do you flirt with a taciturn man? Words are my thing. I slid my hands into his coat pockets, twined my fingers through his and smiled up at him. “Fancy a fuck?”

Naked on his bed, my fingers wrapped around the headboard, I drew my knees up, parting my thighs. “Slide a finger in.” He held his hand up and wiggled his fingers. I laughed and pointed, “That one.”

Slowly he buried his middle finger into my sloppy cunt, drawing it out to its tip then sliding middle and index fingers back in to the knuckle. I gazed at his ceiling, grunting softly as he finger fucked me, kissing and sucking on my nipples, still having spoken barely a handful of phrases to me.

He drew his fingers out slowly, and sucked them clean while I rolled a condom onto his rigid cock. No more messing about with foreplay, I wanted a nice hard rogering. I straddled his cock, sinking down onto it with a sigh and rode him hard, my buttocks slapping against his thighs, my fingers rolling and pinching my clit, cumming with a hiss of breath drawn sharply between my teeth, the muscles of my belly and thighs spasming and twitching.

He rolled me off his cock onto my back, my head propped up on a heap of pillows, and pressed the head of his cock to my lips, still wearing his condom. I suppressed a laugh as I realised, “It’s because he doesn’t know where I’ve been” and I opened my mouth.

I sucked steadily on the head of his cock, my fingers wrapped around its base, wanking him off as efficiently as I could, just a little bored now that I’d had my go. He shot his load with a grunt and slumped back onto the bed, surreptitiously shooting a glance at his phone on the bedside table.

I’ve never needed telling when it’s time to go after a stray fuck, so I left him to check his messages and after a quick bathroom trip I was back, dressed in my swishy skirt again, some concealer slapped on the dark shadows under my eyes. In the last five minutes he said more to me than he had all evening but I’ve forgotten most of it. In the end, I think all I wanted was that moment when I watched his finger sink into my cunt. Everything else was just a perverse form of good manners.

Back home, I tiptoed around the house. With D ill and not sleeping well I’ve been in the spare bedroom. He called my name softly and I popped my head around the door. Blearily he peeped over the duvet.

“It’s nearly morning. Have you been out shagging?”

“Mmm? Maybe. A little bit.”

I knelt down by the side of the bed and kissed his cheek. It felt hot.

Lounging Happily In Bendy Stretchy Ways

I’ve finally got a date for my operation, which will be 5 June. This means I shall be in hospital when we move into our new house. I’m pretending to be sad at missing this but in fact I think coming out of hospital to find it’s all over will be bliss.

So I’ve been into the History Department to warn them I’m going to miss my last exam and apply for deferred assessment (basically, I do the exam later). And I’ve been to my yoga class because today’s the day we all got our exercise balls.

Mine’s silver and it’s about 2½ feet across. Normally they’re used for aerobic exercise, and indeed there is an aerobic element to pumping the wretched thing up. But once pumped, we’ve all been lounging happily in bendy stretchy ways across them. This isn’t as easy as it looks when first demonstrated. If you get too relaxed you just roll across the floor on it, slowly tumbling off until you’re actually trapped underneath. Launch yourself at it too enthusiastically and you ricochet off into your neighbour’s ball, setting off a chain reaction of bounciness that ends with everyone landing with a ‘whump’ on their bottom.

After making a brave stab at all the suggested stretches and positions, we were told to “find your own natural position of relaxation and just breathe”. Everyone else seemed to find willowy draping to be their natural position. My natural position is hugging my ball, with my bum in the air.

I couldn’t be bothered to deflate it to take it home, and it’s only a few minutes’ walk, though it feels longer when you’re peering over the top of your ball trying to ignore the noted wit shouting, “Oi, nice ball, love!” from his car window.

D is sitting up in bed now, still feeling rotten, but his blistery rash is starting to get crusty so the worst is over and his temperature is down a bit. I offered to demonstrate my ball to him and he’s sufficiently recovered to point out that it’s not a proper demonstration if I’ve got clothes on. So I did giggly, naked bouncing and rolling for him until, inevitably, I hit my head on the corner of a chair and had to have a little lie down.

Tonight, Lynda is taking me to a sweaty cellar to listen to a ska band. She has absolutely no interest in ska but she knows a man who does – though she doesn’t know him as well as she’d like to by the end of the night. I shall be playing the role of ‘pleasant but slightly dull friend’. I’m under strict instructions to smile sweetly, keep his friends chatting and wear a skirt that covers my knees.

