(10) Janet and John go for a walk

Today Janet and John go for a walk.

John is feeling a little bloated after eating two pieces of cheese-cake and a box of malteesers in bed before breakfast.  He decides to wear his favourite puce designer bell-bottom trousers with the gold tassels around the hem.  They have an elastic waistband that will give his belly room to hang over the top.

Isn’t elastic a clever thing.

Even though it is August John is keen to wrap up warm for his walk.  He doesn’t want to risk getting that nasty flu again.  When he had flu in June he thought he was going to die and so did Janet.  Now he makes sure that he tucks his vest into his knickers as an extra precaution.

John looks at himself in the mirror.  His new yellow duffle-coat with its pink fur trim looks a treat.  The big shiny toggle buttons are nearly as shiny as his teeth and his pink and green gloves on their magic string match his bobble hat perfectly.

“Do you think I look sexy?” John asks Janet.

Can you make your eyes roll to the top of your head?

Janet can.

John takes care to look after himself because he has a very very serious condition called hypochondria.  That’s a big word isn’t it?

Poor John.  John has a weak bladder, dizzy spells, tummy twinges, high blood pressure, a squeaky voice, a first degree teaspoon burn on the back of his hand and something that keeps making his body go all floppy.

Do you know what erectile dysfunction is?

John does.

See if you can say erectile dysfunction without laughing.

Janet and John haven’t walked very far before Johns’ fallen arches begin to hurt his feet in his wellington boots and he wants to sit down for a rest.  Janet chooses a nice bench outside a pub and orders a large fresh orange juice for John and a bottle of red wine for herself.

John has to be careful about drinking fresh orange juice as it gives him the shits.  Janet has found that the more wine she drinks the more interesting and irresistible John gets.

Isn’t orange juice and alcohol more clever than elastic.

In the distance John can see a sign for ice cream and suddenly starts to feel a lot better.  John likes ice cream but he doesn’t like it when Janet spits on her handkerchief to wipe it off his face and hands.

After a lot of bleating Janet gives John a crisp ten-pound note to go and buy himself an ice cream cornet.  He puts the note in his purse with all the other money he doesn’t spend when he is with Janet.  Stupid Janet.

“Come straight back” says Janet, “and no talking to strange women.”

John likes strange women, especially young trollops who give him love bites.

Do you know what a trollop is?  John does.

See John in his pink wellington boots skip to the ice cream shop like a twat.

“Ay up what ‘ave we ‘ere?” says Mrs Grub.

Mrs Grub is from Yorkshire (see Nora Batty and Last of the Summer Wine).

“My name is John and I would like a very big ninety nine ice cream cornet please with lots of raspberry juice on it.”

“Are ya sure your eyes aren’t bigga than ya belly lad?  This int Mr Whippy pretend ice cream this is the real stuff made wi’ cream, butter, sugar and egg yolks.”

John knows that his eyes could never be bigger than his belly.

“Can I see how real ice cream is made?” Asks John.

“Course ya can lad, get ya self round ‘ere, ya can ‘elp me make next batch.”

What fun.  John is so excited that a little bit of wee runs into his incontinence knickers and gets soaked up by his vest.

Mrs Grub shows John all the different ingredients that will go into making hazelnut ice cream.  Do you like hazelnuts?  Mrs Grub does.  She says there is nothing better than sucking on a couple of nuts.

Mrs Grub tells John that when she first started making ice cream her husband used to mix everything by hand which took many hours and was very hard work indeed.   When he died she bought a big mixing machine to make things much easier for herself.

“You look like a big strong lad John” says Mrs Grub.  “I bet you could mix ice cream by ‘and.  Do ya wanna try?”

“Yes please,” says John.  Mrs Grub gives John a mixing bowl and a whisk and tells him to cream the mixture until it is stiff and smooth.  The mixture then has to go into a special freezer at the end of the passage at the back of the shop.

“It’ll take a few hours t’ set so I’ll make us a cornet from t’ batch I made this morning” says Mrs Grub.

