Dream Date

I had tidied and cleaned the house like a whirling dervish, or one of Rowling’s Dementor's. Order and hygiene restored, I had plonked down on the sofa with my laptop, scrolling the socials. I wasn’t looking. Well - not consciously.

If I’d been on my phone instead, I might have missed the ad. On my laptop, the whole, gloriously garish advert displayed. Bloody algorithms. I was hooked. I took the bait. I clicked, and fell in.

So beautiful. All of them were pretty; some stunningly so. But I was a sucker for a bit ‘more’. Not for me slim or taut. I liked heft. A bit of weight. A bit more depth, not straight up and down. A touch of mystery, perhaps; although my time with her would be limited, it was still nice to be surprised by depth of character and one who perhaps was more, or at least different, than she first appeared. Nothing dirty or illegal, though.

Damn COVID, again! Businesses ‘pivoting’ had made this all too easy. If I’d had to go out looking, like I used to…

I love my husband, desperately, and I know he loves me. Our children are wonderful young men, but mostly off our hands. I’m not needed by any of them like I once was. And my husband knows me, certainly better than I know myself. He can see the look on my face, an expression, a glaze in my eyes, that tells him I need this.

It had become a habit for him to take himself off for a surfing/fishing/camping break. When the boys were younger, he’d take them, too. To give me a break. To give me the house to myself for the weekend.

So I could indulge myself. Indulge my appetite.

I knew it wasn’t unusual. On the contrary, there was a whole industry worth billions of dollars in my country alone, devoted just to my predilections.

Sometimes, once I’d indulged myself so thoroughly, I would feel grungy, soiled. But once he was home, once we’d resumed normal marital relations with our signature Scorpio gusto, I felt better. More relaxed and fuller, like a well-fed and well-watered shrub, or a turgid and tightly bunched cluster of grapes. Perhaps in giving in to my urge, my need, I became more myself.

I chose The One. I tried not to let my expectations run wild, but I felt the thrill of anticipation shoot through my extremities, and I warmed and flushed in all the usual places.

Usually, I would go somewhere public, but far from home. Take her to a cozy corner of a cafe or a busy trattoria on the other side of town, perhaps the beach, but that wasn’t possible now. She would be delivered to my door this evening, “COVID-safe”.

Setting my laptop aside, I realized I didn’t have much time. I rifled through my wardrobe, flinging possibilities onto my bed as if I were Hugh Hefner in his younger years. Nothing seemed right! I wanted to feel comfortable, but when at home on a Saturday night, that usually meant t-shirt and sweatpants or yoga pants, and not much else. That just didn’t seem right for tonight, when I had to answer the door to a visitor.

Suddenly it came to me - candles, a bubble bath, wine… perfect! In a rush, I decided, and after rehanging my clothes, I went about collecting all the scented candles I could find, setting up the bathroom like an enchanted forest glade.

I took a shower and washed my hair; stupid, I know. But I felt clean and I smelled sweet, and I felt that was terribly important. Besides, should the worst happen, wet hair was harder to catch on the candle flames.

I studied myself in the mirror, in my fluffy white ‘mumsy’ robe, slippers, and wet hair peeking from the huge white towel wrapped turban-style. Like most middle-aged mothers I suppose, I rarely looked at myself in a mirror other than to apply makeup or style hair. Appraising myself negatively, I desperately hoped the night lived up to - or surpassed - the delicious anticipation.

Food! Another spurt of adrenaline drove me to the kitchen. I created a clever selection on an antipasto board, salty and sweet. Wine! It should be bubbles, but with a sharp shock I realized we didn’t have any. I tried to push from my mind the image of my family toasting our youngest after winning an award for school - with the last of the sparkling. I tried the liquor cabinet, but it had been depleted by my husband for his ‘camping supplies’. Thankfully, there was a bottle of red at the back. I collected the crystal and set up the bathroom just so, lighting the candles as I finished.

I ran the bath, quite hot, so it would be ready when… with dismay I realized I was actually trembling.

The doorbell rang, and a knock for good measure. I drew a deep breath and tried to steady myself. When was the last time I’d felt butterflies like this? I answered the door, keeking around it to be modest, in case the delivery person should think better than to leave his precious cargo with me. He was already back in his car.

And she was there. On my doorstep. Our doorstep. I pulled her inside hurriedly, in case the neighbors should catch sight of me. The thought of being caught in my immodesty merely served to increase my desire. There were no niceties, no pleasantries. I impelled her through to the bathroom, locking doors and flicking off lights as I went. I indelicately tore through whatever she was wrapped in - I barely registered color or texture. I slowed myself as I gazed at her voraciously, turned her around, stroking and admiring, and lowered her carefully to the tiles behind the bath, away from the splash of the faucet and the bubbles billowing from the bathwater. I pulled up a stylish side-table borrowed from the living room, setting the wine and crudites on it within easy reach.

It was now. The candles flickered. The setting sun was staining the sky beyond the bathroom window with lurid pinks and oranges.

I dropped my robe, as seductively as I could manage. Stepping out of my slippers and into the bath in what I hoped was a fluid motion, I grabbed her with both hands and sunk into the too-hot water with her, water overflowing. Every bit of flesh throbbed with the heat of my blood.

“Shiraz?” I turned to the side-table. As the mist from cool flesh meeting scalding bathwater cleared, I realized it was a Merlot. I didn’t mind. I loved Merlot. My husband preferred Shiraz or Cab/Sauvignon, so he wouldn’t miss it. I poured a very generous glass one-handed, so as not to break the heady spell of physical contact.

“My mistake, it’s a Merlot… but I don’t think… I don’t think it will matter at all.” It finished as a whisper, as I cracked the cover, and settled in for the night with my big, thick, juicy book.

***

Anonymous Name (Catherine Jones)

22 March, 2021