“What an interesting concept, Tommy,” I sniffed, “Don’t forget Harry’s large-print version.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he answered, “Sharon’s a very attractive girl, but I find young girls shallow and I don’t share their values. Give me a beautiful, intelligent woman I can relate to as an adult any time.”
“Well, perhaps Santa will be kind to you,” I said, ushering him out of the door.
I have to do something about the boy, but I’m starting to enjoy it.
Phil/Monday, 8th May
Just back from our session with Fiona and she wants me to shag her! She claims it’s so she can work out what our problems are, but I know blatant female lust when I see it. Then again, how can she resist?
I knocked her back, of course, but I asked Annie in the car if she’d have minded. I was taking the piss and really putting Annie on the spot, but I felt like a bit of vengeance for the grief she’s been putting me through.
Of course she copped out by saying the decision was entirely mine and, anyway, she wasn’t jealous by nature.
She’s a liar. If there’s one thing stops me cheating on Annie it’s blind naked fear. Believe me, Hell hath no fury like our Annie. She’s always been feisty, but I think being a teacher makes it worse. Now they’re no longer allowed to belt the kids they bring all their anger and frustration home and vent it on their spouses. We should get a grant from the government to cover the stress or something, and I may well write to my MP on the matter.
And where corporal punishment's concerned I’ve always believed in it only if it’s entirely unnecessary.
Annie/Tuesday, 9th May
Something happened at our session with Fiona yesterday which has been niggling away at me all day. She offered to sleep with Phil to see if she could put him on the right track. I thought she was joking, or having a go at my bedroom capabilities, but Phil rejected her without any fuss, though he had some fun at my expense on the way home.
Anyway, I couldn’t honestly believe that she slept with her clients. Of course, I’d heard of such things, but they seemed to make her nothing more than a tart. So I phoned Kate in the afternoon and told her my fears.
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Kate said not to worry because she’d slept with Fiona as part of her therapy. To say I was gobsmacked would be an understatement.
“You did what?” I screeched down the line, “She’s about a hundred years old!”
“Doesn’t come into it, darling,” Kate replied, quite calmly, “It wasn’t exactly for love.”
“But she’s a woman,” I complained.
“Yes,” Kate drawled, “My first lesbian experience actually. Quite interesting.”
I was totally confused. I had 3B in two minutes and Kate had just turned my world upside down.
“Still there, darling?” Kate continued, “Listen, don’t fret. It’s all part of the therapy. Fiona will teach you things about your own body that you can only dream about.”
“What do you mean?” I asked frantically.
“Well, she’ll have to do a job on you too. Awaken you sexually, I mean. She’s probably got the hots for a cute little thing like you anyway.”
“Over my dead body!”
“No, I don’t think she’s into necrophilia, though nothing surprises me with that woman. I think first and foremost she’s a lesbian, everything else is just a bonus.”
I was shaking like a leaf by now. “And you expect me to sleep with her?”
“Therapy, darling, therapy. Listen, she’s a lesbian, and she’s willing to sleep with your Phil to sort out his problems, that’s how committed she is. Isn’t it time you and that warped hubby of yours gave a little?”
The bell for the next period was ringing and I had to hang-up quickly. Now I had an ageing lesbian and a schoolboy after me, instead of the one man I wanted.
I hate you Phil Wilson.
Phil/Tuesday, 9th May
Had lunch with Sheena.
She came all the way out to Dumbarton and I always think it’s amazing how far some girls will go for chicken kiev in a pub.
Anyway, we made it leisurely as I was in no hurry to get back to the site, and as she toyed with her defrosted poultry she asked me, “How many times have you fantasised about making love to me since you became sexually mature?”
I gave the matter a great deal of thought, but mainly because I couldn’t get my peas onto my fork, and said,
“One hundred and thirty two times in twenty five years. Sorry about the low number but there have been a lot of good looking women in the world, just begging for my attention.”
“That’s just over five times a year. It’s hardly holding a major crush.”
“Well, most of that number was in the early days. When you were still fresh in my memory, so to speak. Then, of course, I met Annie ...”
Uh uh, we don’t mention Annie, remember.”
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“Oh, sorry.”
She gave me a lost smile. “You really love her, don’t you?”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about her.”
“Yeah, I know, but I just wondered how many times you’d made love to Annie and thought about me?”
I pushed my plate away. “I don’t think I want to go down that road.”
She continued picking at her food and a smile that could cripple, flitted across her lips.