Mrs Grub makes two huge ice cream cornets, one for John and one for herself.  She covers them both in raspberry juice and hands one to John.

“Don’t gobble it all at once” she says.  “Watch me… best way t’ enjoy proper ice cream is t’ lick it slowly.”

“Hello John”, says Janet, “you’ve been a long time”.  Janet knows this because she is now on the second bottle of wine and John is looking quite sexy.  “Have you been a good boy?”

“Yes” says John.  “I helped the lady in the shop make some ice cream.  She really misses her husband because he had very strong hands and could do it for hours, now she has to do it herself with a special machine.

She doesn’t like a Mr Wippy she likes the real thing so she let me have a go at getting it stiff and creamy like her husband used to do.  I got a bit frightened when I had to go up the back passage but she said I had to put it in there to get it to go hard quickly.  I was so good she covered my cornet in raspberry juice and told me to watch her lick it slowly.  She said she doesn’t like to gobble quickly, she likes to enjoy every mouthful.”

Can you hit a moving target with an empty wine bottle?

Janet can.

See John run.

Run John, run.

(The above assumes knowledge of the characters involved gained through reading previous posts.  It is a sequential post in a catalogue of events.

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(9) DNA and absolute bollocks

You would think after a while that you would be able to spot a cock at twenty paces wouldn’t you?  I don’t mean the genital type I mean the James type; after all the body is such a sophisticated machine.  Did you know that it can detect the opposite DNA to yourself from the body odour of the opposite sex?  It can do the same from the taste of their saliva during kissing.  Subconsciously you like what you smell and taste because your body recognises that person has the opposite DNA to you which means if the two of you got it together you have a good chance of producing a strong off spring.  Pretty damn amazing eh?

So how come the body can be so amazing and yet so stupid at the same time?  How come evolution hasn’t given women an early warning self-preservation gene that has us shouting “Prick…Cock…Get Back!  Fuck Off… Do it now” at the first sight of a possible cock threat?  How come the moment a perceived Alpha Male Cock appears on the horizon the best evolution has managed to do for women is to have us looking for our lipstick, checking out our hair whilst quietly giving way to a slight subconscious parting of our knees?

You can tell what I’m trying to do can’t you?  Yes… I’m trying to play the ‘it isn’t all my fault’ card because really I don’t think it is.  Life with it’s Prada aftershave and it’s 24 hour mouth wash has fucked nature up and my girlie defence system can’t tell the difference between a genuine Alpha Male from a three-legged donkey or a two-legged cock.

If you are up to speed you will remember that James ‘the cock’ has just told me that he only ever saw me for sex and that he can’t handle me getting emotional over the ‘breast thing’… which was me crying just once because I have been told that I must have a mastectomy for breast cancer.  In a supportive moment (of sorts) he did say that he was a breast man and we could carry on seeing each other for sex as long as I knew it wasn’t a relationship and I kept my top on to hide things until ‘they looked better’.

Of course I should have just clubbed him to death but instead I went out and bought a new outfit to go dancing in that Friday.  I also trimmed the ‘lady garden’ in an effort to encourage his summer interest to embrace a potential bleak winter and move south.

James never commented on my new outfit whilst we danced.  Instead he spent the night chasing a great looking girl.  When we came home together he mentioned more than a few times how pretty he thought she was.  He also said, in some strange and bizarre link what a high pain threshold he thought he had?

Did he sense I was about to club him to death or was he internalising MY pain so valiantly and hiding it by trying to cop off with anything female, I don’t know?  Normally I would like to spend time contemplating such complex human behaviour but then I remembered my mum saying that I had a tendency to ‘spend hours looking into the inside of a cats arse for no good reason’ so I let it pass and just put the kettle on to make a cup of tea.

“Tea Wallace?”  I asked?

I did love the pet names I had given us.  Wallace with his £22 grand false smile and love of cheese and tea.

“It’s so high,” he insisted, ” you have no idea just how high it is.”

