Greater Expectations (11 page)

As my cock softened, the tendon relinquished control of my eyelids and they slowly opened, a smug smile of self satisfaction adorned my face. At this point, my head was facing out of the passenger window although I had been lost in the moment and so had been paying no heed to the outside world. Happily cocooned in the car, swathed in my own ignorance, completely trusting of Sian.

Had I learned nothing from this girl and her family?

My senses slowly returned as my bigger brain began to take back control from my hairy brain, when  I suddenly realised that we were in the overtaking lane. Looking up through the window I saw what must have been a hundred faces staring back at me from an old folks tour bus, obviously out on a day trip somewhere. It seemed that every single passenger was staring down at me, frozen in shock as I was, with my cock still in hand and trousers at my ankles. Each male face portraying their own unique look of shock and disgust, with each of the females apparently finding the whole episode hilarious.

Two of the ladies, one with purple hair and the other bright red, actually gave me the thumbs up!

It would seem that my big finish was all too quick for Sian and this was her revenge. In spite of my repeated requests that were tantamount to begging, she refused to leave the shadow of the bus and so only prolonged my humiliation. She also thought it funny to ask me,
“So why does premature ejaculation take so long to say?”

Ironically, it was the bus
that took the exit for the services as Sian had obviously decided that our moment had passed. She took me straight home without uttering another word. Indeed, she never even responded to my sullen “goodbye” and drove away as soon as I closed the still tinny car door.

My weekend’s misery was complete when Penny called on Sunday evening to wallow in my discomfort. Apparently she had been thinking about nothing other than my predicament the whole weekend and could not wait a second longer to find out what had happened. She absolutely squealed with the delight of a child as I expl
ained each excruciating detail.

“Spare nothing now
Z, complete honesty. Remember?”

Remember? How could I forget? Now she knows that I am, quite litera
lly, a voyeuristic wanker.

15

Wishing I Was Lucky

Wednesday 18th February

It really is strange how seeing one thing can lead you to thinking of something completely different. Today, for example, I saw a mother berate her child for running off. They were getting out of their car and the mother had stood the child to the side as she took out the stroller. As she did so, the little girl saw her chance for a run. The rain was pounding the pavement and there was no protection on her head as her jacket hood had fallen down. The child’s glee had made me smile as she tore away for freedom with look of sheer joy on her innocent wee face. In the middle of that busy car park, she was blissfully unaware of the dangers to herself nor the anxiety and stress her actions were causing her mum. Her mum who had now abandoned everything and was racing after her. It was over in seconds but this was undoubtedly a lifetime in her mum’s eyes.

The relief on her face in that split second when she recaptured her daughter was one reserved exclusively for all mothers everywhere.

That’s when I realised that I had been so wrapped up with my own life and its problems that I had completely ignored my own parents. It has been weeks since we last spoke and I know they will be beside themselves with worry. It was only now, after seeing a child run away from its parent, that I see that this is exactly what I have been doing myself. Yet there is no better time for such an epiphany seeing that I need advice in how to deal with Gemma’s email.

How absolutely shameful.

It is an unenviable juxtaposition for my parents, trying to find that right balance of giving me space to cope whilst also being so desperate to help. They would never contact me for fear of such action being misconstrued as “interfering”. As with most parents, the good ones anyway, they would rather give me the space to come to them when they are needed. I suppose I will never fully understand this particular dilemma until I have children of my own. Indeed, it has taken me over thirty years to have even considered what parents go through when worrying for their children. I never needed to before and I suppose I don’t really need to now. Certainly they aren’t expecting me to be so considerate. They never have. I wonder if I am the only child that has come to this conclusion on their own. I imagine not but I would guess, statistically, I am in the minority and this realisation pleases me no end.

A steep learning curve indeed.

Parents have a way of cutting through the nonsense and honing straight on the point. It’s why we love and hate them in equal measure, I suppose. Sometimes the harsh reality is not what we want. This is most often an opportunity for us children to berate them for “not understanding”. Yet I now know that all they want is to ease their child’s suffering and pain as quickly and efficiently as possible. Again, this much is understandable. In my case, however, I seem to enjoy wallowing in my own misery for a while to fully consider and so exhaust every possible outcome before making any major life decisions. In my current predicament, it was more akin to flogging the dead horse before finally shooting it.