Finger Fucked

I’m all revised out. Everything I’ve ever learned about history is written on a series of postcards in different coloured felt tips depending on whether it’s a fact, quote, reference or theme. I can pick one at random and recite what’s on it without looking, like a sort of non-magic magic trick, and I’ve got a new pencil case (a Pingu one). My first exam is on Monday and I’m ready.

Some slight awkwardness on the train today when I bumped into a man who once finger fucked me at a teenage party, and who was with, presumably, his girlfriend. I couldn’t remember his name but after many hours frowning and saying to myself, “I know it began with a J”, I’ve now recalled that it’s Sam. Though I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that I’ve also been finger fucked at a teenage party by someone whose name did begin with a J – cider and blackcurrant does terribly things to the memory.

Commercial Gain

Today, for commercial gain, I spent the best part of the morning posing for photographs dressed in a variety of knickers and t shirts. Actually, I say ‘for commercial gain’ but really I only did it because I know you worry about me revising all the time.

This is all much less exciting than it sounds and I have an aching lower back from holding ‘perky’ poses for longer than you would in real life. (In real life I don’t do ‘perky’. I specialise more in ‘distracted’, ‘startled’ and ‘sullen’.)

Still, I needed to get out of the house, which D has filled with his illness like a creeping miasma of gloom. I’ve tried making helpful suggestions, like painting a plague cross on the front door, but for some reason this doesn’t seem to have helped.

I’ve cheered up a little bit since my last post as I’ve had a letter with the results of a blood test I had six weeks ago. There’s a whole sub-section of potential crossness in contemplating why it took six weeks instead of the one week I was promised, but I’m choosing to ignore that for now as it (a) confirms I’m not allergic to latex after all and (b) seems to be the only thing my surgeon can possibly have been waiting for before setting my operation date. And I could actually confirm this last theory if I could ever persuade his secretary to return my calls.

To celebrate this tiny step forwards, I headed off to Hamleys in Regent Street in search of modelling balloons, partly because I need no longer fear them and partly because balloon animals seemed the logical next suggestion after a plague cross. Well, there was not a balloon animal to be had in the whole of Hamleys. Instead, I had to spend an unreasonably long time for a woman of my age mooning over the Sylvanian Families. It’s not just that these are complete little nuclear families of mice and rabbits with their own bicycles and tea sets, it’s the names. It’s someone’s actual job to sit at a desk and decide that the pig family will be called Constance, May, Hugh and Richard E Grunt.

Balloon-less, I drifted down to Fortnum & Mason where I drooled over things I can’t afford like Lulu Guinness handbags. Because I feel morally obliged to shop, I went to Trumper’s in Jermyn Street and got D some West Indian Lime aftershave. I have shopping ambitions above my income bracket.

It was also on Jermyn Street that the most beautiful, chiselled, polished mahogany, black man, in a bespoke pinstriped suit, silk tie and Italian shoes brushed past me, trailing an expensive scent of sandlewood on the air behind him. I frankly turned round and gawped and, clearly sensing he was being stared at, he glanced back over his shoulder, did a double-take and then laughed shyly and strode away. If I’d had a moment’s more self-possession I’d have called after him, “Come back, beautiful man, I have a boyfriend who isn’t servicing my needs and shopping ambitions above my income bracket.”

Chronic

This is chronic. It’s Saturday night and I’m sitting at home on the internet. I am, however, wearing a nurse’s uniform and black stockings (no, really). I wasted some revision time yesterday ringing my way through D’s little black book to get the loan of a proper uniform – reasoning that if D can’t have his birthday party he can at last have me soothe his fevered brow dressed in something bracingly erotic. But he’s too wretchedly ill to really appreciate the gesture.

Instead, I’m getting myself into a state about still not having an operation date. It’s now nearly 6 weeks since my allergy test; I’ve had the report for over 4 weeks; and it’s 2 weeks since I rang my surgeon’s secretary, discovered he doesn’t have the report and sent in a copy of mine with the request that she acknowledges receipt, which she hasn’t. I’m going to ring again on Monday and I’ve been rehearsing in my head how the conversation might go but it’s making me a bit weepy. ‘Hysterical’ is never my favourite presentation of myself but it’s increasingly how I feel when I think about this.

I also feel absurd, sitting here all dressed up. I want to get a big roll of bin bags from the kitchen and stuff them full of clothes and make up and sex toys and shoes and put the whole lot out for collection, because I don’t feel like that woman any more.

I want a big, clean, white room with nothing in it that I don’t need. And I want us both to be well again.