How high is what?  Mount Everest?  The Sun?  God forbid your ego?

“I mean it” he said, “My pain threshold is so high that if you stuck a knife in my leg now I wouldn’t even flinch.”

An interesting invention worthy of any Wallace and Gromit sketch; a knife that sticks in your leg to test your pain threshold.  Pity all I had was a teaspoon running under a kettle of boiling water making a nice mug of tea.

And before I knew it I had slapped the boiling hot teaspoon on the back of his hand.  Slap bang in the middle of his liver spots to make a new even bigger than ever liver spot.

James screamed, quite loud actually.  He flew backwards across the kitchen floor so fast that he almost made a ‘Wallace’ shaped hole in the glass kitchen door behind him.

Gromit would have looked on in dismay with a roll of the eyes and slow flap of the ears.  My mum would have probably  said something like “high pain threshold my arse” and dismissed him without a sideways glance.

Me?  I couldn’t stand his whimpering all night thereafter and so I found the first aid kit and applied the burns bandage that no one ever uses or even knows what it is for.  I spent the rest of the night speaking soothing words and stroking his brow until he fell asleep.

And that’s when it hit me.

Prada aftershave and 24 hour mouthwash hasn’t fucked up evolution at all.  Evolution and my body are working in sophisticated harmony in a complicated changing world.

Despite the modern world my body had succeeded in finding my match.  Should I wish to create an offspring it had detected the very person with the absolute missing DNA to myself and I was now cradling him in my arms.

Yes, my body had perfectly identified that all I was missing was absolute fucking whimpering bollocks.

(The above assumes knowledge from previous posts and is written as a catalogue of continuing events… slightly behind by now but soon to be brought up to present day.)

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(8) Does size really matter?

Women have to know their breast size to buy underwear, but why do men measure their tackle?  At what age do they stop getting the tape measure out to see if they can max an additional centimetre on the old growth chart?  From the minute they know they have a penis they fret about its size and how it compares to others.

Women know that insulting a guy’s manhood is nothing short of relationship suicide, but how come it doesn’t work both ways?

James judged me harshly from the beginning hinting at my need for a boob job.  The thing is though I don’t think he was allowed to be disappointed.  To a certain extent men can see what they are getting in the boob department whereas women have no idea if there is a teeny weenie pee pee or a throbbing python of love lurking in his trouser area until we are saying hello to the little fella.

Sorry guys, you’re right, I used the word ‘little’ in the same sentence as your ego, I won’t do it again.  I won’t even go anywhere near the conversation about what is little and does size matter?  All I will say is that personally I don’t want my cervix or kidneys punched out in the middle of lovemaking but I would like to know that you are participating in the event… so average works for me.  And, before you ask… average is bigger than little but not as big as large.

There are all kinds of theories about penis size.  One is that it’s directly related to shoe size.  James is a size 9 so would that mean 9 inches?  No.  Another is that it is the same length as the distance between the bottom of his palm and the tip of his middle finger.  Not sure how true that is?  Most are old wives tales but I did read one that said men who fall under the average marker drive bigger and more impressive cars than those who rise above it, an interesting concept.  Did I tell you that James is pre-occupied with spending money and buying cars and has just changed his Porsche for a massive white Merc that looks like a wedding car?

Anyway, let’s be real here, is size really that important?  It may come as a surprise to some men (if you can put the tape measure down and listen for a moment) but most women aren’t attracted to a guy because of the length of his organ.  That’s right, there are plenty of things further up our important list than that.

Of course James wouldn’t think so. He could keep himself amused for hours asking if he’d managed to max it as far as his belly button yet with the aid of his little blue helpers.  Two things constantly escaped his understanding though… firstly that his belly button wasn’t the goal area and, given the amount of chocolate he had stuffed down himself of late his belly button was a constantly moving target.

I was always careful to make James feel ‘the man’ in the bedroom.  I never stood on his ego when he said he was embarrassed that he was ‘a bit small’ before I met his little friend.  As I said, there are plenty of things further up the important list and I wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world, it’s just a shame that didn’t work both ways.

