Rule of Thumb (and Fingers) Pt. 01


INTRODUCTION: This follows on from my earlier story ‘Rule of Thumb.’I realise there are other sections where this story could have been placed. However, for reasons that I hope will become clear, this is my preferred choice.

As ever, comments are welcome.

Part 1 – “The very essence of romance is uncertainty” (Oscar Wilde)

After many months of abstinence, the start of my affair with Alec had practically blasted me into orbit.

Following our first meeting, which ended with a night spent in my bedroom, we began Saturday morning with an action replay before heading off to his home with the intention of spending the rest of the weekend together.

It had been a lightning-fast ‘romance’ and, to be perfectly honest, we were still little better than strangers. I’d told him that I’d been married and was now divorced; he’d told me that he was single, had been engaged twice, but neither had worked out – and I got the impression that he was relieved about it. It made me think he was a man who was still enjoying his freedom and wasn’t ready to settle down.

Normally, that wouldn’t have appealed to me. I’d passed the dreaded milestone of thirty a couple of months earlier and, to be perfectly honest, my biological clock was ticking. Actually, it was pounding like a bloody kettle-drum!

I’m not the adventurous type; I had no wish to become involved in brief affairs or a series of one-night-stands. My hope was that I’d find a suitable partner to love, to cherish, and to raise a family with. My impression was that Alec had a very different agenda — that he’d ultimately be content to see me as just another notch on his bedpost before moving on to his next ‘conquest.’

Strangely, perhaps, it didn’t bother me at the time. After enjoying a reasonably good and active sex-life for a number of years, the absence of it had become more and more of a trial during the months of separation and divorce. I’d tried to tell myself it didn’t matter (it’s easy to lie to yourself at times like that), but my first time with Alec had vividly reminded me of what I’d been missing.

Where was the harm, I asked myself, in spending another few pleasurable hours with him? I mean, he was handsome, tall, physically fit and, as I’d found out, a gentle and considerate lover. After all, there didn’t exactly seem to be a queue of eager suitors waiting outside my door.

That was my reasoning. I felt sure that I’d be very gently dumped when I came to leave on Sunday evening, but I was prepared to accept that.

On the way to his home, we stopped at a shop because he said he needed some milk — and it was only when we parked outside his place that I asked him where the milk was, since he obviously hadn’t bought any. I tried to keep a straight face as he coloured up, but I couldn’t manage it for long. Eventually, I burst out laughing and said:

“Perhaps you put it in your inside pocket? I saw you putting something in there. How many did you get?” I saw his grin spread slowly as he realised he’d been found out and that I wasn’t the least bit upset. For those who need to know such things, they were Durex Featherlite; there were 18 in the carton (and there were still ten or eleven when I headed home at teatime on Sunday!)

On the Saturday, though, we spent the afternoon in bed, learning how to please each other. I was glad that he seemed to prefer fairly straightforward sex. I honestly don’t know how I would have reacted if he’d asked for a blow job or anal sex and I was relieved that he didn’t suggest either. I didn’t mind blow jobs as long as I wasn’t expected to swallow (I’d tried that once and found it unpleasant); but I’d never liked the idea of anal sex, and when my husband had suggested it I’d given him a very firm ‘no.’

Alec, however, seemed more than content to spend a lot of time touching, stroking, teasing and generally finding as many erogenous areas as he could. When I took the initiative and climbed on top he seemed to relish giving up control to me and enjoying the luxury of lying back and gently playing with my small breasts but, at the same time, he seemed to get just as much pleasure in taking me ‘doggy-style’ where I was completely at his command.

In the evening, I was happy to settle for a Chinese takeaway which he went to collect.

“Am I allowed to have a nosy around while you’re out?” I laughed, fully expecting him to look a bit nervous at the prospect, but he didn’t bat an eyelid.

“I’ve a feeling you will whatever I say,” he smiled, and then; “the dirty mags are in the bottom drawer and the sexy videos are in the living room — but don’t try to judge my character by what you find in them!”

I’ll admit I was a bit stunned, both by his easy confidence and his honesty; it was very disarming and I had to warn myself not to become attached because it would certainly be an easy thing to do.

In fact, because I am a bibliophile, I spent most of the twenty minutes or so examining his bookshelf. Apart from a few thrillers and detective novels, it soon became clear that his main interest was Trabzon Escort in music. There were the Memoirs of Hector Berlioz; W.A. Mozart By Hermann Abert, and others of a similar kind. Then there were musical scores by Brahms, Beethoven, Haydn and many others.

There was also what appeared to be a very expensive, top of the range stereo player and, beside it, a rack containing dozens of classical CDs. I was looking through the titles — hoping to find something I knew well enough to hold an intelligent conversation about — when he returned with the food.