This is just my way and my folks understand and respect this. They always have although it could hardly have ever been easy for them. I can only hope that, in this regard, my parents are unique inasmuch as they are the same as everyone else’s.

I shall confine our conversation to Gemma’s email. This would take up enough time and let them feel involved in my life. This keeps us all happy. The last thing I needed now was any moral judgments on my own behaviour. As it was, my parents saw me as the prince of the piece and Gemma the wicked witch, why burst that bubble? I had their sympathy and that is good enough for me, for I still reigned supreme as the self styled “King of self-pity”.

I sat down in my sentinel’s seat that allowed me the optimum view of the car park, although I was far more interested in watching the rain that was pounding rhythmically against the window. Wearing jogging bottoms and an old rugby top, I grabbed the cotton throw over from the couch, pulling it tight around me and called home.

Ironically, I had a look more befitting the wicked witch than the prince.

On hearing my voice, my mother asked me to hold on a second. It seemed that Dad was to be allowed to partake in this particular conversation given that Mum had taken the time to put me on speakerphone. I read them Gemma’s email and found that the tone of my voice grew louder and harder with the slow and deliberate pronunciation of each passing word. Anger was to blame for this–even although I already knew what was to be read–yet still I could not suppress this most basic of emotions. When I finished reading, I offered nothing more by way of opinion and chose to remain silent. It instinctively felt right to allow them to fully absorb the implications in order to advise me accordingly. As such, it was Mum who spoke first. Her reaction was pleasing if completely unexpected. It is only in times of trial and triumph that you fully see people for who and what they really are.

My tactile, gentle, and loving mum?

Underneath it all she is a champion.

“Is she
fucking
kidding? Not a single mention of her indiscretions, her infidelity? Not a single ounce of remorse?” Dad tried to calm her down but that only made her worse. “No, I will not calm
fucking
down. That is
my
son.
Our
son. Are you happy to just sit there and listen to this… this…
SHIT
?”

Dad was now in the firing line.

“I’m sorry Dad. Mum, if I had known it would upset you this much I never would have mentioned it. I just want you guys to know what is going on and, being honest, I could really use some advice. I am so betwixt and between that I need to know if you think my marriage is worth fighting for. Is this one of the ‘downs’ that married couples go through?”

A reasonable enough question I thought.

It seems, yet again, I was wrong.

“No, this is not a fucking ‘down’, this is a marriage knock out.” I really have no idea where my mum keeps coming up with these boxing metaphors. Is it wrong that I find them highly amusing? Under the circumstances, it is quite inappropriate and I am so glad that they cannot see my smile that she has generated. Her anger at my situation has completely replaced my own. “No son of mine is
ever
second best to
any
man.
Ever!
”

“Dad, what do you think?” I was really getting rather concerned with my mum’s reaction, not to mention her blood pressure. Asking Dad might calm her down. His reaction was
equally as surprising as Mum’s.

“Do you still love her son? If you do, then follow your heart. If not, then let her go. Whatever you decide, we will support.” This was obviously not what Mum wanted to
hear.

“No, we most certainly will…” was all Mum could say before Dad cut her off.

“Yes, we will. Whatever
you
want son,
we will
support.” It had been years since I had last heard my father use this tone. It was menacingly authoritative and it stunned my mother into silence. He had decided that this conversation was done and so concluded with, “Well keep in touch and let us know how things go. She will always be made welcome here if you decide to remain married. Whatever you decide, keep in touch. Your mother worries, as do I. We love you son. Goodbye.”

It was now that I began to see what my parents saw in each other. They had a mutual love and respect that I knew I would, and now could, never have with Gemma. For
her
to be happy with
us
, all my decisions would have to actually be
her
decisions. No matter what
I
said or did, no matter what “career”
I
might have, it would never be good enough for her. I could live with my decisions but she could not. She would never accept any responsibility for her negative actions whereas I would always be defending mine. This was not the recipe for a happy relationship. One full of mutual love and respect. As all these thoughts settled in my head, I came to realise that it was actually over. My torment of the last few days in trying to draft the perfect email response quickly subsided. The email would be easy enough to write now.