“Want to know about me? How often I’ve thought about you when I’ve been screwing Arthur?”
“Not particularly.” I waited, wondering what she really wanted, and then said, “Have you been a bit of a slut in your day, Sheena Burns?”
Her outrage was mock. “Me? Heavens no. The best man at the wedding, but only once; Arthur’s brother when Arthur was in hospital and that was a mistake; and a few tradesmen when times have been really hard. It’ll hardly put me in any hall of shame.”
I pushed on. “And who’s the best shag you’ve ever had?”
“Oh god, that’s a question. The truth is Phil, there have been so many men, and so many reasons not to sleep with them.”
“Waiting for Mr Right, huh?”
She finished and dropped her cutlery on the plate. “Oh yeah, and who’s he?”
“I dunno. Decent bloke. Honest, sensitive, caring.”
“Last I heard, he already had a boyfriend.”
I grinned. “Oh miaow, you’ve definitely been scalded. Want a sweet?”
“Yeah, let’s pig-out.”
“Not for me, no.”
“Don’t get too sensible on me, Phil. Sensible I can get at home.”
That was it, that was the crack, but she seemed happy enough and I went back to work with a smile on my face, so who knows anything.
Motto for the day - it doesn’t take a lot to make people happy.
I think I’m turning into a hari krishna.
Annie/Wednesday, 10th May
I woke up this morning with a belly full of fire. I’ve been avoiding reality and expecting miracles to just happen with Phil and I. Somehow I imagined that the therapy would bring about a sea-change all on its own, without any input from me, but that’s obviously wishful thinking. I’m still waiting for the vibrators to arrive, incidentally, so it’s not entirely my fault, but my most major motivating factor is the thought of sex with Fiona.
Not that I have anything against lesbians per se, and I’ve occasionally thought a minor snog with Kate might be quite fun, but I am very predominantly a heterosexual woman and Fiona just isn’t my cup of tea.
So, in an effort to conclude this therapy business as swiftly as possible, and get out of Fiona’s clutches, I
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decided to treat Phil to spontaneous oral sex as recommended somewhere in Fiona’s plethora of erotica. The problem, as it panned out, was that husbands who are unused to spontaneous oral sex from their wives can become quite confused when it is offered.
To set the scene, I had turfed Roddy out to play with his pals and discreetly drew the living room curtains, claiming there was too much glare on the TV screen.
Phil was sprawled out on the sofa, watching Hitler’s Greatest Hits on the History Channel, so I nestled down on the floor beside him.
I let my fingers do the walking up his thigh to his crotch and he looked down at me, in a distracted kind of way, and said, “Whassup, zip burst?”
I gave him my sweetest smile, which has been known to melt the hearts of no lesser a breed than car mechanics, and said, “Baby’s hungry.”
He shook his head sadly and turned the volume up with the remote control.
“Chrissakes woman, you’re just after your dinner. Can you wait till this is done and I’ll go for a pizza?”
I unzipped his fly and he shot up off the sofa, shucked his jeans in two seconds flat and threw them at me.
“Phil, what am I supposed to do with these?” I asked, saddened rather than angered.
“The only time you come near my trousers is when they’re needing washed,” he explained.
I had to agree, which is why I’ve just finished doing a dark wash.
But the thought of Fiona is still terrifying me and tomorrow I will suck that man’s brains out if it kills me.
Before we fell asleep Phil suggested we go out together for a drink soon. What a novel idea!
Phil/Wednesday, 10th May
Having been summoned back from outer Siberia to work in the office I went for a beer with the boys and MacDonald and Webster started their patter again.
“How’s the grail?” Webster asked.
“The grail?”
“The Holy Grail. Annie’s bum. Is it in good nick? Fine working order? No problems to report?”
I wasn’t really sure if I was in the mood, but I played along anyway. “Aye, sure, it’s sparkling.”
“Haven’t seen it for a while,” MacDonald said.
“Aye,” Webster added, “He never brings her out, gives us a chance to have a wee look.”
“Right, Phil, we’re disciples too, we deserve a look at the object of our adoration now and again.”
“It’s hard to worship the damn thing when we never see it.”
“I’m thinking of becoming a Buddhist, at least that Dalai Lama’s on the telly now and again.”
And they were absolutely right, it had been ages since Annie and I had a night out in the pub together. Just getting pleasantly pissed together and having a laugh. I’d need to speak to her about it.
“Sorry, lads, I’d bring her out, but I don’t want you getting over-emotional. You’ve got wives to go home to.”
