Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Diary of a Nobody (Newly Single) - Love


Diary Of A Nobody, Newly Single.

Love is over-rated. It’s been two months. Well, two months since we split but a week since there was no contact. My choice for both. Why? because he was a lousy liar of course. When I told Fiona, the only person I talk to about such things, she misheard. A lousy lover? Oh, he could always improve, she said, and started talking toys, lubricants, positions. No, no not that, said I. Well, was he then? she went on. What? A lousy lover.



I pondered. No, well, yes, in fact, but it wasn’t about that. I loved him. I just loved him Fiona. Oh the L word, she snorted. And that was that. Now I’ve been through the crying on the sofa, the smudged make-up and not caring, defiance, denial, the angry texts, the miss-you texts. The silence. God the silence! Worse than anything. Now it was time for dates. So Fiona said. I’d been socialising a bit and well, there is this footballer who’s interested ... but it’s not Him, I whined. It’s not my ex, my lousy lying lover.
“A FOOTBALLER?” screamed Fiona, “What the hell are you waiting for? Those thighs, all that sweat, the designer gear. The designer gear Camille!” She shrugged. “May not last, but hell, what fun. Instant FUN! God, what’s his name, who is he?”
I told her. I’m not telling you though, reader. Yes, it’s that good. She became serious. Very serious, snatched my mobile and went through the addresses.
“If you don’t ring him now and accept a date, I’m calling him myself and I’ll fall naked at his feet.” She mimed the act and, I have to admit, it looked impressive. I pulled at the phone childishly like at stolen sweets in the playground.
“Give it back! I’m ok with the relationship I have with my Rabbit, thanks. Anyway, it’s not you he wants, it’s me.” I played with my hair and practised a new smile in my mind, along with a new body, new clothes, the lot. Oh God.


“There’s also a doctor.” I teased.
“A doctor?” my Maureen Lipmanalike friend shrieked. “Just as good, if not better. What’s his number?”
While she searched through imagining I’d have him listed as Doctor, I wondered if any of them mattered. They weren’t Him. It was him I missed. His voice, his closeness, the way he loved me, knew me.
“Stop that!” said Fiona. “I know what you’re doing. Going through all the good bits. He lied, Camille. Again and again. You told me if he said it was raining you’d look out the window to check. Now, do you want that? No you don’t. And he was shit in bed. You said so.” Did I? “He left the loo seat up, he bit his nails, he farted at every turn around, in front of me too, your friend! God, Camille, get a grip. I hated him.”
I looked up from fiddling with my nails.
“Yep,” said Fiona with folded arms, “I did. There, I’ve said it. We all did. He was bad for you. We thought you’d have learned something since your divorce. Nasty, useless, jobless ex. That’s what he is. And, he came on to Sara once.”
Sharp intake of breath. “You lie!” I accused in Shakespearian speak. “How low, Fiona.”


She was quiet and horribly insistent. “We didn’t tell you, I’m sorry. We gave him a fucking telling off though.” Looking triumphant, she dialled a number.
“Don’t you dare call the footballer.” I said, reaching around her but grabbing at air.
“Yes, Lou, it’s me. I need a waxing, manicure, pedicure and a colour, cut and blow dry please.” She ordered. “It’s urgent. Farrar. F. A. Double R. A. R. Yes, thanks. An hour? Great. Love you!”
I watched open-mouthed as she scribbled onto a piece of card the address of Louis, her gay husband, as she called him.
“All that’s going to cost a fortune. I’ve just had the flat decorated.” I complained. She said the girls were paying. All planned. Call it an early birthday or something.
“Now. Call footballer or doctor, I don’t care who. Choose!” she commanded.
God she’s so bossy. I decided footballer for now. She disappeared into my wardrobe amongst metres of fabric tut-tutting and gushing in turn as she swished through my labels.
“Hi,” I said quietly, clearing my throat in his ear as he answered. “Yes, hi! It’s me. Yes, sorry I haven’t called back, work, you know. Yes, I would like to have that dinner. Oh, tonight! Tonight?” Fiona pokes her head out of a dress with ruffled hair and nods manically. “Er, yes, I could tonight, that’s fine. Lovely, I mean. Eight, um… Ok. Bye then!” I smiled, not feeling smiley.
Fiona came out with a simple black dress, strappy, one of his … er … my old favourites and some sparkly Dune shoes.
“They hurt.” I said.
“Don’t care. They’re high, they’re sparkly, sexy and fabulous. And so are you! Oh and the wax … all off!” she said, shamelessly pointing at my triangle. “Yes!” she insisted. “A smoothie, nothing less. You’ll thank me!”
She giggled as she left me at the door, shoes and dress in hand.
“I want at least one text this evening to let me know how it’s going, and all of it tomorrow in DETAIL.” Right. Detail for her and for you too, reader. My work’s cut out. “Oh, and you know what they say about a man who chooses eight to meet?”
I looked at her blankly. She rolled her eyes.
“Not seven; yawn… not nine; too out-there. Or, in there!” she giggled at her own joke. “Eight. He has an eight! Perfect!”
I laughed, pushing her out as she theatrically sighed “FOOTballer…” and headed for the shower. As I rushed past the hall table I knocked over a small frame. Then, there we were on the floor, amongst several chips of glass. Him; Ex and I, at a happy time, laughing head to head into the lens. Ohh … I picked each piece up carefully, preserving it, protecting it, then with a sigh I instead carried the whole sorry mess to the bin and dropped it in.

Pulling my drawer out, I picked up Mr. Rabbit and lovingly turned him on. Laying back on the bed I quickly lifted my skirt and pulled my plain cotton white knickers – must look out black lacies for footballer – down to my knees and positioned the tip at my cunt entrance and rabbit on my clit. No messing about, I was straight into it, pressing, pulling and pushing, closing my legs around it and rolling onto my side, sighing in a final climax, I let out a scream of delight as I pictured the possibility of a new cock later that evening. Washing Mr. Rabbit carefully, I tucked him up, comfortably back in my underwear drawer, where he belonged. Hopefully for a while. I had an appointment with Louis.

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