The Last Year Of Being Single

My mobile phone is an extension of my right hand. It is almost a spiritual thing. It is another intrinsic sense. To smell, to touch, to see, to hear and to text message. I have discovered the power of text messaging. It was designed for me. Short and sharp and to the point. Ability to spell totally irrelevant. In fact, lousy spelling adds a certain charm. You can be as smutty as you like. It doesn’t matter. You can say you meant to send it to someone else. That is, of course, if it doesn’t continue to happen after repeated warnings.

Paul works in an office of men. Their bodies are full of testosterone. Their egos are huge and wallets are full. These testosterone-filled money bags are surrounded by women who work there with one goal in mind. To bag these money bags. Ideally by getting them in the sack and getting them to realise that they can’t live without them. These girls are pros. They should work on the streets (albeit SW1 streets), and some of them (I am told) have done so. Anyway, out of every ten who enter the trading room, one usually gets her man. Or someone else’s. Wedding rings are totally irrelevant.

Paul is different. He wears no ring (we’re not engaged), but he’s faithful and loves me. He goes to lap-dance joints because his brokers pay for it, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He tells me so himself. Like a dog, really.

He texts me every morning:

I’ve arrived safely.

I love you.

Hi gorgeous, big confident kiss.

I wish I was still in bed with you.

At Christmas:

I’ve had my first mince pie. I wish you were in my bed.

Miss you loads. Looking forward to seeing you this weekend.

That sort of thing.

Then I started to get:

I wish my cock was in your mouth. It’s so hard at the moment. I loved you in those jeans last night.

Linked:

1/3

What a shame I am not there to ease your horny state. I could take off your knickers lift off your top. Kiss your lips then your nipples. Touch you with …

2/3

my finger then my tongue. Keep licking until you nearly come then turn you over and put my dick in your wetness pulling you onto me with my hands on your …

3/3

hips so I am as deep as possible.

Linked:

1/2

Every inch of my body is gagging for you. I loved you in those jeans last night. I wanted to rip them off you and come all over your …

2/2

… face.

Sort of slightly different in tone.

I contacted him to find out that, no, these messages had not come from him but a salesman called Pierce, who was a close friend of his and was into bondage in a big way, was thirty-eight, on his third wife, and had at least four sex kittens on the go—all of whom worked (loose term) in the Square Mile as secretaries and salespeople, and all of whom liked to be ‘fucked up the arse’ and tied up. Nice.

The aforementioned Pierce was also a Harvard Graduate, played piano, guitar and saxophone and had a wonderful singing voice, lovely home in the country (used to be a pub, now converted with taste and money—the two are not synonymous). Background and appearances can be deceptive.

I contacted Pierce. First of all by text reply, after one particularly explicit ‘cock-sucking butt-wrenching, I know you’d enjoy being fucked up the backside really’ message. And then by phone.

‘Hi, Pierce. I’m Paul’s girlfriend. I think you keep sending me messages meant for someone else. Could you please delete my number from your phone as I don’t want to get them any more? Have a nice day.’

‘I’m so sorry, Sarah. Big apologies. Just that one of the kittens is also called Sarah. I’ll change her name.’

‘Thanks, Pierce.’

2nd October

Seven a.m. Beep on the phone. Message waiting.

I’ve got a real hard-on. It’s really hard and I’m imagining you putting your lips around it and sucking it really hard and I’m aching to get my hands on your big tits.

Definitely not Paul.

I rang the number.

‘Pierce?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me another one of your “fucking” messages. Don’t do it again or I will tell Paul and he’ll be furious. OK?’

‘OK. Very sorry, deeply embarrassed and mortified.’

3rd October

Seven a.m. Beep on the phone. Message waiting.

I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re driving me crazy. I imagine your wetness in my mouth. The thought of your nipples is driving me crazy.

Right. That’s it.

‘Pierce!’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Sarah, Paul’s girlfriend. You sent me one of those messages again.’

‘I didn’t. I’ve sent nothing this morning. You must have got it from someone else. Perhaps Paul.’