“Ah, there’s the tragedy,” MacDonald moaned, “My wife’s behind is like unto the Bermuda Triangle to me,
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a mystery.”
“A mystery?” I interrupted, “You’ve been married ten years.”
“Ah, but Glenda has a very suspicious nature, and does not trust me behind her.”
I put my glass down slowly. “What do you mean? Rear entry isn’t exactly a cardinal sin.”
“Out of the question, and never to be mentioned. She’s scared I’d make faces at her behind her back while screwing her.”
I raised an eyebrow and he looked apologetic. “Admittedly she caught me out once in a mirror during our courting days, but I just couldn’t resist it.”
I was appalled. “You made faces at your wife while shagging her from the back?”
“I hate to be pedantic,” MacDonald resisted, “but she was only my girlfriend at the time.”
I shook my head sadly. “What made you do an idiot thing like that?”
“I dunno, I think it was the noises she was making that set me off.”
I bought him a pint by way of compensation. “My Annie would kill me if she caught me doing something like that.”
“Aah, a kind heart, your Annie. My Glenda’s much worse, vicious she is. Murder wasn’t good enough for her, it had to be marriage.”
Annie/Thursday, 11th May
This is the morning and I’ve just listened to a message on the answering machine. I’m waiting for Roddy to finish getting washed so I can drop him at school.
The phone must have rung last night after we’d gone to bed, but I didn’t hear it. We’ve got it set up to answer after one ring at night so it doesn’t disturb us. This was Phil’s idea. I had my doubts as we can’t now be woken in an emergency.
Anyway, the message was nothing but wild, hysterical female cackling. It sounded like Kate, drunk.
I have the afternoon off, so shall track her down. My suspicions have been confirmed - having sex with Fiona indeed! Kate was just winding me up, a pastime she’s very good at and seems to thoroughly enjoy. For instance, the minute I walked into her decrepit office she phoned the picture desk and announced to them that the model had arrived for page 3.
I dragged her off for a coffee and she admitted that it was her on the phone after a bottle of wine and a couple of brandies, when she couldn’t keep up this charade of trysts with Fiona any longer. But something was bugging me and it took a while before I remembered that Fiona had actually offered to sleep with Phil. So did she, or didn’t she offer intercourse as therapy?
Kate looked a bit shame-faced and admitted that, yes, she did. Only big, bold, brassy, Kate had bottled out when the chance of her first lesbian experience had come along.
“What could I do, pet,” this feminist paragon whined, “I’m just not that way inclined. Honest, if the therapist
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had been a man I’d have tripped him up and been under him before he hit the deck.”
“You evil bitch,” I spat at her, “You’ve had me in an utter panic since Tuesday.”
She stroked my hand. “Sorry, sweetie, you know I can’t resist a wind-up.”
“Especially when I’m the victim. You must think I’m really naive.”
“But you are! You’re too ready to believe everybody, you need to get hard, cynical.”
I lifted my chin in a gesture of defiance. “Oh yeah? When Fiona makes a pass at me I may just accept, just to rub your nose in it.”
“Well that’s one thing I admit I didn’t do. But I did watch her getting herself off.”
I pulled my hand away from hers. “You’re winding me up again.”
“Nope, cross my heart. Fiona peeled off her tights and knickers, planted her feet on her desk and demonstrated how to masturbate effectively to me.”
“Aaaah!” I felt my coffee coming back up, and that doughnut had been a definite mistake. “The woman’s sick!
And you recommended her to me as a therapist! Is this another one of your warped jokes?”
“No no, white woman not speak with forked tongue. Fiona is a very good therapist, the best. She’s not pushy, she’ll not make you do anything you don’t want to. But she is ready, willing and able to go to any lengths to make your relationship work. I wasn’t kidding about that the other day.”
I felt weary and drained, and sympathised with Phil for not wanting to get involved in this whole therapy situation. What had been so wrong with our lives? Was it totally Kate’s influence that was driving me? Was I so weak that I had to follow everything she did?
Kate seemed to sense this.
“You won’t regret it, I promise. It’s not easy, and you have to work hard, and Phil has to work hard. You have to throw out a lot of pre-conditioned notions, but you’ll be happier, healthier and have a better relationship at the end of it.”
Later I wondered why Kate didn’t know how to masturbate effectively.
Phil/Thursday, 11th May
The office mail brought me a Polaroid photograph of Sheena with no clothes on.
