Was it a fantasy or was it becoming reality? Was it all in my dramatically vivid imagination or had these events actually happened? Did I dream them or act them out? Was it all simply emotional or had my physical being been involved as well?
I was getting to the stage where I wasn't all that sure. I knew that the psychological and emotional nightmare I'd gone through just before and for some time after my husband and I had decided to live apart had done things to me. Unbalanced me a little, unsettled me and had played tricks with my feelings and thoughts. The absence of his mental stimulation, albeit in the later times of a quite negative way, the loneliness I suffered during, particularly, the first few months of him staying in Copenhagen and me moving to London and the brain wrenching thinking I'd gone through as I set out on planning a whole new life had made me very introspective. I had gone to bed many nights my head so full of worries, guilt, hopes and plans that I'd laid awake for hours my mind in a whirl.
The loss of sex with him and the knowledge that he was finding that elsewhere didn't help. Ok being Danish we had a cooler, more relaxed and very different outlook on sex to most countries. All the time we had been together our relationship had been open and we had both had other partners, but that was part of a Danish marriage. In the end he always came back to me. But now he didn't and that hurt so much more than I could ever have imagined.
On top of that I was drinking too much and smoking far too many spliffs and had taken to the odd snort of Charlie now and then.
Despite my full resolve to effectively finish with him there was hardly an evening and certainly never a full day when I didn't think of him inside me, him kissing my breasts or placing his face between my legs or me feeling his erection against all parts of my body and in my mouth. That I was enormously frustrated I had no doubt, although it was not a state of which I had much experience for usually we had sex four or five times a week. My entire body almost continuously ached and pulsated for the touch of a man on it and my complete being and brain screamed out for the relief he would bring by giving me a total orgasm.
So why not take up some of the offers I get from guys I know in London? I had done that many times before so why not now? I have no idea. I was mixed up in so many ways and that was just another example as was my convoluted logic. I sort of rationalised things as: I didn't want any romantic involvement with a new guy; I dreaded becoming emotionally dependent upon anyone; I hated the phoniness of one-night stands, the 'I don't usually do this as I suck the dick of a total stranger' or the 'yes of course I feel something for you' and the 'you are not just a one night stand to me' bullshit.
All these mental and physical sensations were now combining and closing in on me. In my depressed and confused state they seemed to merge fantasy into reality to a point that I was at times not sure where one ended and the other began.
Had I really spent time driving around the East End of London looking for likely places? Was I imagining that hidden in a suitcase securely locked so that no one could 'accidentally' find them, was the thin, black leather dress, with the spaghetti straps and the black fishnet holdup stockings? Was I kidding myself when I sat in my apartment in London Docklands, perhaps finishing a bottle of wine or smoking a joint on the balcony, planning it down to every detail? Living every moment, imagining what it would be like, how I'd feel doing it and after? Thinking what would he would be like, how he'd react and how he'd treat me?
I'd given myself a timetable. I'm like that sometimes. When I have a big decision to make I often say to myself. "Give it two or three weeks and if the idea hasn't gone away then decide a date and then do it." So I did that. If I still had the fantasy in mind after so much time then I would do it on such and such a date.
And I did still have it in my mind. If anything it was firmer and as that period of thinking ended so the excitement mounted and the idea took on a clearer view and my resolve became stronger. So the actual date was set for 7 days away, a Thursday night, chosen specifically for it was the Cityboy's night out and I knew the pubs would be full with what I needed to be there.
Had I really arranged to leave work early and booked the next day off to give me the freedom and peace of mind to act my fantasy out? Was I actually standing in my bedroom naked taking the suitcase from the top shelf of the wardrobe? Was it in my mind that I was removing the clothes and laying them on the bed or was the feel of the black leather real and strangely exciting me? Standing looking at myself in the mirror clad just in the long, seamed, black, fishnet holdups I could hardly make out whether they were real or whether the blatantly erotic image was me. And when I slipped the tight, short dress on and again looked in the mirror did I know whether that was really a reflection of me, with the vividly tarty, shiny leather pelmet of a skirt and black net stockings, or was that image a figment of my sexually tormented imagination? Had I really, completely purposefully avoided pulling on any panties or bra, not that the dress could be worn with such a garment, I wondered as I slipped the thin straps up my arms and onto my shoulders? Would I really sit in a bar wearing such a blatant 'come and fuck me dress' I was thinking as I clipped the two sides at the front together and settled that clasp between my breasts? Was that also a reflection or was something playing tricks with my mind I wondered as I looked and tried working out what other's gazes would think as they saw the masses of bare flesh. Not just on my shoulders, back and chest where the low cut dress left little to the imagination about the size and fullness of my breasts, but also of my lower chest. To add even more sluttishness to the sordid creation the designer had left a circle of flesh about six inches in diameter bare beneath the clasp that snuggled between my tits. Still not sure whether the mirror was sending back faithful reflections or whether it was all in my mind I saw the woman sitting, crossing her legs, slowly, and I watched mesmerised as the skirt slid up her legs until beneath its hem could be made out the darker strip of her stocking tops telling whoever might be looking that she was indeed wearing stockings.
In a daze, a dream, a flight of fantasy or maybe in vague reality it went on. Was that really the rather prudish, 30 something year old, now single, professional woman casting that image of an utter slag from the mirror. Could it really be the successful businesswoman, the banker, the head of a massive department and the bastion of middle class Copenhagen and now London Docklands that beamed back from the beguiling glass of the full-length mirror? Was it her or mirage that was looking, at best, an easy, good time girl or, with just a tad more imagination, a rather cheap whore about to go on parade? And that thrilled me, it played to my needs and desires, my imagination and the fantasy that had been gathering strength in my mind ever since I parted from Kel and had my supply of sex curtailed.
It could well have been part of the fantasy or a particularly vivid dream that saw me wrap a long, black leather coat around me and call a cab. It could have all been in my mind as I climbed out just ten minutes later outside a drinking club in Bethnal Green. Yes I felt nervous. Yes I was concerned and worried about how it would go. Not worried for my safety for I was ok on that and accepted that some pain might be needed to fulfil my fantasy, but more just what it would be like, how I'd feel and what it would do to my feelings and emotions.
As I walked slowly across the room to take a seat at the bar so my feelings began to explode. I saw lots of eyes following me as I undid the coat and let it drape down my back as I perched myself on the high stool. I saw several men's eyes riveted on me as I lifted myself and locked one heel of the, almost, stiletto high heels in the rung between the legs of the stool. In a surprisingly calm voice I heard me ordering a vodka with a drain of waterdry white wine from the young waitress behind the bar. I was beginning to experience some of the feelings I'd imagined so often as I sat there knowing I was being ogled and possibly also spoken about amongst the, largely, male clientele. It wasn't long before I was offered a drink that I declined or before a man asked if I was waiting for someone. I said I was and turned away.
