The wide-eyed gaze of hateful obedience

There’s a personality-clashing prelude and epilogue to my last meeting with ArmyDude. Earlier that day, we were bickering because he had disappeared from the earth which initiated an awkward ‘is everything okay with us?’ message from me. I can’t stand being in the position of feeling the need to do that.

I’m not likely to die without regular attention, but the deviation from our usual daily contact spooked me in the old investigative way of looking for the usual among the unusual and the unusual among the usual. This was not usual and I wanted to stop my mind spinning and understand what was going on. He replied saying he was under pressure at work and home and quite frankly didn’t understand my issue. I became cranky at his laissez faire lack of empathy and said that was fine (FINE!) but I wouldn’t have caused a stir if I didn’t genuinely have a concern.

He said he had a wife at home and didn’t need another one. I replied that simple communication would reduce the need for others to act like his wife.

He disappeared to cool off. A few hours later, little messages popped up on my e-mail and mobile phone enquiring about my day, the past weekend, movies I’ve seen, books I’ve read and generally driving me nuts with overcompensation. I asked him to stop contacting me out of obligation and his mood darkened again because he couldn’t do a thing right (fair point but I was too angry to concede).

We settled our differences before meeting and not a word was mentioned again until *after* we’d had sex. We were chatting convivially during recovery time and he started retrieving some of my earlier messages and reading them aloud. Cunning, smart, pre-meditating sewer rat of a man had a confrontation planned all along but didn’t want to risk me walking out before getting him off. I asked him to stop trying to embarrass me because the issue was dealt with.

He lifted himself from the chair, towered over me and instructed that I was never to assume anything was wrong if he disappeared for more than a few days. He will tell me if something is wrong and until then I am not to assume otherwise.

So, this is the former soldier under pressure, hey?

I don’t fall for military shit where soldiers are taught not to talk back when junior and never to be questioned when in the more senior ranks. The uniformed people I know are generally terrible debaters and even worse in an argument because they don’t know how to exchange differences of opinion without becoming defensive or aggressive.

I regained composure, returned his eye contact and replied, “Understood.” I don’t have The Waiter’s thousand-yard stare but I have a useful Wide-eyed Gaze of Hateful Obedience that absorbs everything and doesn’t let a skerrick of emotion or reaction out. While he was scrambling for a sentence to address at my vacant face, my mind was spinning silently with, “Fine, buddy, next time you message me looking for validation through attention, I’m AWOL for a few days. And all with your permission.” I also hoped that I had stretched his arsehole wide enough for him to be shitting liquid for a week. The petulant child in me is almost looking forward to the next time he disappears and I take my time responding.

He said

What do you say when a man spills the contents of his heart, and a steaming froth of confusion and mini-deaths of the soul pour out of his mouth, and tightening emasculation is choking the very breath out of his lungs?

He said, “My wife and I have had sex less than five times this year.”

He said, “I don’t even bother her any more. I told her that she knows where I am if she wants me.”

He said, “I even grabbed her and asked if I was that repulsive, if she found me that awful to have sex with.”

He said, “I get so tired of wanking when she’s asleep, but I am sick in the stomach for days if I go elsewhere; if she finds out, I’ll lose my kids because she won’t understand.”

He said, “Maybe I’m asking for too much out of life. I have a wife, a house and kids and perhaps I can’t have everything and this is the one thing I can’t have.”

I didn’t know what to say.

So I said, “I know how she feels because I used to be her, and until not that long ago.”

I said, “But I had the courage to face the part I played in a downfall and pay someone to ask me questions that made me cry in self pity. I learned that I wasn’t allowed to be the victim and control another with sex, and that’s too confronting for most people.”

I said, “I know how you feel because I caused your pain in someone else, and I know nothing I say can help because nothing can help her until she comes out of denial. And that day might never come. Can you live without your sexuality or pay the price of its freedom?”

We ran out of words and hugged the wilted embrace of the broken and the sympathetic.

Intermission

I have switched off a little too well. After my last naked shimmy and fist-fest with Jekyll, I have slithered gently into a week of sexual hibernation; a surprisingly peaceful lull bereft of co-ordinating schedules and removing hair.

The other day a young man of the cloth stopped me and asked for directions. I swear he even flirted with agnostic today/atheist tomorrow me in his swirling Swiss accent and eye-creasing smile, to the point I had forgotten where I was sending him. Gladly, I wasn’t hit by lightning after lazy daydreams of how I might corrupt him if given half a chance and some motivation.

