(aka Bike, est. 2007)
Copyright© 2017 Angharad
This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
Monday passed like every other Monday, boring and stressful, knowing that there are another four days to go before there’s any respite and on any of them someone could do something to make things worse. I collected the children and set them to do their homework while David told me what he’d been making for us for dinner. It sounded mouth watering and as I made us both a cuppa he told me Simon had phoned just after I’d gone that morning to say he’d be home for dinner.
Who’s Simon? I said to myself then remembered he was the bloke I married many moons ago, and it seemed a similar time since I’d last spoken to him. Without any doubt he’d be after a little hanky panky or he’d be suffering from banker’s cramp. Either way, I wasn’t sure how I felt about sex, I’d gone some time without and the stress hadn’t got to me as far as I knew, but then it didn’t before I discovered I quite enjoyed it—sometimes.
I know there are some highly sexed women but I’m not one of them and until I really fell in love with Simon I had no concept of sexual urges—they were something normal people got, not freaks like me. Then I started to want have him make love to me and I began to wonder if I’d been labouring under a misapprehension and I was normal too. When that realisation hit me, I wasn’t sure if I felt good or bad about it.
I’d seen so many abuses of sex, of children deprived of their childhoods by abusers, of old men or women being made to look stupid because they fell for someone younger who only wanted to exploit them for their foolishness or their money. So in some ways I felt almost pious for not thinking about sex at all. When I talked it through with Stella and Dr Thomas, I realised that I’d suppressed things so much because they frightened me. I’m surprised when the realisation hit me, that I didn’t spontaneously combust because I felt so embarrassed and stupid.
Thinking back to that moment or a few minutes before I felt myself grow hot and bothered again. I was sitting in Anne Thomas’ room and I’d just confessed that I thought I was beginning to get feelings for Simon and that I was getting these odd twinges in my abdomen that I’d never felt before—did I need to see my GP? All she did was smile and ask me questions—when did I get them, was Simon there, or was I thinking about him. Did I dream about him—I did, goodness did I feel hot.
When she chuckled I thought she was laughing at me and got very distressed. She explained that she was laughing at my naïveté. That made me feel worse and the tears came in torrents. “You silly girl, you’re in love—can’t you see it? You’re in love and those are physical urges because you want to make love with him.”
Make love? Was she mad? I challenged the idea for a whole week before I could see she was right. She had told me I was a healthy young woman with healthy thoughts towards a young man. But I wasn’t was I—I was a biological male fancying another—it was just too awful to even contemplate, but she was right and if I hadn’t been so screwed up about things I’m sure the relationship could have moved faster, though quite what we’d have done before I had surgery, I hated to think. Also Simon says he was attracted by my innocence and vulnerability which would have gone had I been rushing to get him in bed.
Things turned out okay in the end so perhaps they were meant to be. I’m shy anyway, which doesn’t mean I can’t stand up in front of six hundred students and deliver a lecture or a large group of parents and discuss my work. It doesn’t mean I can’t chair a meeting or contribute to one but it can mean I’m embarrassed to talk to individuals on a more intimate basis.
Doing the job I do and having had the experiences I’ve had means that no one is going to say things for me, and if they wanted to I’d stop them. I’m my own person and do things for myself—it’s part of being emancipated and of laying to rest the bullying I received when I was younger. It’s helping me feel a sense of closure or completion—in having finished with it for good. I’m no one’s doormat—not anymore.
I’m so different from that anxious wreck I was when I first Simon, no wonder he had so many questions about me. Mind you, because I had no idea how men thought, he was an equal mystery to me. I mean my idea of how men dealt with women was a cross between Colin Firth as Mr Darcy and James Bond—neither of which I would nowadays deem as best role models—though Colin Firth in his wet shirt does tend to leave an impression on one.
My mind was still savouring Mr Darcy Firth when Simon arrived. He pecked me on the cheek and nearly fell over at my full blooded response. However, him asking what was for dinner tended to throw a bucket of cold wotsit all over my libido. When I told him he said, “That should keep for half an hour shouldn’t it?”
“Because I’ve got something more pressing to deal with.” It was true I could feel it pressing too, against my—I know TMI.
It was quite embarrassing to come down to dinner late, like half an hour late and everyone except Cate and Lizzie knew where we’d been and what we’d been doing, even Meems sniggered and she’s pretty clueless compared to the other three of her age group. Danielle smiled knowingly and I wondered if there was something she should be telling me. Yep, she definitely had a bit of a twinkle in her eye. I know she’s done the theory has she gone on to pass the practical test as well? Methinks we need a conversation sometime soon, she is still only fourteen and thus under the legal age for sex; not that that will stop determined hormone driven teenagers.
Dinner seemed to take ages to eat and I tried to sit still even though the chair felt unusually hard or something felt unusually tender—I’ll leave you to make up your own minds which was which. Once the smirking and giggles ended and the pack went off to savage someone else, Simon sat back in his chair and looking at me said, “If you gave me that sort of greeting when I came home, I’d come home twice a day,” he beamed at me.
I smiled bashfully avoiding eye contact because at that moment I was thinking, ‘If you think you’re getting this every night, think again matey.’ Such is married bliss.
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