Size was obviously important to James.  He is a boob man and the day I found out I had to have a mastectomy was the day he realised I wasn’t getting J for Jordans.  I went into melt down… he went for hanging up on me and then refusing to answer my calls or texts.

He eventually turned up many hours later to tell me that he had only ever seen me for sex and maybe now was a good time to call it a day.  He couldn’t cope with my future surgery and me getting ‘emotional.’

I know, he can cry all day that his wife left him over a year ago for a younger man but I can’t cry just this once that I have breast cancer and am about to lose my breast.  That’s his rules.

I also know that I said I wasn’t going to go anywhere near a certain question, but now I am going to.  Does size matter?

Well there is a theory that men with a small penis can compensate with body movements to increase the pleasure of a woman.  The reality is that these movements are nowhere near the penis; they involve his fingers dipping in and out of his wallet to pay for everything.

So does size matter?  No, not if you are a true gentleman and will always amount to being more than just a heartless selfish cock with a big wallet.

(The above assumes knowledge from previous posts and is written as a catalogue of continuing events as of 4 August)

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(7) Just what is your problem with the word relationship?

Do you dream of one?  When did you last have a great one; or was the last one you had so bad that you have lost faith in the possibility of a decent one ever existing?

Of course a certain proportion of men immediately thought I was talking about a blow job.  Read the title moron it says relationship not relief!

Still not happening for some men is it?  You read the title, it sounds like English but you still have no idea what I am talking about do you?  Why is that?  Is it because any connection between your emotional reality and that of a woman is first and foremost purely accidental and/or coincidental?  Ok, I promise I’ll try to be nicer if you try to be smarter.

Ah but, I hear those guys shout… the Oxford dictionary definition says a relationship is ‘an emotional, especially sexual association between two people’.  So forgetting the former and concentrating only on latter, a BJ could be a relationship if you get lots of them by the same person.

I have to be nice now, smart answer and I can see your point.   I’m trying to go with it assuming none of the BJ’s you are talking about were paid for, otherwise clearly the dictionary and the law would define that as something quite different.

But James was getting BJs often, and he wasn’t paying.  I even paid my way every time we went out because he has money and I didn’t want him to think I was a gold digger… ok stop shouting STUPID quite so loud.  Anyway he was getting all the sex he could handle, (too much and was resorting to little blue helpers) but still said he wasn’t in a relationship so there must be another definition?

I decided to Google it.  Blow me away… excuse the pun but the second Google hit took me to the ‘7 causes of dyslexia?’  Is trying to discuss or understand relationships one of the 7 causes of dyslexia for men?  Possibly, I know James usually has several physical, mental and emotional conditions on the go at any one time but even dyslexia is stretching it to explain why women talk emotions and some men hear the word sex.

Geert my pod cast relationship guru who is close to being sacked… told me that women like emotions, men don’t.  He says we shouldn’t make a man feel emotions he isn’t ready for or he will get confused and scared.

We are talking about a 64-year-old not 14-year-old.  He has had all the time in the world to stop hiding under the bed-clothes because he felt something happen to him that wasn’t an erection.  I’m sorry but I think that’s just an excuse to buy some men more shagging time without any commitment.

James said he never had a relationship with his ex after 9 months of sex, buying her clothes, jewellery, paying for her every wish and no doubt receiving his.  And no I am not going anywhere near that alternative definition because his ex described their time together as “A very close intimate loving relationship.”  James just said “She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

I decided I didn’t care what he called what we had as long as it wasn’t shit because I was in it up to my neck.

I’m talking to James at 3am on the phone.  I’d told him where to go after he flirted and held hands with a woman at a dance earlier that night.  He said “but I only take her out as a friend and I didn’t know you had feelings for me.”  Ah, the feelings word… so I admitted I did have feelings for him (Sorry Geert you’re officially sacked).  I figured I started out with nothing and I still had most of it left so I decided to go for it and asked… “Just so I know… what is your problem with having a relationship?”