That evening, after we’d eaten, we made long, slow love to some of the world’s greatest music and, when he was inside me, it seemed as if his body pulsed to the sounds; that his thrusts were in time to the rhythms and cadences of the music. With each shattering crescendo he seemed to raise me up from mere mortality to an ethereal paradise of excitement, and each gentle pastorale allowed me to sink into contentment. I remember, just before we fell asleep, him saying:

“Berthold Auerbach once said that music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life,” but I was too weary to even tell him that I agreed.

By Sunday morning, as he prepared a breakfast consisting of more than I normally ate in a whole day, I was desperately trying to tell myself that I hadn’t fallen in love with him! It couldn’t possibly happen so quickly; and how could I face the inevitable disappointment if it did? I was, I think, more frightened of my own emotions than I ever had been in my life before.

For most of the day we simply cuddled up together on his large sofa and lazily made love, twice, before the time I’d been dreading finally arrived. I explained that I had to get home; that I had lesson plans to prepare for the following day and homework to mark – and then it felt as if the axe fell!

“It’s okay… I’ve got an early start too… I have to go away tomorrow, Patsy,” he said. “You’ve probably gathered that I play music for a living and I’m going to be on tour for the next six weeks or so….”

I didn’t dare to say anything. Even when he told me that we needed to swap phone numbers so we could get in touch when he came back, it felt as if he was actually saying farewell. It was even worse when he seemed to be trying to soften the blow:

“It’s been a wonderful couple of days. In fact it’s been so intense that I really need to step back a little bit and think about what’s happened.”

I told him it was okay. I told him that I’d wait for his call, and tried to hide my conviction that the call would never come. He drove me home in his lovely Jaguar S-type and, when we arrived there, we had a final kiss. He seemed to be about to say something, but I stopped him. I didn’t want to hear any promises that probably wouldn’t be kept; I didn’t want him to see how much I longed to see him again and to be with him. I forced a smile, said a simple “See you!” and climbed out of the car before he had a chance to see the tears that were beginning to form in my eyes.

I didn’t want to pressure him. I felt that the ‘adventure’ was almost certainly over and, even though it had been so wonderful, it hurt. I turned, briefly, to give him a little wave and then he sped off into the distance, leaving me to go back to my empty apartment — to tidy up the detritus of the weekend and try to salvage my sensibilities.


Part 2 – “The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.” (Blaise Pascal)

It was over a week since I’d seen him and I was trying, for the millionth time, to tell myself that I needed to move on, to forget about him and prepare for a new beginning. I had thrown myself into my work with an almost feverish determination and found all kinds of things to occupy my time away from it.

When I took out a membership at a local gym, I told myself that I was only doing it for me; that the intention of restoring my body to its prime had nothing to do with being prepared for his possible return. I volunteered to help with adult literacy classes two evenings a week, but refused to accept that every moment away from the lonely apartment — away from all the memories of the first wonderful night we’d spent together — had anything to do with it.

In the staff room at school, there had been a bit of teasing after that weekend. Shirley, who was noted for her ‘romantic exploits’ and her incredibly vivid recounting of them, had recognised the signs as soon as she’d seen me. There’d been the expected crudities, the asking whether I’d tried out her ‘rule of thumb’ and the dismay that I wasn’t willing to share my experience with her – and then much gentler teasing as she came to realise that there was probably more to it than she’d first realised. As time went by, she’d become really perceptive about my demeanour and, in all honesty, she’d been very kind and supportive to me.

I’d never liked the way some of the others referred to her as ‘the slapper,’ but now I liked it even less because I felt that I was beginning to understand her. Was she, after all, Trabzon Escort Bayan so very different to me? She wanted, I think, to be loved; simply to be with a good man who would make her appreciate the joy of being a woman. That was why she practically pounced on every man who showed any interest in her; why she snatched at the momentary release of brief affairs — and wasn’t that, when all was said and done, exactly the way that I’d behaved?

At night, alone in my bed, I wondered if that would be my own destiny — to become a woman so in need of affection that I would drift from one hopeless affair to the next in the hope of finding someone who would match my needs and want to stay with me for more than just a night or two? Some nights, I cried myself to sleep and some nights I tried to push the thoughts away with the help of a vibrator — but that only seemed to help when I had the Debussy CD I’d bought playing gently in the background.

I was becoming an emotional mess. One night, I went so far as to pick up my phone and, concealing my own number identity, called Alec. I’d told him I wouldn’t do that, I hadn’t wanted to pressure him. I wanted him to call me! But when he answered, I heard the sound of someone else in the background, the voice of a female saying: “Oh, yes! More passion!” and I hurriedly ended the call without speaking.

By the end of the second week, I was beginning to fall apart a little. I don’t mean my work was suffering or anything as obvious as that, but my inner turmoil was definitely beginning to push me down into a state of depression.

It was on the Friday, two weeks after I’d met Alec that things began to change.