ArmyDude said he had a treat for me and flashed up mobile phone footage of himself masturbating in a toilet. I smiled and knew it was made at work because his ID tag tapped his navel as he bent for close-ups. He is a sweet bower bird and I’ll get around to reciprocating when the mood strikes.

There was simple and enjoyable partner sex at some stage but The Drummer became stuck in a pre-orgasm limbo. We halted and agreed to try another day when fun-sapping medication has a lighter grip on his nervous system. He might be meeting a woman with whom he’s been corresponding this week. In a move that reminds me of the lunatics taking over the asylum, I am helping with his e-mail responses. Dear, oh, dear.

I haven’t masturbated all week and almost-but-not-quite-enough sleep has kept me in a haze of fatigued docility like the house cat currently warming herself in the front window. Let’s see how long the calm lasts. I am going to read a book and have an early night.

Little boxes

Compartmentalisation is not my thing. Putting a busy and in absentia lover in a mental box, tying it with string and setting it aside on the shelf for later isn’t in my sanity-protection tool kit (I wish it was, oh, how I wish it was; perhaps I’ll get one for Christmas).

If I can’t be indulged in my preference for the luxury of regular communiqués, I’ll survive better in a harsh landscape of no contact because little dispatches from elsewhere crack the protective layer I’ve constructed to save myself from, I don’t know … stabs of self pity and loneliness, or myself, I suppose.

That’s the main reason flings and casual fucks aren’t chronicled here: I don’t have them. Apart from being too lazy to find a quick fix with a variable likelihood of success when easy masturbation and sleeping in my own comfortable bed beckons louder, I like the little somethings with a lover between meetings. Of course, it has nothing to do with feeding a delicate ego that I’m special enough to be indulged with attention inside and outside the bedroom.

Jekyll is a master box stacker and cannot fathom that others aren’t. He packs his daytime stress in the work box when he finishes for the day and it’s forgotten until tomorrow. Just as easily, he can have a heated discussion about a family issue and the problem is bound, boxed and shelved as soon as he gets off the phone. To my puzzled amusement, he has broken off with past long-term lovers and wondered why his exes haven’t wanted or been able to revert to platonic friendships immediately.

I am thinking about this because he is going through a life change that will disrupt his (and our) routine and opportunities for the next couple of months. I saw the break in the horizon and forced myself to switch off as a protective measure to survive the drought.

He doesn’t understand why I haven’t responded to his unexpected ‘Hi, I’m back for a while, miss you, how are you, where are you?’ e-mails within a couple of hours of receiving them – because he’s got a few moments to play, why aren’t I at my desk? I ignored him for a few more hours as a form of payback for being so damn well adjusted and making me realise how vulnerable and needy I can be. No one will ever describe me as clingy because I do a good line in carefree independence but sometimes I dislike myself for suffering the consequences of my needless emotional vanity.

There’s no joy for either of us with our differing ways of managing interruptions unless he develops greater empathy and I tell him how I think I want to get through it. This period will be harder for him: he is so busy he will need to fight for scraps of unallocated time while I can complain extravagantly that I have had more ‘me’ time forced on me.

Patience is not a goddamn virtue

Just when the anti-depressant residues are leaching out of my system and I want to road-test my new ‘old’ self that orgasms, it feels like I couldn’t score a fuck in a brothel with a fistful of fifties. “I’m here!” I feel like shouting to the world, “You, person with a dick, come and get me.”

The Drummer apologised recently for his current lack of interest in sex. I’m more amazed than annoyed as he’s the man who can get himself off up to five times a day and I used to worry about not keeping up with him. I helped masturbate him to orgasm yesterday and everything still works, but self-tinkering with prescription medication seems to be messing with his sex drive. I fixed myself up later in the day with some lube and the buzzing gift from heaven I bought on my last shopping trip.

Mother Nature threw a spanner in the sexual works a couple of days ago. I don’t like penetration when I’m bleeding, smelly (my sense of smell amplifies at that stage of my cycle and I dislike the merest whiff of my purging), cramping and double checking that tampons are out and towels are down if sex is on the menu. Too much fucking about but that doesn’t stop my mind spinning like a kinky porn DVD of everything I’d like to be doing.

