Do you speak to your husband while you're having sex? Only if there's a phone handy.
* * *
I had just finished work for the day; an afternoon-evening shift followed by a drink in a bar before home and bed for the night. I perched on a stool and watched the band play an old standard. They played it well, as they should -- twenty years earlier they had topped the charts with this record. Now these middle-aged men were touring tiny third rate venues milking their old success, endlessly replaying the same songs that they must surely now be sick of.
What alternative to this drudgery did these musicians have? A proper job like the rest of us? Working on a factory line, putting a component into a machine and pressing a button. Then doing another one and repeat until you die - this may not sound an appealing lifestyle for a former superstar who had once flown the world by private jet.
So the singer regurgitated the words with worn out emotion as I sipped a tepid beer, eking it out as long as possible. An hour ago it had been fresh and cold; now it was stale but the glass occupied my hand. It was a required accessory and I didn't desire any more drink. Soon I'd be leaving, on my way home. As soon as the band finished their set I'd slope off quietly -- no late-night drinking session planned for me.
I cast my gaze around the room. The audience was mostly appreciative, the music was well known but a group of youngsters were huddled at a corner table, too cool to express enjoyment for this old style. This was entertainment for people who think that 'sick' referred to the mess found on the steps of the fire escape in the morning.
The club was a regular haunt of mine, not that it did me any good. Week after week, month after month I went there. No joy ever came my way, I always became tongue-tied in the presence of a hot girl. I must have been the oldest virgin in town by a considerable margin. My colleagues had no trouble getting relationships or one night stands. Myself? Doomed to a lonely taxi ride home at the end of the night.
There was a group of older women dancing to the music, large breasts bouncing within shimmering dresses; it was music that they remembered from their formative years. These were the tunes that were playing while they were fumbling with their first boyfriends. I'm not criticising; I liked these old hits as well, they brought back memories of my childhood and were easier to listen to than most modern tracks. Perhaps I was born old.
The partying women were becoming more boisterous. One came close to me and being instinctively polite I leaned away slightly to avoid a collision, however I had misunderstood the manoeuvre. She caught hold of my arm and pulled me from my stool, inviting me to join with the dance. They were clearly looking to expand the party by adding some male company.
I eyed up the lady; small-to-average boobs, slim build, average height. Mousey brown bobbed hair and nondescript features - she would have made an ideal spy for some foreign agency. A modest dark green dress did nothing to make her memorable, right now I cannot picture her face at all.
Somewhat reluctantly I started to move in the direction that I was being dragged in. On the way I placed my glass on a vacant ledge just as the other ladies surrounded me but I'm a hopeless dancer - plenty of people have informed me that I'm incapable of keeping with a beat. I don't disagree with them, I always end up bobbing down when everyone else is bobbing up. I don't even rate as a decent 'dad-dancer'.
Luckily, after only a couple of seconds the music stopped and the band racked their instruments for a break while the DJ took the microphone. The nondescript lady laughed as we ducked behind a room partition where we could speak against the blaring noise.
"Brilliant timing, that always happens to me." She saw me looking at her quizzically and continued. "This sounds really corny but my friend asked me to call you over. What's your name?"
"Dave. What's going on?"
"We're here while our husbands are away at the football. Look, meet Fern -- she's the one who really wants to talk to you."
Fern was probably the eldest of the group; in her mid forties, with blonde wavy hair and spectacles. She had been poured into a black dress by someone who didn't know when to say 'when', showing a huge expanse of creamy cleavage nestling a diamond crucifix on a gold chain. She sipped from a glass of wine and giggled shyly. "I can't believe you did that. Lynda, I'll get you back."
So the nondescript woman was called Lynda.
"What's the occasion, are you by yourself?"
"I just came in for a drink after work, none of the other guys I work with wanted to come out tonight so it's only me."
It turned out that the ladies had all known each other for years and were nearly all married; a few were divorced and one or two were even widowed. The common factor that night was that their men-folk had gone together on a trip to watch a big football match. I didn't follow the sport and didn't even know that anything was on that weekend.
I explained briefly about my work - which was not very interesting to talk about, and that I lived alone having saved up hard for a deposit and bought my own place. No wife, no kids, no girlfriend (or boyfriend). Just me saving and investing for the future.
Fern was surprised I think. In those days it was unusual for a guy in his early twenties to be spending so much on bricks and mortar instead of beer, fast cars and impressionable young ladies. I avoided telling her that it wasn't totally by choice.
Then the DJ introduced the band once more and Fern stood up and dragged me out onto the dance floor. She slipped her arm around my waist so I reciprocated. She had a sturdy build and I could feel the rigid undergarments that gave shape to her body.
She started dancing to the song, which was slow and one of the band's biggest, iconic hits. It was natural for me to continue holding her as she swayed, my hands on her hips.
She moved closer and my touch slipped lower, feeling the bottom of the stiff clothing and the pliable body beneath. The crease where thighs met ass greeted my fingers. She did not protest at the intrusion but I felt her face muzzle my chest and her hands gripped my buttocks in return, squeezing them together and pulling me closer.
The flesh of her rear moved easily when I pressed against it, a softness of female flesh that was exciting and intriguing. "So how come a good looking lad like yourself is here all by yourself? Why don't you have a girlfriend?" She spoke directly into my ear, turning her face up to me. Her pupils were wide open and she slurred slightly.
I don't think that there was anything special in the way she stood with her face so close, it was probably determined by the sound volume in the club anyway. But it felt very intimate to me, just the two of us having a private conversation.