I thought I’d write that down in a calm, straightforward manner as if I’m used to getting nude photographs of my friends via the Royal Mail. It’s all the rage these days, post your pussy to your pal! Anyway, she certainly has a fabulous body, and must be the only woman in the world with natural pubic hair lighter than the hair on her head. Aye, right!
I’ve done some research into these matters, in magazines available on the top shelves of all good newsagents, and muff hair is always darker. Which means she dyes it. Which means she’s a very enterprising young woman, because it must be dead fiddly and take ages. I wonder if I could get Annie to ...naah, don’t even think about it.
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Anyway, now that I was convinced that Sheena was stark raving bonkers (and somehow very desirable because of it) I was faced with the problem of what to do with the pic. I couldn’t keep it in the office because if the disciples of Annie’s arse found it they’d be very disappointed in their Chief Guru.
I couldn’t keep it in the car because Annie borrowed mine to do big shoppings and I couldn’t keep it in the house because of Roddy. I thought of destroying it, but that seemed a bit ungallant, so I posted it to myself, second-class, and am looking forward to seeing it again on Monday, when I will once again post it to myself.
I think I read about this in a spy book once, and it must cost MI6 a fortune in stamps.
There wasn’t any note with the pic which fitted in nicely with my spying delusions, but I did wonder if Sheena expected a similar photograph in return. I’m not in bad shape for a man of my age, but there are limits. Maybe something discreet, with a hand casually draped over Willie-boy. But then again I didn’t have an instant camera.
And who took Sheena’s pic? Was this something she and Arthur indulged in? And if that was their house, they had horrible curtains. Or maybe she had one of those timer gadgets and indulged in a bit of solo photo-exhibitionism of an afternoon while poor Arthur wrestled with Java script. It is musings like these which keep the British building industry at the forefront of international enterprise.
Annie/Friday, 12th May
Tommy Carter has written me a short play. What a sweet, sad, sick, little man he is. He may have talent as an actor, but as a writer he is a dismal failure. One cannot fault him for ambition, for he writes in a cod Shakespearean style reminiscent of the worst of Hollywood, but sadly his imagination is limited by watching too many television soap operas. Unless I am imagining things I am Fanny in this masterpiece, a beautiful princess held captive by the vile Philip, Prince of Norway. (How does he know Phil’s name?) Philip wants my father’s realm to add to his own and is willing to go to any lengths to get it. He thinks that by marrying me against my will he will somehow achieve this. To my rescue rides Tom, the Carter’s son, a pleasant peasant with many fine qualities, and justice on his side.
I shouldn’t mock but I am lumbered with lines such as -
“Pray, forsooth, ye Prince of Darkness, thy evil intent shall never come to pass, for I am promised to another.”
and Phil replies -
“Say what ye will, madam, but I will have thee, and that right is mine by the strength of my own right arm.”
Fanny swoons toward the casement window.
“Ye shall not, for my love will come to mine aid. He cometh now!
Hark! I hear horses!”
Hear vomit, more like. At this point enter Errol Flynn, sorry Tommy Carter, who says -
“My Fanny, the thought of your heaving breast has kept hope alive in this heart of mine.”
My breasts? Heave? The boy needs glasses. But the play must go on.
“Stand aside, ye varlet, I amPhilip, prince of Norway, and the maiden is mine.”
Tom takes Fanny’s arm and pulls her beside him.
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“Nay, milord, though I am but a son of the soil, and she high-born, the lass loves me. You shall not have her.”
They draw swords and advance towards each other.
And I advanced towards the floor in a howling heap. With his head consumed by passion, young Tommy seems to have forgotten that I am also his English teacher. I have marked him accordingly.
Phil/Friday, 12th May
Telephone conversation with Sheena this afternoon..
-Hi, Phil, did you get my photograph?
- Oh, was that you?
- Pig! what did you think of it?
- Underlit, that’s always a problem with these instant cameras.
- Phil! What did you think of it..me?
- What was I meant to think of it?
- You were meant to think, whoah, I wouldn’t mind having a go at that.
- Okay, that’s precisely what I did think.
- That’s nice.
- Really? You want me drooling over you?
- It’s nice to know you want me.
- I don’t think that’s really an issue. Excluding gay men, but including gay women, I’d reckon half the world’s population wanted you.
- Oh goody. Tell me you want to shag me.
- What?
- Say, ‘I want to shag you, Sheena.’
- Are you taping this?
- No, silly.
- Not that I’m paranoid or anything ...
- Say it!
- I want to shag you, Sheena. You’re a beautiful woman and I desperately want to shag the living daylights out of you.