With a bout of warmer weather shining on the southern hemisphere, Jekyll and I explored a park yesterday to determine its suitability to play out some outdoor fantasies. On first glance it was everything we hoped for: isolated car parks, bushland, sturdy outdoor furniture and undercover picnic benches. I want him to sit at a bench as I kneel on the ground and suck his cock while he controls and manoeuvres me with the lead attached to my collar. I also want to be on all-fours atop a picnic bench as he stands on the seat and takes me from behind. If that doesn’t wear us out, I also envision him bracing himself against a tree as I remove his jeans and tongue his arse until he’s so lust-crazed we collect scratches attacking each other on the ground. I wonder if Hyde is into the great outdoors. He’ll get an invitation, too.

On a more detailed recce the park’s features became everything the fun police have stuck their noses into: every stick of furniture is in open spaces under a light aircraft flight path and the scrub is too sparce (I trotted off to pee in the densest bush I could find and Jekyll wolf-whistled when my pants came off – an unconventional but effective way of testing visibility).

We traipsed around until sunset and returned to his car. I sucked him off as he reclined in the driver’s seat before we went our separate ways. He set me a challenge of masturbating but not climaxing for two days and I may have already broken his rules once or twice. I hope for a darn good spanking as punishment next time we meet.

Tensions are rising with ArmyDude. He has returned to his former workplace and we have been flirting incorrigibly with text messages and guardedly in code using e-mail. I keep thinking about his arms in short-sleeved shirts: forearms muscular and sinewy from years of weight training but tapering to refined wrists in contrast, as if he could snap me like a twig or seduce me with a velvet touch at will. Right now I’d like a lot of both. We were thinking about meeting this weekend but his plans changed at the last minute; I’m somewhat relieved as I might eat the poor man alive and scare him off. And I want to feel him inside me discovering, feeling, pushing, pulling, pleasuring, until we’re both sweaty and hurting. And not worry about tampons and towels.

Frustration doesn’t become me.

Final impressions of M1

The rest

The past suddenly bores me (seems to be a reflection of my present worldly ennui) so time to hit the ‘publish’ button and close this chapter of the past before returning to my ‘now’.

I accuse myself of thinking and analysing too much and sometimes taking too little action. The mental side of bondage and discipline is one of the few things that makes me live in the now: when I was bent over M1’s knees with my bare backside catching the breeze and trying to predict when a blow would land, I’d know I was alive. The guesswork of trying to sense when, where and how hard I’d feel an impact clears my mind of all other thoughts and makes me live each second. The constant anticipation is unexpectedly draining and the only time I’ve needed my safeword was not from physical pain, but because I had hit mental and sensory overload.

When my left wrist and left ankle cuffs were clipped together and my right side was a mirror image, nothing existed in life except the moment and trying to predict the next few seconds of my life. Would M1 straddle me and make me gag on his uncircumcised cock? Or find the uninterrupted view of my wet cunt too much to handle and fuck me in this defenceless state? If he was in a pleased frame of mind, he’d pull the collar so my neck and head were suspended in controlled animation as he fucked me. I will walk barefoot to the end of the earth across molten lava fields to experience that mix of control and helplessness again; joyfully, Jekyll has developed his own spin of biting my ear while holding a hand around my throat. I don’t know how and don’t know why but I get lost in a rush of conflicting but compatible discomforts and pleasures.

One day M1 took me to a shop that specialises in fetish clothing and accessories. My eyeballs almost exploded from the phantasmagoria of books, clothing, collars, toys, chastity devices, footwear and hitting implements. I wish, though, it wasn’t one of those uncomfortable pauses in people’s conversations that I said a little too loudly, “It’s like a big jewellery shop … but … with really cool stuff.” I received a glare from M1 for slipping out of role but the man at the counter and I shared a secret smile.

I’ll always remember the night M1 was driving us home from the fetish club and we were pulled over by police for roadside breath testing. I relaxed in the passenger seat as he had his alcohol level tested, knowing he’d be under the limit, but forgetting I was still clad in collar, cuffs and the leash draped in my lap until the policeman’s torch illuminated my side of the cabin. Whoops. Hello. That was the start of many policeman fantasies that are yet to be fulfilled.

M1 was the medium through which I found ways of creating lightness in what was a pit of cerebral darkness. And gave me the first sex I’ve had on a New Year’s Eve – brief, sweaty and uncomfortable in stifling humidity but this year is the only one I’ve started with a bang and a smack.