Dear Gemma,

I have taken my time to fully consider our future as a married couple and can only conclude that there is none. As such, I shall be seeking legal representation in order to ensure our divorce is concluded as expediently and efficiently as possible.

I suggest that you do the same.

I wish you all that you wish for yourself. A clean break and a fresh start allows us both to move on and find the partners that I believe are destined for us. I wish you luck in that endeavour.

(I wished him luck too but I kept this to myself)

As it is my home in Scotland, I am happy to allow you to stay there in the short term but please try and find alternative accommodation as quickly as possible. In the interim, I shall remain in London so that there is no chance of us meeting each other, accidentally or otherwise.

Take care,

Z

I blind copied the email to Penny. I figured it was easier than trying to explain what had transpired between my parents, and I would have just read her the email anyway. This way she knows exactly what has gone on without the need for me to actually verbalise it. In hitting the “send” key, a sense of both relief and grief surged through me. Relief that it was over and grief for the death of my marriage.

After the message was sent, my screen defaulted to my inbox and I sat back and simply stared out the window for a few minutes, trying to take stock of the enormity of my actions. The rain was incessant but yet strangely comforting. The noise from my computer brought me back from my thoughts and the email response was far quicker than I had expected. Actually, I hadn’t even thought of a response so hadn’t expected anything. It was from Penny.

Are you okay? Call if you need me.

Call anyway.

Soon.

P x

How does she always seem to know just what to say? I shall
call her, and it shall be soon.

Just not now.

Now I was alone with my thoughts and that is exactly what I wanted and needed to be.

Turning my attention back to the window, I saw through my pain that it was no longer raining. As my chest heaved, the
tears came and my heart broke.

16

Deaf, Dumb…And Dumber!

Friday 20th February

It had been two days with no response from Gemma. This was not what I had anticipated. Knowing her, she hated to fail in anything and that would include her marriage. I knew to expect something, but had no idea what to expect nor when to expect it.

There had also been no contact from Sian. That, in itself, was a relief but she had made me realise how important sex was to me and how much I had missed it. I missed the intimacy, the warmth, the most basic natural urge to copulate with another human being.

Someone other than my hand.

I used to be impulsive and carefree, something of a player. What I really needed was a drink and to be out in the world. London is on my doorstep for fuck sake, there is nowhere better to go out and have fun and enjoy yourself. I quickly called Ed before the notion wore off me. He readily agreed to come out to play–he always does–and so plans were hastily made and we met in the pub within the hour.

Ed is a great guy. He is slightly older than me and never married. He is entirely too sensible for that. Also, he has never had an alcoholic drink in his life. This is hugely advantageous for people like me when going out with him as he is always happy to be the designated driver. I once asked him why he has never taken a drink and it transpired that his uncle and aunt were alcoholics and so he associates alcohol with misery and hardship. Not a bad lesson learnt if you ask me. Mind you, I fully appreciate the virtues of
a controlled alcoholic intake.

Not that tonight’s intake was going to be in any way controlled.

There comes a point in every night where you end up chasing the party rather than being firmly ensconced within it. This often coincides with the moment that all logic, rhyme, and reason are abandoned too. Tonight was no different for me. We had landed at the local nightclub and were thoroughly enjoying the delights on offer when I was suddenly aware that I had lost Ed. If I had been sober, then this was the point when I would have just gone home. However, I was getting horny, and being drunk in a crowd of beautiful people gave me both Dutch courage and an element of hope. As long as there is even the merest sliver of hope, and an open bar, it is all but impossible for me to think rationally.

Wherever Ed was, I was certain that all my faculties were with him.

Selecting my optimal spot for the evenings predations, I made myself comfortable in the corner of the bar. There were two reasons for this. Firstly, I cannot dance to save my life. Us Scots aren’t built to dance. If I were to dance, it is a sure fire guarantee that it will rain the next day. Secondly, leaning back against the wall and wedging my waist under the bar and my arm upon it, were the only things saving me from falling. I was also now drinking water in my shot glass, my drunken logic being that I was still looking mean and moody drinking what would appear to be straight vodka. In the cold light of day I can understand that this may not be the look that everyone else might see. However, that mattered not to me then.

