Two Sides To Every Story Pt 04

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

We spent Monday night in my bed then, significantly, Tuesday to Thursday nights in Dave's. I bit my tongue and didn't comment on that, but saw it as good. My host's room was no longer out of bounds for me. I was back in the fold.

Yippee!!

Sex wasn't confined to the bedroom, either. We had our Wednesday evening meal in the pub and then, as soon as we got inside the cottage, I had her on the kitchen table. Then, while she was in the process of having me, there was a knock at the door. Putting a finger to my lips, motioning for me to stay where I was, she answered it.

And was I nervous? You bet I was. The kitchen door had frosted glass panes in it and was about four feet away from the table. Shapes could be seen through it and, more to the point, it was by no means soundproof. I'd heard Dave's phone from outside the garden gate, remember? No way could the caller have failed to hear the racket I'd just been making.

Turned out it was Interflora, bringing red roses from Darling Mikela. Somehow Dave managed to accept them in a completely normal manner while keeping me screened from sight.

'Are you okay?' the delivery lad asked. 'I thought I heard screaming.'

'It'll have been me singing,' she said casually. 'My Adele impression needs a bit of work.'

Ah yes, Darling Mikela. Let's not forget about her. I don't believe I'm a vindictive person but I had sent an email on Tuesday morning; nothing too graphic, just a thank you for putting Dave in the mood for a hot romp. Snatching at the bait, she replied saying she thought we had been at it ever since I got back. Smirking as I typed, I graciously admitted my earlier claims were wishful thinking and (gleefully) said there was no need for exaggeration anymore.

That should have been the end of it as far as me and my ex-rival were concerned. I had won; I'd had a good gloat and was now free to savour the fruits of victory. But I couldn't let go. And neither could she. Perhaps we both needed to have the last word. Whatever it was, instead of giving up we entered into a daily exchange of email, taunting and threatening each other.

On Wednesday, for example, she accused me of lesbian bed death. Now that's so untrue it's just laughable. I replied promising to put her over my knee if she ever spread slanderous rumours like that. She said fine, just go ahead, she was sure she'd enjoy being spanked.

And then I confessed I was enjoying the idea too. In fact I was flowing like the River Nile.

(Brief aside: that comparison might make you think of a wide expanse of water and the chatter of Arab traders in the background. I think of Fatima flooding my face. Yes, a genuine Egyptian lady. I'd been travelling in her homeland and the attraction was so immense we risked an afternoon of passion in my hotel room. I say "risked" because she was married and we drank alcohol on top of a lot of "unnatural" sex. I don't know what would have happened to us if we'd been caught, but I'm sure it wouldn't have been nice.)

As the working week ended Darling Mikela and I escalated. On Thursday we exchanged personal email addresses and by Friday we'd got pretty graphic. No, by Friday we were bickering over who got to smack and fuck who first.

I genuinely do not know what game I was playing. I've admitted more than once that I wanted to bed the auburn-haired bitch; I did then and still do now. She attracts me and, in a perverse sort of a way, so too does our mutual hatred. When it comes to sex I've never done angry. The idea of the two of us going at each other, snarling and spitting and scratching . . .

Well, I'm flowing again just thinking about it.

So now to Friday night and my date with Tommy. I told Dave about it on Wednesday and again on Thursday. And I honestly thought she was okay with the idea. Okay, she wasn't wild about it, but she understood the arrangement was made when I was single and thought I was going stay single forever. She also appreciated this was a guy I was going to have to work with for months, and that I'd put him on a promise.

If only I'd known then what I know now! I would have cancelled out of hand and worried about the working relationship later. But we can all say that about lots of things, can't we? Badly misreading Dave's mood, I dolled myself up and set out to have a good time.

My guess is you won't be too interested in man sex, so I'm just going to give you a couple of facts about Tommy and leave it at that. One: his cock is ten inches long, at least. Two: he knows what to do with it.

I had intended to go round the pubs, fuck him a few times and then be home before dawn. But it wasn't to be. I woke around ten on Saturday morning and he almost immediately suggested a day at the cricket. Although it would be more like three hours at the cricket, because it was only a T20 match: Yorkshire against Lancashire at Headingley. He'd been given two complimentary tickets; it would be a shame to waste them . . .