And do you know what he did?  He played the get out of jail card.  He cried saying how afraid he was of being hurt.  I thought I had struck gold.  A man was talking about his fears, feelings, real emotional stuff with tears and before I knew it we stopped talking about the girl at the dance.

He came over the next morning and we spent hours in bed, him crying about how hurt and betrayed he felt after a 30 year marriage and a cheating wife.  Emotionally exhausted he fell asleep with his head on my right breast… yes the one I am going to lose because of the subject James never wants to hear me talk about.   I watched him sleep as I quietly cried for the man I had fallen for.  I cried because he was hurting and I couldn’t instantly fix it.

But it was all short-lived.  He agreed to go to counselling if I took him and waited for him.  I know, I have breast cancer and I have been a bit stressed but James had cried, which means he comes first.  The main issue to be discussed was how he had to take women out all the time because if he stayed at home he would find himself crying over his failed marriage.  What he actually asked the counsellor was how could he take lots of women out without any of them wanting a relationship but at least one of them agreeing to have regular sex?

“Just tell them that you aren’t ready for a relationship and you are only seeing them for sex” she said.  Unbelievable, he’s paying sixty quid for that?  And anyway, I am duty bound to point out that even at the shallow end of the Oxford dictionary that is defined as a relationship!  No I am not tense just terribly terribly alert!

James questioned her guidance saying he was pretty sure that if he said that to me I would tell him to Fuck Off.  No she won’t, said the counsellor.  And a big thank you to you for supporting sisterhood.

We lay on the sofa like bookends as he recounted his counselling session.  I asked how would that work (sex) after my op?  Not a problem he said, I could keep my top on if I wanted.  How supportive I thought as he went on to remind me that I am the best he has ever had and how I knew just what buttons to press.

He looked happy and relaxed as he tweaked his toes into my thighs playfully.  I gently moved forward, my knees either side of his hips.  I kept eye contact all the time leaning slowly towards him.  I felt his need pressing into me as his breathing changed with sheer anticipation.  My lips were so close that we were sharing breath, his shallow and rapid, mine slow and controlled.  Gently I brushed my hair across his face and touched his ear with my tongue for a brief second before whispering…

Fuck Off.

You see Geert, I still remember that lesson on stating your case clearly in a calm adult fashion using as few words as possible.  That’s twice I’ve used it and quite perfectly I think.

(The above assumes knowledge from previous posts and is written as a catalogue of continuing events.) 2 August

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(6) Deep down are you a jealous person?

You bet.  Why wouldn’t I be?  Geert my pod cast relationship expert says women should never show jealousy. Why not?  If you aren’t jealous you don’t really care, right?

I like a guy to show a bit of jealousy now and then and strut his stuff like a peacock or a lion.  OK don’t pee on me to mark your territory but fluff your feathers a bit and be prepared to fight and let the world know I’m yours if competition presents itself.

In return I’m not going to do the fatal attraction bunny boiler thing.  I get the fact that there is a cut off point when we all know that certain behaviour is crazy… well unless I have had wine and then the definition of crazy gets a bit blurred for me, but in general I get it.  So how come guys see the slightest hint of  jealousy in a woman as possessive and controlling?

I felt a bit jealous that James didn’t just say ‘fuck it’ and not go to Portugal, or insist that I went instead of the ex-girlfriend.  This is the ex he told for months that her ‘arse and thighs were getting too big’ because he “doesn’t like hurting people” and he hoped she would dump him.  You’re right… it means he doesn’t have the balls to walk away.  Also the ex who loves him and was no doubt going to Portugal with plan A, B, C and D packed in her suitcase to try to win him back.

I’m not worried about the ex.  She came straight after his 30-year marriage split.  She can only ever be a stepping-stone.  It doesn’t matter how nice she might be, and I’m sure she is, she will always be the wrong time woman.

