Another warts-and-all confession. Make that confessions. I masturbated that night, and not just once. I did it in the shower. Then I did it naked on my bed for at least half an hour before going back in the shower and doing it again. And then again later, before falling asleep.
I thought of Dave all four times. Dave the girl, that is. Dave the boy has never featured in my naughty thoughts again. Never will.
Oh yes: masturbation. Why not get everything out of the closet? I’ve been self-abusing myself for ages. Ages and ages and ages. Having had plenty of practice, I like to think I’ve become quite good at it. I’m certainly better at making me cum than either of the two men in my past. And I am very well-practiced. I may have gone three years without a hard cock, but I must have sorted myself out at least twice a day in the meantime.
Blush, blush and humiliation. But aren’t we all equally guilty? Hand on heart . . .
Well, whatever fibs you might tell me, I am guilty. And often, at that. Sometimes I do it with my one and only toy. Usually I do it with well-practiced fingers. The toy is a green, phallic-shaped dildo that does the job perfectly. Fingers are best for me, though. Always will be.
And I know what you’re thinking: I’m a sad and lonely, horny cow. Ask me if I’m bothered.
Moving ever onwards: Thursday morning started with confusion. Waking an hour before my alarm, I mused on the meaning of life, the universe and everything. For me the answer wasn’t forty-two. I was, I knew, attractive to women. I didn’t just have Dave’s word for that, I had all those other propositions from uni to back her up. And I’d had girlie propositions in Cornwall, too. All right, most of them were from drunks, but I could have scored with girls if I’d wanted to.
Hell, the number of my girls’ propositions wasn’t so far off the number of my men’s. And men proposition because they are expected to. More out of duty than hope . . .
So what was I? I wondered. Like everyone else these days, I watch porn on the Internet. And, I suspect, like everyone else, I shop around. There’s only so many times you can watch guys and gals having straight sex, isn’t there? So over time I’ve watched plenty of . . . well, “girlie variations”. Was that it? Had watching girl-on-girl action turned me into a lesbian? No, I didn’t believe it had. In my opinion, watching girls had broadened my horizons but hadn’t changed me at all. No, not one iota.
I arrived at work early that day, as usual. Again my PC let me straight in. Letting the sales ledger go hang I went straight for my email. To my delight there was one for me from Davina. I opened it with trembling fingers.
‘Hi,” it began. “Fancy lunching with me? x Davina.”
I emailed back at once, not giving myself chance to think about it. “Certainly do. Meet me at twelve again? And which do you prefer, Dave or Davina?”
The response soon arrived. “I’m Dave at work, although the network controller insists I use my given name. In bed, however . . .”
My heart stopped. Dead in its tracks. I knew I was getting in too deep (who wouldn’t know given a cue like that?) but could I back out?
No, I couldn’t. I responded to her response: “Davina sounds sexy. It suits you.”
Her reply was lightning fast. “In bed I can be Dave or Davina. Work it out. And I’ll see you at twelve.”
She was waiting outside our office when I exited, promptly this time. I must admit I caught a few curious glances from colleagues but did I care? Make that a no. I didn’t know what game I was playing . . . didn’t actually have a clue . . . but it felt right. A couple of my uni friends had been openly lesbian. I hadn’t had propositions from them . . . not apart from a few earthy, jokey ones, anyway . . . so I felt qualified to play my part.
Whatever it was.
That second lunchtime followed the path of our first. We bought and ate our meals. Conversed. The only difference was that Dave was not keen on telling tales. She was inquisitive instead.
No, I told her. No current boyfriend. And no, no girlfriend ever. Did I like blokes? No, not very much. I was three years fallow. All my recent lovers had been of the celluloid variety. Well, maybe digital . . .
Back to girls, she insisted. Wasn’t I even curious?
I admitted I was Men Behaving Badly with that. When she asked me what that meant, I more or less quoted Tony. “If I was a girl, I’d definitely give it a go.” Then, blushing more furiously than ever, I said I was a girl but didn’t have Tony’s spirit of adventure.
Dave smiled and said, “Shame.”
*****
I masturbated again that night. Five or six times. Half my brain was asking me what the eff I was doing, the other half was egging me on.
I was thinking solely of Davina by then. Every second of every self-abusing stroke. My lovely, lovely Davina.
There was no need for emails on Friday morning. We had already agreed that, it being POETS day, we should go to the pub. Dave met me outside my office . . . as had become habit . . . and we set off, overcoming the impulse to go hand in hand. At least, I overcame the impulse. I can’t honestly say what impulses she felt.
Apart from the urge to fuck me, that was.
Sorry for another swearword but, from the moment I knew she was female, I’d known Dave was up for the fuck. I’d suspected it before, of course, when I’d thought she had balls and a cock. The urge was growing day by day, however. And I feared my resistance was crumbling.
By the second.
Boy, oh boy!
Or, rather, girl, oh girl!
Resistance? You may well ask. Why should I resist? Well, I was straight, remember? Not even a week ago I hadn’t had a gay bone in my body. Watching girl-on-girl videos was merely curiosity, right?
Right?
And that Men Behaving Badly thing was only a throwaway line, right?
Oh go on then, suit yourselves. Don’t believe me. As if I coco.
The pub was five minutes’ walk from work. Dave asked me what I wanted to drink and, as she’d suggested “a pint”, I went for Landlord. She ordered two pints and two roast chicken sandwiches.
‘Don’t want to get you drunk,’ she said. ‘Not in the middle of the day.’
Not knowing what I wanted . . . not even vaguely . . . I asked her what she had planned for the weekend.
‘Rock climbing,’ she said. ‘Want to come with me?’
‘Rock climbing,’ I echoed. ‘No thanks, I’d break my neck.’ Then, conscious of Dave’s . . . her, well, lascivious grin . . . ‘Do you do that often? And where do you do it?’
‘I climb most weekends,’ she said. ‘And I do it as often as I find a willing partner.’
‘You’re teasing me,’ I complained, wondering why my heart was doing unusual things inside me. Pounding, plummeting . . . things like that.
‘We’re doing Brimham Rocks tomorrow,’ Dave continued. ‘Up in Nidderdale. It’s well-used but there are more climbs than you can shake a stick at. You could come as a novice without risking a broken neck.’
‘I wouldn’t want to cramp your style,’ I said firmly.
She came back with a challenge of sorts. ‘What about hill walking?’
Hill walking? I’d done some of that in my time. ‘It depends,’ I said carefully. ‘If you really mean hills I’m up for it. If you mean mountains you’re on your own.’
‘Next weekend,’ she said. ‘I’m rock climbing at the Cow and Calf on Bank Holiday Monday. Of all days! That’ll be a gas with millions of sightseers watching us, hoping we fall. I haven’t finalized it yet, but I was planning on walking in the Lake District on Saturday and Sunday. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll organize accommodation. Separate rooms, of course.’
‘Is there a crowd of you?’ I wondered.
‘No, just me. And, hopefully, you.’
‘Hills or mountains?’
‘Hills on Saturday. Very titchy mountains on Sunday.’
‘And you’ll remember I’m straight?’
‘Mikki darling, how could I ever forget?’