Dave had been making noises about going rock climbing (not including me, I hasten to add; as far as I'm concerned if there isn't a path I'm not going up). I rang her to see if that was what she was doing but there was no reply. And, typical of her, her message service was full. I could never get my head round that. Her, Miss Neat and Tidy 2016, not arsed to clear out her in-box. I sent her a brief text instead.

"OK if I go 2 T20 this aft?"

By the time I'd scrubbed my latest lover's back in the shower she'd replied.

"Whatever."

I suspect you might find cricket even less interesting than man sex. So here's the abridged version. We used buses and trains so Tommy could have a few drinks with me. We had a great time. And, of course, Yorkshire won.

Back in Bingley I rang Dave again. It was the same situation with calls and no reply to my texts. I puzzled over that a while. Was she ignoring me or had she gone rock climbing after all? It would be getting dark before long, but she often went far afield to find new challenges. If she'd done that and was driving home she would definitely ignore her phone. I sent her one final text from outside the curry house, saying I was staying out again unless she told me not to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Guilt was my big mistake that day. After our vindaloos Tommy proposed another night of even hotter sex but I said to him nay. That conscience of mine chipped in. In fact it chipped in big-time. Not that Darling Mikela believes I have one. According to her, I regularly used to go out with other sex partners and often disappeared for "two or three nights". And she alleges she has that from the horse's mouth (in the shape of Dave).

What a lying cow she can be.

Here are the facts for you. Read this remembering that Dave never, ever tells an untruth. In fact she makes George Washington look like Billy Liar.

I have lived with Dave on four separate occasions. During that time I have "taken" just four other lovers. Number one was Ross who, as you may recall, was pretty much selected for me by Dave and Alice, to give them chance to get together. My dates with Ross were, with one exception, on a Friday night, Saturday morning basis. The exception was on our very last meeting when, again at Dave and Alice's instigation, swapped wives were returned a day later, on Sunday lunchtime.

I hold my hand up to lover number two. I should have cleared Craig with Dave and I didn't. But I also didn't "disappear" at all. Craig happened twice. They were two one-nighters and Dave wasn't at home to be left on her lonesome.

Number three actually came before number two. Dave doesn't know about her but, being honest and transparent, I'm going to come clean. Sasha is a receptionist for my dentist. I knew her as the person who I paid after Mr Spoor had rooted around in my mouth (I visit him a lot when I'm home, because I never get a check-up when I'm travelling). One Wednesday, when Dave was off again, overnighting somewhere in Wales, I bagged the last appointment of the day.

'It seems like a waste,' she said as she swiped my card. 'You never have any actual work done.'

'I don't want any actual work doing,' I assured her. Then, on one of my infamous impulses: 'Do you fancy a drink? I think I've enough left in my account to buy a few rounds.'

It's amazing what one drink can lead to. I became a regular visitor to Sasha's bed, always timing it when Dave was away, which was easier than it may sound. Dave doesn't only get branch call-outs, you see, often she has to do a series of manual updates. In other words, she'll get a week's notice before touring our outlets in, say, Cornwall, where overnight stays are a fact of life.

So it's another hand up. I didn't clear Sasha in any way. But I also never disappeared. Dave was never at home to miss me.

Tommy was number four. Having learnt my lesson from Craig, I did clear him in advance. But I only cleared him for one night, and knowing that weighed on me. Completely ignorant of Darling Mikela's defamatory allegations, I simply could not square my conscience with staying out for a second night. To my mind it would be a first and would set an unacceptable precedent.

So I did the decent thing and got a cab to The Busfeild.

*****

Dave wasn't in the pub but her car was on the car park. Denying myself the luxury of a swift pint, I hurried round to the cottage. It was nowhere near closing time and, I reckoned, I could recruit me a boozing buddy very quickly indeed.

Downstairs was in darkness but a light was burning in Dave's bedroom. No, in what had become again our bedroom. I let myself in and bounded up the staircase, shouting out all sorts in a bid to get her up and out as soon as possible.

I opened the bedroom door without a clue as to what I would find, even though it was a bit early for bedtime. I suppose part of me hoped to catch my lover on the end of one sex toy or another, but I fully expected her to be there on her own.

Wrong!!