An anniversary of sorts – Part II

The good (and the funny)

From a deeply depressed period when physical pain and disrespect were what I craved and thought I wanted, I underwent a period of sexual evolution like a child left in a lolly shop after the doors were locked for the night. I’ll have a big, big bag of B(ondage), fill this box with D(omination), give me a few packets of S(ubmission), a handful of the other S S(adism) and I’m not sure I’ll like the aftertaste of M(asochism) so I’ll leave that for now.

Shedding the importance placed on others’ labels of people based on rituals, roles, pleasure and pain has made it easier for me to say, “I’m just me and I like what I like.” I’m not dominant, I’m not submissive, I don’t like the use of ‘switch’ in its derogative form to label those as people who don’t seem to know what they want. I’m not straight but I’m not what I think of as truly bisexual; I think ‘fluid’ is the closest term to describing my preferences. I’ll dress to my body type and not to stereotype, and if I laugh when I’m being urinated on and upset a serious humiliation session, so be it.

I like lots of things – perhaps the liquorice allsort of sexuality — and I’m sure there’s plenty I haven’t discovered yet. Try to worship my feet and I’ll use them to run a mile, but offer to bind them and I’ll be your best friend. Dress in a nappy and pretend to be infantile for me? Not in my worst nightmares. Dress in nothing and show me the vulnerability that’s usually hidden by strength? I’ll respect and honour that trust.

M1 helped that process of growth actively through his discretion and encouragement, and reflectively when I realised I had outgrown his sexual groupset and wanted to test my new self elsewhere.

M1 and I went to a BDSM club night a few times. He seemed to like that although I was collared and attached to his hand with a leather leash, I radiated a sense of the untouchable rather than possessed. Several past partners have commented on the wall I have around the core of my psyche – I didn’t know how or when I was doing it in those times, but when kneeling on the fetish club’s ageing carpet I could channel a reasonable Greta Garbo façade when I didn’t want the unaccompanied, leather-vested dominants leering at me like a potential late supper.

I liked to use the unspoken social code that others’ submissives are not spoken to without permission. In any other situation I’d treat what I consider as idiocy with disregard, but I used the periods of solitude to gaze at others going about their hidden lives. Fetish venues are a lifeline for those who have no other outlet, especially for cross-dressing men who were avoided by almost everyone (myth smashed that BDSMers were generally more open-minded than the ‘normal’ population!) but they could at least indulge their desires safely.

A female dominant caused confusion one night when she was preparing her two male slaves for a suspension bondage demonstration. Her corset so tightly bound her abundant figure that she appeared to have breasts spilling out the front and back of her body. My near-sighted eyes couldn’t tell if she was coming or going.

The Drummer may not have understood my yearnings but my roaming with M1 allowed new erotic material to fill his mind. On many occasions I’d arrive home with swollen lips, aching jaws, battered vagina and second-hand anus and The Drummer would be almost manic with lustful images of me being used by M1. Within minutes of hauling my weary frame in the door he would push me on the closest piece of floor, bedding or lounge suite and demand his fill. If we were canine, I’m sure it would have been the equivalent of re-marking his territory.

The Drummer’s protectiveness towards my personal safety didn’t align with some aspects of bondage, such as not being able to use a mobile phone at times. One morning M1 had me tied to the bed, fantasising I was his pony girl as he smacked me bright red with my riding crop. We lost track of time and I didn’t leave until later than expected, and I had forgotten to turn my phone on. Feeling refreshed and tingling after an enjoyable session, I stopped at the local shopping centre to take home lunch, having no idea The Drummer had left a dozen messages, contacted my parents and called the local police saying he thought I had fallen victim to foul play.

At the same time, I had parked my car immediately outside the police station he called because the shopping centre car park was full. I stopped to check my messages before getting out of the car and nearly died from embarrassment when I heard the panic that had ensued in my post-flogging daze. The Drummer was thankful I was alive but furious I had caused him such alarm, my parents had become aware that I sometimes disappear for the night (they haven’t mentioned anything since, thankfully) and the police – some of whom I know professionally – were on the lookout for me. I slinked home with my tail between my legs (and asked The Drummer to call off the police search rather than have me drop by the front counter to say I was alive and well).