I am having a lumpectomy whilst he’s abroad for some sun with his friends and ex. Lets compare…it wasn’t hot and sunny on the inpatient ward.  Nil by mouth meant that no one asked if I wanted a gin and tonic.  The patient vomiting from across the way didn’t sound much like the gentle lap of waves hitting the shore line but there was a rhythm building so maybe…oh yes, and my NHS gown with my backside showing wouldn’t make top of the ‘must have’ beach wear list… so no, my world didn’t compare to his at the moment.

And how about this for cutting edge medical mastery… someone walked by with a black board marker pen, closed the curtain on my cubicle and asked me to reveal my breast.  It did cross my mind he could be the cleaner, I couldn’t quite see his badge but I was getting used to getting them out so I did.  He then drew a big arrow on my breast before checking, “It is the right one isn’t it?”  Jeeze, I thought, I hope you are the cleaner and not the bloody surgeon!

And then it got worse.  I was stuck in a mammogram machine for 2 hours whilst someone whose feet I only saw from my nearly up side down position, pushed thin wires into my breast.  These would tell the surgeon where to cut (big black arrow wasn’t specific enough), how deep and how wide.  When the pain was getting too much and they had to hold me still from shaking I wondered at what point could I be jealous and wish I was in Portugal?

I eventually got a call from James several days later.  His ex had suffered semi blindness on the flight and had to be lead everywhere hanging onto the end of his arm.  Hell I thought… she’s good, if that’s only plan A I’m stuffed.   Oh and thanks for asking… yes I’m doing ok.

A second call at the end of his week started with “I’m traumatised.”  Welcome to my world.  Did you remember I had an op a week ago for breast cancer?  No, silly me let’s talk about you and your world and problems.

The villa had been burgled, he’d lost loads of stuff, watch, fathers ring, money, clothes and his ex had some very expensive underwear stolen.  Plan D had been stolen!  Anyway he tells me she knows it’s all over so that’s done.  Did I miss something?  She knew it was all over when you started seeing me didn’t she?  You even showed me her letter that told you how upset she was and how she couldn’t stop crying.

You see I listened to Geert.  I didn’t do the jealousy thing because I so badly wanted to get this right and for it to work.  I didn’t let the 4-year-old in me with a bottle of wine loose on the text at all.  Not about the ex, not about his constant flirting on the dance floor, his love bites, his constant dating other women just as ‘friends’… no, I stayed big, calm and adult all the time, which if you knew me you would find pretty damn amazing.  But I made myself see it from his point of view and I thought just keep following the pod cast and all will work out, eventually.

But you know where it got me?  Him later telling me if roles were reversed he wouldn’t have stood for it.  He couldn’t see how I could put up with him going on holiday with his ex.  Great.  Controlling if I react, pushover if I don’t… male Catch 22 and men say WE are complicated?

So I retreated to the sofa, still calm and adult.  I uncorked a bottle and relaxed as I mulled over one major question.  Are you wondering what I’m wondering?

Does James or his ex have a pet rabbit?

(The above assumes knowledge from previous posts and is written as a catalogue of continuing events) 12 July

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(5) Do men understand ballparks?

Lets face it, like it or not ballparks exist.  Does that statement make me shallow?  Possibly.  We could ditch ballparks and discuss emotional spiritual attraction but I’m sticking with the shallow subject for now.

Ok the categories we check might differ but visual is usually one of them and most of us know what ballpark we are in and when we are playing out of it, don’t we?

There are always exceptions to every rule; men in general seem to be the first, closely followed by men on dating sites where they take it up a few levels, followed by men who are drunk and think 10 pints has morphed them into an Adonis.

I’m not confident about my looks but I don’t see my ballpark as ‘tattooed fuck-whit, fat bald larger lout with D shaped belly and primary language of text speak’ so when I was on the dating site why couldn’t they see that?  Why did the over 65’s who looked over 80 seem to think they were doing me a favour by wanting to take me out?  And as for the 22 stone guy in a string vest holding a burger with more piercings than I wanted to count… wake up and play in your own ballpark!

