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My mobile phone is an extension of my right hand. It is almost a spiritual thing. It is another intrinsic sense. To smell, to touch, to see, to hear and to text message. I have discovered the power of text messaging. It was designed for me. Short and sharp and to the point. Ability to spell totally irrelevant. In fact, lousy spelling adds a certain charm. You can be as smutty as you like. It doesn’t matter. You can say you meant to send it to someone else. That is, of course, if it doesn’t continue to happen after repeated warnings.
Paul works in an office of men. Their bodies are full of testosterone. Their egos are huge and wallets are full. These testosterone-filled money bags are surrounded by women who work there with one goal in mind. To bag these money bags. Ideally by getting them in the sack and getting them to realise that they can’t live without them. These girls are pros. They should work on the streets (albeit SW1 streets), and some of them (I am told) have done so. Anyway, out of every ten who enter the trading room, one usually gets her man. Or someone else’s. Wedding rings are totally irrelevant.
Paul is different. He wears no ring (we’re not engaged), but he’s faithful and loves me. He goes to lap-dance joints because his brokers pay for it, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He tells me so himself. Like a dog, really.
He texts me every morning:
I’ve arrived safely.
I love you.
Hi gorgeous, big confident kiss.
I wish I was still in bed with you.
At Christmas:
I’ve had my first mince pie. I wish you were in my bed.
Miss you loads. Looking forward to seeing you this weekend.
That sort of thing.
Then I started to get:
I wish my cock was in your mouth. It’s so hard at the moment. I loved you in those jeans last night.
Linked:
1/3
What a shame I am not there to ease your horny state. I could take off your knickers lift off your top. Kiss your lips then your nipples. Touch you with …
2/3
my finger then my tongue. Keep licking until you nearly come then turn you over and put my dick in your wetness pulling you onto me with my hands on your …
3/3
hips so I am as deep as possible.
Linked:
1/2
Every inch of my body is gagging for you. I loved you in those jeans last night. I wanted to rip them off you and come all over your …
2/2
… face.
Sort of slightly different in tone.
I contacted him to find out that, no, these messages had not come from him but a salesman called Pierce, who was a close friend of his and was into bondage in a big way, was thirty-eight, on his third wife, and had at least four sex kittens on the go—all of whom worked (loose term) in the Square Mile as secretaries and salespeople, and all of whom liked to be ‘fucked up the arse’ and tied up. Nice.
The aforementioned Pierce was also a Harvard Graduate, played piano, guitar and saxophone and had a wonderful singing voice, lovely home in the country (used to be a pub, now converted with taste and money—the two are not synonymous). Background and appearances can be deceptive.
I contacted Pierce. First of all by text reply, after one particularly explicit ‘cock-sucking butt-wrenching, I know you’d enjoy being fucked up the backside really’ message. And then by phone.
‘Hi, Pierce. I’m Paul’s girlfriend. I think you keep sending me messages meant for someone else. Could you please delete my number from your phone as I don’t want to get them any more? Have a nice day.’
‘I’m so sorry, Sarah. Big apologies. Just that one of the kittens is also called Sarah. I’ll change her name.’
‘Thanks, Pierce.’
2nd October
Seven a.m. Beep on the phone. Message waiting.
I’ve got a real hard-on. It’s really hard and I’m imagining you putting your lips around it and sucking it really hard and I’m aching to get my hands on your big tits.
Definitely not Paul.
I rang the number.
‘Pierce?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me another one of your “fucking” messages. Don’t do it again or I will tell Paul and he’ll be furious. OK?’
‘OK. Very sorry, deeply embarrassed and mortified.’
3rd October
Seven a.m. Beep on the phone. Message waiting.
I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re driving me crazy. I imagine your wetness in my mouth. The thought of your nipples is driving me crazy.
Right. That’s it.
‘Pierce!’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me one of those messages again.’
‘I didn’t. I’ve sent nothing this morning. You must have got it from someone else. Perhaps Paul.’
‘Doesn’t sound like Paul.’
‘Ring the number back.’