An anniversary of sorts – Part I

The bad and the ugly

It’s been a year since my first external sexual encounter after The Drummer and I opened our relationship two years ago (yes, I took 12 months to shed the mental ties of jealousy, envy and confusion, and to tap into the freedom we had given each other). I smile with embarrassment thinking about the dichotomy of being a scaredy-cat sex fiend.

M1 was first. He is a sexually-dominant man who introduced me into the BDSM world. I met him through a sporting activity but can’t for the life of me remember how our conversations progressed to sexual interest and taking the leap to meeting one-on-one. It’s like the memory tries to erase traumatic experiences with time but has done it mischievously with a positive experience.

We were involved for about seven months, meeting at his family’s holiday house every second or third weekend as schedules allowed. While I’m vague on how we got together, I’m clear about ending our involvement as my interest waned and I lengthened the time between meetings with excuses. I lost the ‘always on’ mindset of a submissive – the feeling of service without accompanying desire was the death knell that told me to move on.

The sense of achievement gained from completing his homework dulled after several tasks to insert kitchen implements in both holes and send photographic evidence. I used cutlery, wooden spoons, spatulas (handle end only on the inside, thanks), and almost everything short of egg rings, but his demands kept coming without giving even thanks in return. I started dreading his messages.

My role also evolved into more of a service submissive than a sexual submissive. My duty was to supply and change bed linen, maintain a stock of condoms, take (and pay for) ingredients to prepare meals and ferry cups of milky tea when I wasn’t kneeling at his feet waiting for something to happen. Before departing for our other lives I’d also clean the kitchen, vacuum, sweep floors and bag up the rubbish to take home (the holiday house was bring everything in/take everything out and I did the bringing everything in and taking everything out). With the benefit of hindsight, domestic duties were tolerable when sexual rewards were fresh and plentiful but I became resentful when the scales tipped permanently to his advantage.

Occasionally he set tasks that guaranteed failure to meet his unspoken desire to inflict punishment. Manipulation of power and setting up a submissive for guaranteed failure are among the biggest potential ills of dom/sub relationships. One night both wrist cuffs were attached to my collar and I had to prepare and serve a meal with my hands somewhere near my chin and my ankles bound to allow about six inches of movement. I didn’t mind challenges with a degree of difficulty (watch me hurl hot food from stove top to table without burning my nose!) but sometimes he’d throw spanners in the works to see me fail. He seemed gleeful at seeing me muddle along before he ‘had’ to step in with punishment.

On this occasion I managed the evening meal adequately until I served and fed him dessert. The pastry encasing the lemon tart had hardened in the fridge and the spoon wouldn’t cut with the limited leverage I had. The more I hacked, the more he sniffed his opportunity to hurt me. I ended up bent over a coffee table with the thick leather paddle applied to my bare arse. The ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’ frustration caused more tears to flow than the searing heat of the beating. The dominant is not always correct and he never displayed the strength to admit weaknesses in judgement or behaviour.

As I developed greater confidence and self awareness, I could isolate what worked and what didn’t as part of my wish list for future encounters. His few attempts at performing oral sex on me were out of duty than pleasure — life is the longest thing we have but it’s still too short to live without mutual oral pleasures. One day he urinated on me in the shower stall without allowing me to remove the leather accoutrements, knowing full well I’d be cleaning the piss off them afterwards — I have enough domestic work to do at home without adding more in my personal life, thank you very much. They were interesting lessons for me learn that I don’t serve purely for service’s sake.

Ultimately, he was left by the wayside as I craved newer and broader experiences to sate my growing hunger. Submission in isolation was a profound learning experience at the time but I also had domination and other adventures on my mind.

It wasn’t all bad and the good times deserve a separate entry.

Postscript: M1 left a message about an hour ago and we haven’t spoken for a couple of months. Perhaps his ears started burning that I was ‘talking’ about him.

Who needs enemies when I have me

A few days ago the sneaking hound of depression bit without a warning growl. Nothing is how it was, even though the only change in the world is my perception.

My mindscape has warped into a Dali-esque interpretation of Alice in Wonderland and I have morphed into a paranoid, suspicious shrew. Yesterday’s innocuous thoughts are today’s threats and life’s minor hiccoughs have grown and mutated into immovable roadblocks. Everyone within reach is guilty of scheming against me until proven innocent or driven away. Jekyll is the latest to experience my transformation into a self-centred monster and I think I am sub-consciously provoking him to validate my eroded self worth.

