Xmas Card delivered Xmas Eve

                                                                                                                        18th.12th.10

TO JOHN, X,

I NEVER ENDED US!!, I WOULDNT EVER,

I GOT INTO TROUBLE AND SENT TO PRISON SORRY

I CAME TO SEE YOU TODAY BUT YOU WERE OUT

I WILL COME DOWN AGAIN IN THE –

NEW YEAR JANUARY, I WANT US TO GET

BACK TOGETHER JOHN AND SPEND THE REST

OF OUR LIVES TOGETHER SINCERELY

XXX (‘With all my love at Christmas’) XXX

I LOVE YOU JOHN, I HAVE ALWAYS

LOVED YOU + ALWAYS WILL FOREVER. 

I WANT IT TO BE JUST YOU + ME NOW

NO ONE ELSE FOR LIFE TOGETHER. 

HAPPY CHRISMAS JOHN,

HOPE ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE –

NEXT YEAR!  I LOVE YOU

YOUR MAN ALWAYS JOHN (LIVERPOOL)

Aroused and stunned, I wondered who’d sent it.  No John I knew, no-one I knew would.  Liverpool was the clue.  It was from the fling.  I wouldn’t have expected it from him either. 

The fling had been four years ago, I found out from my diary.  I did seem to spend a lot of time writing the story of it, The Fling.  I’d consistently disappointed the fling himself, John, of the sex he wanted which was puerile and that he could get in any cottage.  He wanted to watch himself and the other ejaculate.   He didn’t need me for that.  He wasn’t interested in any other mode from my well-nigh exhaustive range.  His arse incidentally was cleaner than his mouth since he was alcoholic and smoked.  He asked was it because he’d stolen the £80 I wasn’t coming.  I said I didn’t think so, adding I’d thought of calling in the police but hadn’t felt like it.  The reason, I thought, was I was determining not to, except the once: he was involved, supine beneath, his cock at my rim, but by arching back I was wanking in such a way he couldn’t see the ejaculate.   The best sex I’d inexplicably ever had hardly impinged upon him at all and it was only sex.  He offered to fuck me.  He was already fucking his wife presumedly.  I thought he could flatter himself he was a man on that basis since I wouldn’t’ve fucked him first though he had at one time been perfectly willing I should, had I been stiff enough.  I didn’t desire him.  I didn’t love him either.  I could do better I thought, even at my age.  I didn’t tell him how old I was in case that put him off.  Seeing him come out a cottage, I thought I’d succeeded in weaning him off me and onto what would give him the sex he wanted.  I haven’t, however, had sex with anybody else since. 

I don’t have a phone.  If I had, I wouldn’t have been sent the best Xmas card ever.  I was out all that day, the one day in the whole year I was.  He might not have hung about anyway.  My alcoholic neighbour was his friend and John, I realised, had gone to great contriving duplicitous lengths over a considerable time to present himself at my door, silently, not presuming but I knew for sex, without anybody’s knowing.  I didn’t blame him.  His appearance might be his only protective covering that he was entitled to use and entailed deceit.  He enjoyed being in bad faith and lying.  I asked had he always done this, had men on the side.  He said he had but it had to be somebody he really wanted.  I gauged he was telling the truth.  I was somebody he wanted but in a long line of somebodies.  He was forty six then.  It wasn’t specifically me he wanted.  Nobody ever wants me.  They want to be married, a published writer, this thing, that thing, the last thing a dominant woman, they have even wanted to be married to me but never has anybody tout court wanted me; the fling came nearest.  He sounds pretty specific now but I’ve never known anybody to get a second wish.     

I live in good faith with everybody.  If he comes, I’ll see him.  I won’t let myself be ruled by somebody else’s passion though, unless I do.  If it’s there and I pick up on it, if I’m reflecting it, feeling it, if for the nonce it’s mine, mine too, though his mine, mine therefore for him as his is for me, then …I sincerely hope he hasn’t picked up any disease in prison.  

I also hope the editor of my book isn’t dilatory but does what I’ve asked her to do because I may not have enough time come January to finish what I want done.  Any present constructing of art from life takes precedence over the replication in another form of a past construction.   

She’d approve his not using the word, fuck, or even the word sex.  I approve his not using aesthetically repellent and intellectually dishonest euphemisms unless by love he does mean sex.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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