I was tweeting when he accosted me. He asked had I got his letter, from a prison in Sussex, Ford I presumed. His ‘wife’ had stitched him up with her brothers’ cannabis to keep their Twickenham flat. He got four years, reduced to three plus six months’ parole and today is one of his day releases. He had till four. He asked my age and said I didn’t look it. I wasn’t coughing.
I put on the heating. He didn’t want to come because once he did he’d gone, he said, so there was a lot of foreplay. In a break for tea, he part-drew the curtain though it was Saturday and no-one was in the offices opposite and put on his pants not to walk about naked. The pants came off again. He was a lot more adventurous sexually.
Once he had come he asked if I had, using his semen as lubricant. “Nearly.” He wanted a sandwich, a cigarette, a shower. He dressed after the shower to have the cigarette outside and not wanting to be seen by my neighbour, his friend, he would go down the stairs and, if he saw the neighbour coming in, would go out the back while the cobs were steaming. He went out like Captain Oates never to return. Same old fling. Nearly. By ‘love’ he does mean sex. I am no more than a seventy-two year old sex object.
I ate and started coughing. Either sex or not eating is a cough suppressant. “It’s going to be difficult to get rid of him,” I said to myself. Maybe not.