I have often noticed a curious disparity between the women that writers, particularly amateur writers like me, write about, and the ones I see in the street. It could be that I live in the wrong part of the world, although I very much doubt that, but compared with the literary fantasies that grace the pages of adult literature, at least that which I read on SOL, the ladies I see can only be described as dogs. But they're not, of course, each and every one of them is a warm and vibrant human being, and they all have something going for them. They are simply not drop dead gorgeous; they're not models, or film stars. Well, okay, one or two are, and there just have to be one or two that you wouldn't be able to manage, don't there? My point is that very few women look like film or television stars, and when it comes down to it, those women who are the stars really don't look like that when they are scrubbed clean of the motley and their hair is hanging just like nature intended. Or like they just got up in a hurry.
Let's have some examples: Tess Daly, co-presenter with Sir Bruce of Strictly Come Dancing. Fancy her? She's in her forties – an old lady according to the SOL standards, and believe me when she's in her sweats taking the kids to school she looks it. Then there was the girl who worked in the shop I bought my smart phone from. Sara was it? I can't remember. Blonde? Well no she wasn't. Early twenties, bleached and heavily made up, I won't go into her life story but me being me I got quite a lot of it, but my greatest wish was to get her in a shower and give her a good scrub. I might have shagged her after that, but for heaven's sake, don't you want to know what you're sticking your private parts into? Well I sure as hell do, and an impression of womanhood by Max Factor or Maybeline doesn't cut it for me. Not, let's be honest, that there was a snowball in hell's chance that I'd have got into her knickers, I mean, in the middle of Dorchester Cornmarket? Get real.
Then there are the ones who may look good, but have nothing worth mentioning between their ears, and believe me I've been in that situation, it's embarrassing, you have to be able to have some sort of conversation, you can't shag all the time. Oh sorry, some of you do seem to be able to. There are also the ones with chips on their shoulders for whatever reason, some because they can't control their eating, or maybe because they don't have cocks. I'm happy with fat ones, thin ones or really anyones, but fer chrissakes, there are limits.
But joking aside, most girls and women are just average people. And so are blokes, and I am one of those; middle aged, lecherous, average looking, bespectacled, bearded, thinning on top, you get the picture. But I'm always on the lookout, same as the rest of you, and if a female of any age smiles at me I'm ready to get up and running. Hot to trot.
So there I was, standing in front of the counter in the bakers shop contemplating which cake would really light up my day when a female voice said:
"Hello, Mr Smith, how are you settling in?
I turned, my ever ready smile lighting up at the sound of a female voice, to see probably, no certainly, the only young lady that I was acquainted with in this town. And to say I barely knew her would be an understatement, she was one of the girls from the estate agents through whom we had purchased our new property.
I guess I'd better go back to the beginning, it seems to be a logical place to start. Then we'll go on through the middle until we get to the present, we can't go further than that.
In the beginning ... no, too biblical. Okay, it all started when Her Loveliness and I got rather fed up with our lives and ... no even that isn't right. It really started when HL's step mother died, from natural causes, and I have to tell you that nothing works other than natural causes, and I will include blunt instruments and sharp ones in that, because we tried sticking pins in effigies and doing incantations and all sorts of things like that, but no, nothing worked, and the old bitch died in her own good time of ... natural causes. Even then she managed to thwart us, because all we got was the house, all the contents went to the bitch's avaricious daughters along with any cash. Sorry, did that sound a bit harsh? Not to me. Oh yes, the thwarting, well the housing market was so depressed it took us ages to get rid of the old pile, but eventually we did. With a few hundred thousand smackeroonies burning a hole in our bank account it didn't take long to find our own Shangri La, Mon Repose or whatever.
We had in fact moved quite a long way from our original home, and that was why we knew no one. It was also a fact that all the estate agents, with the exception of one, had tried to sell us anything within our price range, and not listened to what we actually wanted. This one agent, and particularly this one young lady, gave us several properties to look at all of which would have fitted the list we gave them, except ... Several were associated with horses. Now, don't get me wrong here, I don't dislike horses, but then I don't particularly like them either; dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle? Yes, probably, but they are smelly, messy buggers too, and the big problem is that they are either kept in conditions which are almost military in their precision, painted, polished and cleaned to a fault, or they are kept in conditions that are, as the estate agent finally put it, shite, and that's the way these were. Chewed up pasture, old baths for water, old oil drums and bits of wood for jumps, white tape everywhere so the silly buggers don't run into barbed wire, and stables that are the equivalent of Dickensian slums for people. We will not mention the middens. And since they were all intending to live 'next door' on part of the original holding, pleasant as they were, it was an uninviting prospect. Mind you it wouldn't do for me to live next door to the other type either.
We did find our little slice of paradise, everything fitted as we wanted, we had a little bit of land, a nice big barn for me, and a smaller building that would suit for HL's business. Although she is disabled, having had a couple of major illnesses, she likes to keep busy and contribute to the household which is just fine. Due to her illnesses we haven't had a physical relationship for some years, but an internet connection helps take care of that.
So we had settled in nicely which is why I could truthfully reply:
"Yes, thank you, everything is just as we wanted..." my brain was working overtime for a second, "settled in perfectly Ruth."
It was, of course, the name that I had been searching for, she had had it on one of those pin on things that everyone seems to have nowadays, all part of trying to give a personal service, and I had used it whilst we were in the office. At the use of her name she did something which I have seen women do on many occasions and which I can only describe as a 'ripple' or perhaps a shiver of pleasure. I had also noted that the girls in the office had a uniform, not very obvious and indeed HL didn't notice, but a pale apricot coloured cardigan over a white blouse with a grey skirt. It was a nice touch I thought, and the reason why I was able to say:
"It's your day off?"
"Yes," she replied. "We have to work the weekends so we take time off during the week. We take it in turns and agree between ourselves who has what. Anyway, how did you know?"
"You're in mufti."
"Mufti, sorry, old army slang for anything other than your uniform."
"You were in the army?"
"Yes, Royal Engineers for a spell."
"You seem to have done a lot of things from what I remember you saying, but I wouldn't have put you down as a soldier."
"Well, you change as you get older, and I never did like shaving. You've seen Dick Strawbridge on TV?"
She nodded. "Yes, does all those experiments and things."
"Does he look like an ex-soldier?"
This time she giggled. "Yeah, he looks like the one in the old poster, you know, England need you."
Well, you can't win 'em all.
At this point the girl behind the counter asked if she could help.
"Have you any suggestions as to which cake would be best," I asked Ruth.
Again the giggle. "You got to be joking! With my figure even looking at a cake isn't a good idea."
And I supposed she was right. Ruth was, I estimated about twenty, certainly not pretty, and somewhat, shall we say, cuddly. The sort of girl of whom people rather unkindly say, 'But she's got a nice personality.' But that said it was quite apparent that not only did she have a nice personality, but she was well dressed, albeit in the latest fashion which didn't entirely suit her, but to be honest doesn't suit many girls. I selected a couple of cakes and then turned back to her.
"If I were to buy you a cup of coffee you could tell me all about the area. I take it you've lived here a while."
"All my life," she replied. "And coffee would be very nice."
I settled for the cakes and we repaired to, you could guess because they are everywhere, the local Costa Coffee shop. We chatted for about half an hour or so and then we parted.
"I'll buy coffee next time," she told me, and I replied that I would look forward to it. I didn't make a definite commitment as to time and date, it seemed to me that given the difference in our ages, she was, after all young enough to be my daughter, it might be a little too much like a date, and whilst I enjoyed her company I didn't want to frighten her off. We parted outside with a wave.
.... There is more of this story ...