He cancelled last weekend’s arrangements at short notice. My normal, know-my-place-in-the-world self would have shrugged it off because life sometimes gets in the way. The possessed-by-demons me fired off an e-mail:

I don’t know what’s reality and what’s a figment of my imagination at times. For instance, I’ve felt a bit isolated from you the last few days and I don’t know if that’s merely because we haven’t had one-on-one time, or my ego choosing to become offended that I’ll always be second string to your family commitments while most of the time it’s a good thing for both of us as we know the rules, or medication messing with my perception, or something my intuition hasn’t been able to put its finger on yet. Fuck knows.

Jekyll’s intolerance of emotional games is a quality I value greatly. I don’t get away with the tiniest dose of eyelash fluttering or wheedling, even in jest. We spend time together positively for reasons based around pleasure and experience and are comfortable with our emotional boundaries: We’re grown-ups playing adult games and we’ve got it all worked out watch us for a lesson in having fun without anyone getting hurt … whoops, game over.

He e-mailed a measured and balanced response without playing my game, as I knew he would when I hit the ‘send’ button. Now I’m too embarrassed to face the consequences although he’s interested in understanding the ‘other’ in my personality. With mental stability returning, I think at the time I just wanted a hug and a warm, understanding body to melt into and forget about life for a while. The Drummer was working, Jekyll had other priorities, I have kept my family in the dark and I felt resentful towards everyone for ‘deserting’ me, even though I didn’t tell anyone I was in need. Pride is a pathetic camouflage for internal hurt.

I feel selfish in wanting to protect Jekyll from my erratic periods, to keep us on ‘first date’ best behaviour without the domesticities of a primary relationship, but be emotionally available when I want or need more attention. I don’t think I want him to peel my inner layers, but it’s not fair to shut him in a dark toy chest until I want to play again.

He has re-scheduled our plans again because of mixed-up dates. My intuition is too wonky to interpret his error as sincerity or a step to loosen the ties. He has no reason to lie and I have no reason to question his motives but I am thinking too much and understanding too little and don’t know up from down. My lack of faith is going to hurt both of us, especially me if I hit the self-sabotage button first to prove my pride correct. In the meantime, he is e-mailing as usual and oblivious to most of my hidden turmoil. The storm needs to abate before I front up tomorrow night because he deserves a lot of my trust and a little more of my respect.

He saw, he sort of conquered, he never came

Hope is one of life’s most affirming qualities but is sometimes a screen to hide facing an unavoidable and unpleasant reality. The Drummer’s experience at the swingers’ party fell firmly into the latter.

He called a couple of hours after he left to say he was heading home. I asked how his night went although the lifeless drone of his voice said more than enough. His response went along the lines of, “There were 15 men, only five women and they were all old broilers and I tried to fuck a garden gnome of a woman but she smelled awful when I went down on her so I tried to fuck her but I went soft.”

Okay, see you when you get home.

There could be lessons among the sweeping insults expressed from his frustration.

I am unsure if The Drummer’s view of casual sex is merely different to mine or indicative of an overall difference between women and men. He was content to settle for any sex because the first woman who spoke to him was available and interested even though he wasn’t attracted to her. In bluntest terms, he got what he set himself up for and hope interfered with reality. I’ve avoided once-off encounters for years because in the space of minutes or hours no one will have a grip on what I like, where my boundaries lay, develop the trust to work out where they might be stretched, and likewise me to understand what makes a new partner feel good. I have fucked casually for fun but I can’t remember ever for satisfaction.

After having sex with her for about 10 minutes he lost his erection and said he’d return for round two, but post-libido letdown set in and he dressed and left. I’d have left after first scanning the room, but perhaps that’s where he’s less averse to risking disappointment.

I’m unsure what he was expecting after we went to the first swingers’ party, apart from a higher ratio of unattached men. He sees the pool for meeting other women even smaller after the no-shows from online meeting sites and this experience. I didn’t know how to respond except suggest that instead of trying to change the mindsets of those around him, he could step back and wait for the right woman or women to cross his path. He said I couldn’t understand his frustration that women are generally more conservative and protective of their sexualities and often scared to step over the line from interest to action. I understand because I’ve been there but it’s difficult for the randy and idealistic to listen to my appeal for patience. I’ll live in hope that he understands what he wants and be energised rather than deflated by the thrill of the chase.