- Mmmm.
- What do you mean ‘mmm’? What are you doing there?
- Just lying in the bath.
- You’ll get the phone all corroded.
- All naked in the bath.
- Stop that, I’ve got work to do.
- I wish you were here.
- What, do you need some building work done, bathroom re-fitted or something?
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- I wish you were here shagging me.
- You’re just saying that because you’re five miles away. You’re effectively using BT as a chaperone, and it probably isn’t even in their Conditions of Service.
- Tell me what you’d like to do to me.
- Oh dear, somebody’s walked into my office. Can’t talk any more. See you soon. Bye.
What kind of woman says ‘Oh goody’ in this day and age?
Annie/Saturday, 13th May
I was almost starting to dread weekends in case Phil was going on one of his benders. I’m never very sure whether he’s going to behave like a human being or revert to type. Thankfully, this seems like it’s going to be a civilised weekend.
Nothing dramatic has been happening and we have been content with domestic affairs. I took Roddy into town to buy him shoes.
He’s a size eight and he’s already towering over me. I think he’ll end up taller than his dad, which causes Phil no end of anguish, no matter what you tell him about improved nutrition. It just gives him an excuse to rattle on about today’s pampered kids. Phil is the ultimate throwback and would be quite happy dragging me about by the hair.
Phil and I went out for a drink later, having parked Roddy at his pals. Phil insisted on going somewhere other than his local, which is unusual, as he never seems to tire of the company of his lunatic friends, work colleagues or otherwise. This made a pleasant change and we took a taxi out to a hotel down the Ayr road where a Queen tribute band were playing. They only maimed the music and did not totally murder it, which was a relief. Phil was very attentive and I do believe we are in for some bedroom fireworks tonight. I’m only taking my time writing this just now to torment him. Ha Ha.
Phil/Saturday, 13th May
Spent the entire day thinking about Sheena. What is the woman all about?
Does she seriously think it’s a normal thing to send nude pictures of yourself to somebody who is, relatively speaking, a stranger.
And me? Playing up to her. I’m a grown man. A grown, married, man. I should know better.
“Tell me you want to shag me.” What is that all about?
Help me here, Lord, because I’m dead stupid and naive. How are you supposed to respond to that? The smart thing to do is to tell her to bugger off. The longer this goes on the bigger the chance of me falling by the wayside. I should just tell her to pack her bags and move on.
And I know I won’t.
What is this self-destructive urge men have got? Are we all mad? Is it just sex? Even the promise of sex? Is it just an ego-trip? Is it our genes crying out to fill the universe? ‘Cause if it is, it’s a dirty rotten trick. I do not
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know. I am confused. I only came here to get changed because Annie and I are going out for a drink. Suppose I’d better get a move on.
This is Phil Wilson, News at Ten, the upstairs bedroom.
Annie/Sunday, 14th May
I am supernatural and eerie at times. I knew Phil was up for it big style. Wasn’t anything he said, wasn’t anything he did, but it’s nights like that which make life worth living.
Phil had drank just enough to slow him down (not that he’s ever been prone to being premature) but not enough to make him lose interest, and the rest is history.
Like being teenagers again, only with the benefit of a few years’ experience under our belts, which just gives that extra gloss to the performance. If we can keep that up, Phil my boy, I don’t think we’ll be troubling Fiona for too long.
I have been going about all day with a silly grin on my face which Roddy has noticed. He’s been wandering around muttering ‘disgusting’ under his breath.
If the young bugger hadn’t fallen out with his pal and crept home early, Momma could have had a Sunday Morning Special before Big Daddy went off to play golf.
Phil/Sunday, 14th May
Golfing with MacDonald and Webster is one of life’s lesser trials. We have two strict rules - one, is not to mention work, and two, is not to laugh at each other’s golfing ability.
Apart from that there was drizzly rain and we had a thoroughly miserable day of it. At least it took my mind off Sheena.
I have a theory about the invention of golf. I reckon Mrs Golf, the wife of the fella who invented it, actually goaded him into it. She probably said something like, “Never you mind about your conjugal rights, wee laddie, away out in the wind and the rain and hit a wee ball with a stick.”
See, I’m even bringing sex into golf, that’s the effect the woman’s having on me.
As I said, we don’t talk about work but MacDonald was very friendly, as if to say I’m forgiven for the crap they’ve carried for last year’s shambles.
But then again, MacDonald’s from Edinburgh.
CLIENTS NOTES/WILSO