Dave was there on the bed, on her back on the covers. Darling Mikela was on top of her. They'd only too obviously been fucking as they were still bonded together by a black strapless affair (the one classed as "stout", used, for once without the matching harness). Now there's nothing wrong with my eyesight. Stunned as I was, I could see that although Dave was on the bottom, she had the pony in her. That fucking auburn-haired slut had been doing the riding.

'Oops,' she tittered, 'how frightfully embarrassing.'

Our three-cornered exchange moved on rapidly from there and it soon became apparent it was two onto one. They'd been comparing notes as well as fucking. And they were unanimous in their disapproval of me.

Okay, yet another confession. I was shocked and upset and I lost it. Instead of arguing logically, I was drawn into a slagging match and didn't prevail. Well I can't have prevailed because, before I knew it, Dave was telling me to find somewhere else to live.

They'd untangled themselves by that point. Dave was half-sitting, the dildo still sticking out of her. Darling Mikela was on her feet, jabbing accusing fingers in my direction. Her tits were, I noticed, even better than I'd expected. They didn't distract me for long, though. Turning on my heel, I got the speed of light out of there.

*****

I changed clothes in the spare room then stuffed as much as I could in my backpack. By the time I got downstairs the star-crossed lovers were dressed and sitting at the kitchen table, the two of them sipping wine. As furious as I was, I had to smile when I saw where Darling Mikela's elbows were. She was resting them on a bit of tabletop I'd so recently drenched in cum.

And there was not a bucket of seawater in sight.

Okay, okay. So I'd cleaned up after myself, but the thought that I might not have was too good not to entertain.

I'd caught them discussing me. Dave was saying something about setting a strict deadline for me to be gone. I cut her right off and said not to bother, I was leaving that minute. Then, sweetness personified, I asked if she'd kindly bring the rest of my clobber to work on Monday.

And then, unable to stop myself, I gave Darling Mikela a gobful. 'Don't think I'm done with you,' I grated. 'You're just a cunt. You'll end up begging for it, just like everyone else.'

*****

That brings us more or less to where my nemesis broke off. Fool that she is, she thought her tale was told. But it's not. There's more. Read on, listen and learn.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I made two calls before I stormed out of Dave's cottage. One to Tommy, the other (a number I will never forget) to Bingley Taxis. They both told me what I wanted to hear and, within two minutes of leaving, I was in a cab heading back to town.

So Tommy got his hot sex after all. While he slept it off I lay awake, staring into the dark, trying to make sense of the latest twists and turns in my life.

Not that I wasted much time on self-analysis. I accept I'm slightly schizo. I'm quite happy with the different personalities living inside me. In fact I've got time for them all. I like the oh-so-meticulous programmer who could use a keyboard before she could walk. And I like the rather bohemian girl who fucks around at the drop of a hat. I also like the itchy-footed traveller and the icy-cold bitch who hasn't spoken to her mother in nearly three years.

We all work well together. And if I'm nuts, show me someone who isn't.

No, I didn't waste time on myself. Instead I began with Dave. She has different personalities too, just not so many of them and one rules uber alles. By that I mean the neat and tidy one, if you haven't guessed; the one who is more logical than Mr Spock. The one who wouldn't believe the Klingons were attacking until she'd seen the blueprints for their starships.

She isn't totally predictable, though. There's a bohemian rebel in there who sometimes escapes. Remember her setting up our wife-swap? I might have fantasised about Alice but I would never have come up with that; not in a million years. And rock climbing . . . how dangerous is that? I'd accept bog standard hiking from a Trekkie like her (all those global positioning devices, maps and compasses!), but rock climbing . . .

For a quick fix she'll climb on Ilkley Moor, but that's like me drinking a half of shandy instead of three bottles of wine. To get off on it she needs to find a cliff that is both high and sheer. And best of all, she'll go to the coast and climb a cliff that's high, sheer, and crumbling away beneath her fingertips.

And I think I'm nuts!

Dave's sexuality is a mystery to me. That is to say, she may well be the only true lesbian I have ever met. She won't properly talk about it, though. When really pressed she insists she's "always known", and that "nothing bad ever happened". I'm not so sure about that but I am convinced nothing bad ever happened to her at home. I've met her parents several times and they couldn't be nicer.