As with every decent nightclub, it was rather busy. I found myself a barstool and decided that sitting would make me seem more suave and debonair. To be seen sitting alone in my little corner would only add to my enigmatic persona and so the barstool was ideal for my particular requirements. It was in my self m
ade eyrie that I was approached–well, she more accidently bumped into me if truth be told–by a wonderfully buxom girl who exercised the best chat up line in the world upon me.

“Oh hello” she said.

“Hello” my witty retort. How intriguing, I was enjoying the verbal foreplay already. She was wearing heels so high that I was quite certain they were in a different postcode. As such, she stood at what must have been the better part of six feet. I decided to take this conversation to the next level.

“May I buy you a drink?” I asked with a smile on my lips and a twinkle in my eye.

“Vodka and cola, no ice.” she responded in an equally flirtatious manner.

I took the drink and turned around to pass it to her and turned back to pay the barman. As I was handing over my money, I saw her hand place the glass back on the bar. Empty. Gone. Vamoose. She had downed the drink before I had even paid for it. Very impressive. As I turned to tell her so, she grabbed my collar a
nd kissed me full on the mouth.

Naturally, I responded in kind.

She pushed me back, breaking the kiss. “Let’s get a cab to your place. I want to fuck.” Where had these girls been before when I was single? Sexual predators, these women are the future. Certainly they are
my
future. Well, at least this one is. It wasn’t until we were in my place that she spoke again. It was then that I realised why she was a woman of so few words.

“Toilet?” she demanded more than asked. I showed her where it was but it was immediately apparent in the way she asked that she was dumb. Not “dumb” as in stupid, but “dumb” in the way that she cannot speak properly. I hadn’t noticed in the club as it was simply too loud. It wasn’t until she came back into the living room that I discovered that she was deaf too.

Man, can I pick them?

What was I to do? Does deaf and dumb qualify as disabled? Is she really fair game to fuck? Am I taking advantage of this girl? So many questions and there is not one sober thought in my head. Every single instinct I have is screaming at me to fuck her. I have no clue if I am wearing beer goggles but she is looking
very
attractive to me right now.

Totally fuckable.

Totally
.

It’s then that I remember that we are only here at
her
insistence. It was she who wanted me to fuck her. She had actually said so. At least, I thought that’s what she had said. She could have been yawning for all I know. Whatever, she was here now and she definitely wants to fuck me. What kind of gentleman would I be to refuse the request of this kindly buxom maiden? That question I actually do have an answer to. I would be no gentleman at all. Therefore it is only my duty to this poor lady to engage in sexual intercourse for her own benefit. I shall take the hit for the greater good.

Her
greater good.

I led her to my bed chamber with my virgin memory foam mattress adorned with its freshly laundered linen. This poor girl has no idea that she is to be regaled with me performing at my sexual peak, this naïve young woman destined to enjoy all the delights of the human flesh. She is getting it and no mistake. I entered my own bedroom with the swagger and arrogance to match any professor in a lecture hall
. This was my realm, my domain.

Or so I thought.

No sooner had the door closed than she grabbed me, kissed me, then pushed me backwards onto the bed. Before I had fully settled into the bed, she was already undressing me and had me naked in under 20 seconds. No mean feat and quite remarkable. There is a growing suspicion within me that she may have done this before. She is already performing fellatio upon me whilst simultaneously undressing herself. This is simply wonderful and I am rapt in awe at her skills.

That was when things took a turn for the worse.

Whilst I have always been a most grateful recipient of oral sex, rarely has the contributor wandered off the area at hand, as it were, in search of pastures new. Only on a handful of occasions have my balls been called into play. This was proving to be another of those rare occasions as she was now sucking my balls. She seems to be fully focussed in the task as she has yet to look up. I only know this as I am looking down and wondering if I should let her know that she is sucking too hard. It really is sore. Seriously. Then I realise that something is not quite right.

I instinctively know that there is s
omething wrong, but what is it?

There is a fact of nature that women may not know but every man, from a very early age, certainly
does
know. When a man gets hit in the testicles, from a glancing flick to a full blown kick, there is a delayed reaction. A small delay but a delay nonetheless. It takes a few seconds for the brain to prepare itself for the most excruciating and unbearable pain that is soon to follow. I can tell you from this experience that this delay is prolonged through the effects of drunkenness.

She had
chomped
on my balls!

