taking charge
Doc Bob says the reason I still think about a dead woman is I've got unresolved issues concerning her. Apparently I'm a textbook case.
For instance, I'm still aware that I never took charge of Denny in the primal sense. The nearest I got was the night after she slept with one of the painters working on her flat. Come to think of it, maybe he was an electrician. He attended to her plumbing anyway. I was mad with jealousy; but on the plus side, in a way it was energising to experience insanely homicidal feelings.
The next night, we all went to the pub after work as usual. At that time I had only slept with her once myself, but I must have reckoned that gave me rights over her. I took her aside roughly, and told her I'd heard about the painter, and she'd better not do it again. She picked up her bag and stormed out of the pub without saying anything to anyone.
Recently, Doc Bob asked me if I ever did the traditional things like buying her jewellery or clothes. Well no, the nearest I got was sending away to the Sun for some sexy black underwear with quick-release Velcro. She wore it once, I tore it open, and then we split up.
They say regrets are futile. They can say what they like, I'm sorry I never stared at her and drank in her beauty. Except furtively. I never told her which bits I loved (all of them). In those days you never said anything like that because it was considered sleazy, creepy, poncey. Also, feminism had taught us we'd better enjoy a woman's mind, or else! To be frank, nobody would have wanted Denny for her mind.
For the same reasons, I was too inhibited ever to speak to her during sex. I never vocalized at all. In those days you didn't.
For instance, I'm still aware that I never took charge of Denny in the primal sense. The nearest I got was the night after she slept with one of the painters working on her flat. Come to think of it, maybe he was an electrician. He attended to her plumbing anyway. I was mad with jealousy; but on the plus side, in a way it was energising to experience insanely homicidal feelings.
The next night, we all went to the pub after work as usual. At that time I had only slept with her once myself, but I must have reckoned that gave me rights over her. I took her aside roughly, and told her I'd heard about the painter, and she'd better not do it again. She picked up her bag and stormed out of the pub without saying anything to anyone.
Recently, Doc Bob asked me if I ever did the traditional things like buying her jewellery or clothes. Well no, the nearest I got was sending away to the Sun for some sexy black underwear with quick-release Velcro. She wore it once, I tore it open, and then we split up.
They say regrets are futile. They can say what they like, I'm sorry I never stared at her and drank in her beauty. Except furtively. I never told her which bits I loved (all of them). In those days you never said anything like that because it was considered sleazy, creepy, poncey. Also, feminism had taught us we'd better enjoy a woman's mind, or else! To be frank, nobody would have wanted Denny for her mind.
For the same reasons, I was too inhibited ever to speak to her during sex. I never vocalized at all. In those days you didn't.
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