I'm chuckling as I write this. In soap operas dads go ballistic when they find out their daughter is a lezzie. In my experience they are secretly glad, or maybe not so secretly. I reckon the last thing a father wants is to think about some hairy oaf pushing his equally hairy cock inside his little girl. By comparison a female lover is tender and sweet, pretty and not at all hairy.

What's not to like about that?

Okay, so I'm exaggerating yet again. But I've never known a dad who hasn't been accepting and I have met quite a few mothers who are not. There again, I'm using "lezzie" and "lesbian" and I'm not sure how many of them I actually know.

Please come back to my university days with me for a moment. I don't know about yours, but at mine wannabe lesbians were everywhere, all adamant they'd "found themselves" and would "never change". I believed them at the time but not so long ago went to a students' reunion that actually shocked me.

The hostess for the night was called Chris. Back in the day she'd been as bull-dykey as anyone could ever get. On the night of the reunion she introduced me to her husband . . . a tall guy called Artie . . . and confessed they had two kids.

'What happened?' I asked later, when I collared her alone at the bar. 'I know some of our mates were LUG, but you're the last person I'd expect it from.'

'Life happened,' she said with a grin. 'And I haven't crossed over altogether. Me and Artie have an agreement. I can see other girls and he can see other blokes.'

'Artie's gay,' I said, surprised.

'Naw, is he fuck.' Her laugh was as raucous as ever. 'He never sees anyone and I get to let my hair down once a month. Good agreement or what!'

I'm not basing my opinions on one former bull-dyke. What I'm trying to say is that all the statistics confuse me. Every report I read is different. Some "official" estimates say gays and lesbians only account for one-point-something per cent. Other estimates, which include bisexuals, claim it's up between seven and ten per cent.

As if anyone tells the whole truth when answering a survey!

For what it's worth, I believe that most people are bisexual, whether they admit it or not. By that I mean that even dyed-in-the-wool lesbians have had some experiences with men, although most probably not good experiences.

Not Dave, however. She absolutely adores artificial penetration but no way could I imagine her ever taking a real one.

The bigger puzzle was why I loved her. I did then, bare hours after she'd evicted me, and I still do now. But analysing as for why . . .

Well it was beyond me.

Putting her on the back burner, I moved on to Darling Mikela.

The image of those tits was still etched on my retinae. So was the rest of her. But that was merely physical appearance. Apart from her bitchiness I knew little about her.

(If only she'd published her tissue of lies a little earlier!)

On consideration I concluded there was only one person in Darling Mikela's head. Shallow if very good-looking, but clever and scheming for all that. In full honesty mode, I didn't know how she'd prevailed over me, but prevail she had. No, she'd more than prevailed, she'd whupped my ass.

How to fight back? I scowled into the night long and hard without producing anything useful at all. Somewhere deep down I remembered seeing her on Friday . . . meaning late on, when I was out with Tommy. A glimpse across a crowded bar; it had been no more than that. She'd been on the fringe of a group of girls. But not alone on the fringe; oh no, she'd had company.

Cursing Tommy for distracting me, I tried to remember more details. We'd been in the Suburban and I'd recognized Darling Mikela's company. But strive as I might, I couldn't come up with a name. It wasn't Dave, obviously, and it wasn't Joyce either. I knew the girl (I was sure of that!) but I couldn't place her.

Not yet.

You might wonder why I was bothered. So did I. I was clutching at straws by then, though. I was in desperate need of an edge. Failing that . . .

Well, I'd lost Dave for good and I knew it. But there was still retribution to be had. And, if I couldn't find an edge, my parting threat would be empty.

Darling Mikela would have triumphed again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Believe it or not, I secured myself a flat on Sunday morning. During all that pretend hunting I had noticed a place I liked and which I knew was as good as vacant. And the letting agents claimed to be open 24/7. So, having little faith in their blurb, I rang and immediately got through to the main man, a guy called Howard.

'You don't sound to be in an office,' I told him.

'I'm playing golf at Fardew,' he replied. 'But I'm available to help you in any way I can.'

Howard knew his onions all right. Within ten minutes we'd agreed everything we needed to agree, I'd transferred my deposit and, barring a signature or two, the contract was sealed.