‘Er. Well, sorry, Pierce for bothering you.’
‘That’s OK. Bye.’
Click.
I looked at the text message. Didn’t sound like Paul. And now I looked at it again it had a little (though not much) more finesse than Pierce’s drool.
I called.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘John Wayne. Who is this?’
Heart stopped. Then beat very loudly.
‘Sarah Giles.’
Silence.
‘Have you just sent me a message on my phone … by accident?’
‘What did it say?’
‘Nothing much. It’s just that it was slightly personal—well, very personal, actually, and you sent it to me. Was it meant for Amanda? I think it was. Or Stephanie, perhaps.’
‘What did it say?’
I repeated it.
‘Mmm. Sounds pretty strong, doesn’t it? No, I didn’t send it.’
‘Well, it came from your phone.’
‘Perhaps someone stole my phone and typed it in for a joke.’
‘Who would do that?’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, how are your lovely nipples today?’
‘You did send it, didn’t you? Why?’
Silence.
‘John? You have a girlfriend and a potential bodice-ripper in Stephanie. I have a boyfriend, who I love. Why are you contacting me with messages like this?’
Silence.
‘Hi, you still there?’
‘Yes, Sarah.’ (God, I loved it when he said my name. He made it sound like Sarah, I want to undress you now and make love to you in one word. Amazingly no one else heard that, which is perhaps a good thing.)
‘Did you send me the message?’
‘Yes, Sarah.’
‘Did you mean to send me the message?’
‘Yes, Sarah.’
‘Oh, er, right, then. Well. Don’t send any again. As I said, we’re going out with different people.’
‘Fancy lunch some time soon?’
‘Lunch should be OK. Next week?’
‘Thinking more tomorrow, or the day after.’
‘Er, haven’t got my diary here. Wait a minute.’
I gave myself space to think. What was I doing? Lunch with John Wayne. Had done it before but then I hadn’t had the message before. The signal. The idea of him thinking about me that way was firmly in my mind. Couldn’t get it out of my mind. He wouldn’t be able to do the chocolate cake trick on me. My breasts wouldn’t fill a teacup, let alone a cake tin. I returned to the phone, having not found the diary but found some breath and balls.
‘I can do day after tomorrow.’ Anything or anyone that day would have to be cancelled.
5th October
Day after tomorrow. Don’t know where tomorrow went. Lunch at one p.m. at the restaurant up the road from Pizza Express. None of the staff go there. Food is limited, service slow, you need more than two hours to meander over the courses and wines and coffee.
I was early. Chose the table. He was late. Ten minutes. I smiled. So did he. I went up to kiss him. Both cheeks. He smiled again. His smile was scaring me less each time. Always a good sign. Perhaps because he looked less like a wolf, or perhaps because I didn’t see the wolf-like qualities any more. Only the deep brown eyes, the dark hair and his smell.
John Wayne smelt fabulous. I know women can smell great—but this man smelt of pheromones. I personally believe when he was a research chemist he concocted some artificial ones and impregnated himself with them. Whatever, they worked. I found him more and more irresistible every time I met him. Despite the fact he was just six foot and had a bit of a belly on him, I found the way his mind thought fascinating. Occasionally disgusting but always interesting.
I asked him about his cottage. He told me he’d got all the interior design done for free.
‘What, did you sleep with the decorators?’
‘Actually, yes.’
His story was that there were two girls who were designers that he had known from university, and that he’d kept in touch with them. That they had always liked him and he’d invited them round for the weekend. He’d propositioned them by saying that if they would paint his house inside and out he would sleep with them both all weekend. My mind was whirring round like crazy. Imagining them covered in paint, taking it in turns to sleep with this supposed sex god. I told him this was all bullshit. He said I could phone them and ask. I said it was bullshit and didn’t have to. Anyway, the arrogance of the man was sometimes phenomenal.
He told me that Stephanie’s brain was like a lighthouse to his torch. And that my mind was like a match to her lighthouse. I held in there for the pheromones.
He told me about his sexual prowess at college. How with one girlfriend he only had to touch her breast lightly and she would come.