I knew it was futile to try and tell her to stop. Instinct replaced chivalry and, with no other viable option, I grabbed her by the ears and pulled. It was the only protruding appendage available given her position. She screamed in her own pain, although it was the most bellowing guttural sound I have ever heard that escaped from her. Much like someone screaming in slow motion in the movies. I immediately replaced her mouth with both my hands, hoping my cr
adle would ease the pain.

It did not.

“Sorry” she said in a voice more from the nose than the throat. She regained her composure and came around to the side of my bed. In my crouched position she started to kiss my exposed back. I was in no fit state to stop her. The pain had subsided somewhat when she gently forced me onto my front and was kissing and massaging the small of my back.

Nothing good could come from stopping her so I let her continue, safe in the knowledge that all of my sensitivities were safely protected.

Her hands were all over me, her tongue and mouth licking and kissing what seemed to be all of my back and legs. Then she started working each of her hands on the cheeks of my ass. I had no idea my ass was so sensitive and it was quite a magical feeling. I felt myself relaxing again as the pain subsided from my testicular area. As her hands started rotating each of my ass cheeks, I felt her tongue tracing its way along the full length of my crack.

It’s very strange the thoughts that go through my head at the most inopportune times. At this point in time I should be completely enjoying myself but all I cannot help but wonder if my ass is actually clean. I scramble through my drunken memories of the evening and remember that I had a shower before I went out and I have had no use for this orifice since. Just as this relief was sinking in, my attention was brought screaming
back to the situation in hand.

In her hands, actually.

It’s only now that the complete absurdity of the situation hits me. I have no clue, none at all, of this girl’s name. Here am I, laid face down in my own new bed, and with absolutely no way of communicating with her. Worse still, I am still drunk and so my senses are suitably dulled. On top of which she has now separated my ass cheeks and, with a deftness of tongue that would render even the greatest of politicians crippled with jealousy, she is physically
licking
my ass hole.

Worst of all, I believe that I am actually
enjoying
it.

She gently pulls at my hips in a backwards motion. She
is showing me that she wants me–
fucking me?
–in the doggy position. She is still licking my ass hole. Why not? I have no idea what her plan is but it’s plain to me that she is certainly not the maiden I originally envisaged. I really should give up on the idea of stereotypes. There is a deeply uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability being in the doggy position. I have never thought of that before. My ass hole is completely exposed and it makes me think that this is one of those few times when someone else can look and see what I never can. I mean, how can you look at your own ass hole. I wonder if mine’s is nice? The only way I can ever expect to inspect it for myself is if I become one of those Chinese gymnasts. Unless I use a mirror. When would I ever do that? Indeed, why would I ever do that? Hold this effort. I really am spending too much time pondering my own hitherto ignored ass hole. A more pressing concern is what is she thinking to do? No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when…

“OH FUCKING HELLO???”

She has shot her tongue up my ass!

“MY FUCKING ASS?”

What the
holy fuck
is happening here? Is
nothing
sacred anymore? It’s writhing around inside my ass hole like an untended garden hose with a fully opened faucet. Only she has a tongue that must be longer than Gene Simmons from KISS! Oh the irony, a deaf and dumb girl with a tongue a whale would be proud of and, among it all, I cannot help but admire her resourcefulness.

She has certainly found another use for her otherwise redundant tongue.

I am thoroughly ashamed of myself yet I really don’t want her to stop. Why don’t I want her to stop? This is disgusting. I am disgusted. Yet this is so enjoyable, I have never experienced a feeling like this before. Is this what gay men do? Do they use their tongues and penises this way? What have I been missing? Am I now gay?

Wait a fucking minute…

There is
no way
I am gay. I know that for damn sure. Yet she is now tongue fucking my ass, probing it straight in and wriggling out. It is quite exquisite. One thing is for sure fire certain, I am definitely not going to be kissing her anytime soon.

I will also certainly not be returning the favour!

Now my brain is properly fucked. She has reached around and is playing with my cock with her free hand. I have no idea where to focus. She is massaging something in my ass with the tip of her tongue. Ironically, it is simply delicious to me. Is it possible that this is my G-spot? No sooner am I contemplating this when I am suddenly aware that I have come. Oh, and how I have come. She is still working her tongue in my ass and I am still coming.