Look at people next time you are out… how many men are with a more attractive woman than you would expect?  She looks fab, well dressed and he looks a slob.  Or she’s a stunner and he’s … well not.  When did you last see a stunning looking guy with Ugly Betty?  You just don’t but why is that?  Women know their ballpark but they are prepared to go a bit lower, men always seem to try to go much higher.

James, who due to his behaviour must still be referred to as Cock in this post, looks good for his age, even better than good when I eventually find out he’s older than he told me.  Ok, his face betrays that sometimes, especially first thing in the morning and late at night, but so what?  I love that face, you can see he’s been a stunner in his time and he is still a good-looking man.  In his younger days he would have been out of my ballpark I know that, but with wrinkles I think we are even.

As I said, I’m not confident about my looks so seeing a plastic surgeon made me uncomfortable on so many levels. I got emotional asking about possible reconstruction if I needed a mastectomy and even more so when I was told it would be extremely difficult as I don’t have any body fat or spare skin. Great on this occasion it would have been an advantage to have been weaned since birth on pizza and chips.

I thought Cock was being supportive coming with me but it turned out he was there for himself.   No sooner had I finished did he jump in and ask about having his eye lids done, eye bags, facial filler and or a face lift.

He then suggested that I should look at having my eye bags done and maybe my nose.  The very handsome Dr Dreamy surgeon agreed.   Dr Dreamy then asked Cock where he had his Simon Cowell teeth done beaming how wonderful they looked as they had this whole male bonding moment on man beauty.

Did anyone in this room remember I was asking about the possibility of having my breast removed for breast cancer?  And if I wanted to join the party and jump in at the shallow end of life I would suggest Cock that you need more than a face lift?  Your boobs are sagging and so is your arse, but I wouldn’t be so freakin’ rude as to say so and I don’t mind anyway because it is just all a part of you and the you that makes me go weak at the knees the minute I see your face.  See, I’m not shallow really.

He later added that my thighs are looking a bit thin; in fact, I need to put a bit of weight on all round.  Thanks; I haven’t had an appetite because of the subject that we never talk about, but he’s right, I am getting a bit thin.

Back to the ballpark.  Cock is talking about being a male escort again and that he finds it easy to attract women 20 years his junior.  Yes he does, but he also pays for everything so how many are actually just gold diggers?  Me, I always pay my way.

He decides that in the ballpark of life we might not be in the same park.  Well there is a 14 year age gap (which at this time I still think is 8 years) but I think we look well matched.  He thinks he’s super league and I’m little league.

So I decide to put his theory to the test, and guess what?  There is a website that does just that www.candobetter.com

The world ballpark voting panel get to vote on you and your other half as to who could do better.  People decide in a second and with a click of the mouse… now that IS shallow.

How am I fairing?  I’m still ahead but it’s close, which is good, the public think we are visually matched and so do I.  Cock is complaining I chose the only great photo of me and any other would instantly have him ahead in the game.  I chose a great one of him.  I could have picked the one where he is rowing topless and his body looks like it melted in front of the fire, but I didn’t because I care about him.

How much do you think he cares about me if he thinks I should have my eye bags, nose and boobs done?  Just how long will he stick around when I eventually find out I need a mastectomy and he realises that isn’t the same as a J for Jordan boob job?  We’ll have to see.

(The above assumes knowledge from earlier posts and is part of a catalogue of continuing events) 2 July

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(4)The crap-ometer scale

My pod cast relationship guru Geert says men find self-control very attractive in women.  Personally I find being able to pick your underpants up off the floor very attractive in a man but it is rare and so I have learned to compromise, which is just as well as I was going to need to again.

I felt sick waiting for my results.  Two women came into the room and sat on the sofa opposite me.  The first told me that the cells were positive, low-grade DCIS and that the area needed to be removed.  When she had finished with the medical stuff she left the room as though the bad news and my fear/anger should go out of the door with her.  The touchy feely women still sitting there could then do her supportive bit and I wouldn’t want to kill her because she wasn’t the messenger.

On the crap-ometer scale it could have been worse.  I didn’t cry, I still had a breast, I wasn’t going to die yet, it’s just an inconvenient blip in my boob job plans… re-enter lies, damn lies and deception.  I would eventually find out the diagnosis was much worse.

I went out for the day with James when I got back, hand in hand in the sun walking around an Abbey (my profile picture that day).  We didn’t talk breasts, cancer or how I was coping, we never did, we talked about James and his need to keep taking lots of women out, plus a need to make money due to his ex-wife trying to bleed him dry.

Before I knew it he had come up with the solution.  Get this… I could market him as a male escort, run the bookings and take 50% of the profit, that way he went out for free, got paid and still met women.  Of course there would be no sex, paid or otherwise.  Brilliant, why didn’t I think of that?

The crap-ometer scale twitched with jealousy but jealousy shows a lack of self-control remember, so I said what a great idea and took photos of him posing for the web site.  Yes I was bluffing but if he called my bluff I could always just set him up with fat unattractive women and leave his underpants on the floor to rot.

I saw the surgeon at the end of the week.  He must have said the phrase “because you are small” in nearly every sentence.  He would remove the area.  It would leave a scar.  There would be some indentation to the breast… because you are small that might show quite badly.  He didn’t support my plans of a later boob job; it would make future mammograms difficult.

Difficult doesn’t mean impossible. I wondered if he had a small penis how he would react at the prospect of having some of it taken away, especially if it was left looking like the dog had chewed on it for a week?

I remember at 42 a surgeon assumed I wouldn’t want children  when he told me I needed my cervix removing for cervical cancer.  When I asked how it might affect that, his reply was… “Well lets see, it would be like trying to carry a gold-fish home in a bag with a hole in it… no water, dead fish, you get the picture?”

No, the boob job must remain on the agenda, especially now James thinks he is worth paying for.  He asked me to take the photos on a girls night out to see how many of my mates would pay for a date with him and how much.  I should have said none but I’m stupid and honest and he does look fantastic, nowhere near his age but I don’t know he’s lying about that yet.  How come I felt proud that all of them would pay instead of embarrassed at him wanting to do it?

Over two weeks to wait for the lumpectomy op during which time James drops his next bombshell.  He isn’t going to Portugal with just his mate the week I have my op, he confesses it is with his ex-girlfriend and mates girlfriend.  He couldn’t get out of it, it had been planned ages ago before he met me, the two women were best friends and it was all too complicated but she knew it was over and they would have separate rooms.  I only sleep with one woman at a time he continually told me, and I was that woman… I know, ‘friend with benefits.’

I clocked James the moment I walked into the dance hall.  He was sat there again with the ex-girlfriend clearly marking her territory with her hand on his knee.  “What can I do about it?” he said… “I have to keep the pretence up until after Portugal or the other two won’t go.  She’s asked me to go home with her tonight but I said no, I’m not doing that any more I want to come home with you.”

Sorry Geert but there was no pod cast on this one but I do remember you said in a conflict of opinion state your case clearly, use as few words as possible and do not become emotional.  Ok…

Fuck off.

So guess what he did?  Gave a lift home to a young woman and turned up at mine two days later with love bites on his neck!  Love bites at his pretend age of 58 years, his reality age of 64 and cock age of 14.

I didn’t sleep with her, I just gave her a lift…I couldn’t get her off me, she pinned me down in the car…yeh right, all 6′ 2” and 14 stone of him.

The crap-ometer scale moved up again but all I did was make him sleep in the spare room and tell his daughter that I wasn’t the tart responsible for sucking her fathers neck.

I still hoped he would change and eventually choose me.  I’m guessing everyone else would have dumped him by now?  Hey come on, it’s easy to sit in judgement at your end of all this, you are on the outside.  What about the saying ‘hope springs eternal?’  Or is it stupidity?

(The above assumes previous knowledge from all earlier posts and is part of a continuing catalogue of events) 22 June

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