A small group of female teachers were going out to see a romantic — that is to say ‘weepy’ — movie, and they asked me if I wanted to join them. George, the head of the history department, in one of his pompous moments, had declared that any woman who dragged her husband along to the cinema to watch it would be providing him with solid grounds for divorce! At first, I wasn’t sure that an emotional movie was exactly what I needed at that moment but, seeing the prospect of avoiding yet another lonely evening in my apartment, I eventually agreed.

Actually, it was a young teacher — a very attractive girl named Beth — who finally persuaded me.

“Come on, Patsy,” she said, “It’ll do you good. You’ve been looking a bit peaky lately. Tell you what… we’re the only unattached ones so, put some glad rags on and when the movie’s over, we’ll go for a couple of drinks when all the old marrieds go home… yes? Listen… get a bus into town and you can stay the night at my place… then I’ll give you a lift home tomorrow. How does that sound?”

It sounded fine, and that was why I turned up wearing clothes that made me look reasonably attractive (God bless whoever invented push-up bras!); a V-neck sweater and a short leather coat, with a knee-length skirt and a pair of fairly high heeled shoes.

Beth, however, looked absolutely stunning!

Like most female teachers, she had the good sense to ‘dress down’ for work; she usually turned up wearing no more than basic make-up and dressed in elegant, but far from sexy business suits. That night, however, she wore her long, dark hair down over her shoulders; her top was a low-cut, lavender-coloured silk blouse and her skirt (far shorter than mine!) was a burgundy pencil-line that showed her figure, and her legs, to perfection. Previously, I’d thought her pretty, now I realised she was dazzlingly beautiful.

“Have you brought a large stick?” I asked her and, when she asked why, I said; “To beat the hordes of men off when we go to a bar later!”

She just giggled and told me it wouldn’t be a problem; it was a girls’ night and she wasn’t looking to be pulled under any circumstances. Then, making me feel a bit nervous, she added;

“Mind you, that doesn’t mean I won’t tease one or two… just for the hell of it! Anyway… you’re looking pretty ravishing yourself.”

I guess it was meant to make me feel better but, to be honest, I felt dowdy standing next to her. It made me think of all the plain females who go out with beautiful friends in the hope of being able to pick up the friend of the handsome guy. Anyway, we all watched the movie. It was about a romance between an ageing couple who had known each other as children before drifting apart, had been married and widowed, and were now reunited and tentatively beginning a romance in the autumn of their years. Most of our companions were enchanted — lots of sniffs, sobs and the clutching of tissues. Personally, I found it a bit boring and unconvincing. Obviously Beth felt the same because, at one point, she leaned over and whispered; “Not exactly Pornhub, is it?”

Let me tell you that choking on a bit of popcorn is a very unpleasant experience!

Having said that, it was the only thing that made me shed tears in the cinema that night! Afterwards, the rest of the ladies disappeared homewards while Beth and I headed for the nearest bar. Beth bought Escort Trabzon us each a glass of white wine and we found a table near the window where we could watch the Friday night revellers passing by — one of the best free entertainment shows to be found anywhere.

“Well,” she said, “at least I know that you watch porn, now!” And this time I nearly spat wine over the table, but she was relentless: “So, tell me… what else does ‘Miss Frosty’ do for fun?”

“Probably much the same as ‘Miss Baps’ does,” I grinned and she blushed a bit. It wasn’t so much that she had large breasts; it was just that her slim figure drew attention to them — even in the suits she wore – and young men are ruthless in awarding nicknames. She was about to retort when a voice suddenly declared:

“Can’t you two fucking supermodels piss off and drink somewhere else? Some of us are trying to find ourselves a man tonight to get laid… and we really don’t need this kind of competition!”

“Hiya, Shirl!” we both said at the same time and then, “How’s it going?”

“Well,” she drawled with a smile “It was going okay until you two showed up. There was no eye candy in the place and I was getting plenty of attention. In particular, I was doing fine with the tall man in the light blue suit by the bar. I’ve spent time with him before and, despite that, he seemed willing to give me a second chance!”

Beth and I giggled, but Shirley went on, almost straight-faced.

“I had a great night with him last time and I thought I was doing well… but the minute he caught sight of you two his trousers went up like a fucking marquee!”

She wouldn’t sit down. She listened to us tell her that we’d been to the cinema and were having some quiet drinks afterwards, but she told us she was watching her man. “If he makes a move towards the door, I swear I’m going to rugby tackle the bastard!” she told us.

“Is it a ‘rule of thumb’ thing?” I asked and, seeing Beth’s eyebrows shoot up I started to explain, “Ermmm… Shirley has a way of… erm… assessing someone’s… erm… manhood….”

“Don’t be so mealy-mouthed,” Shirley grinned, “What this delicate little flower is trying to tell you, Beth, is that I have very accurate way of using my thumbs to measure a man’s dick. This one comes out of it pretty well… that’s why I said marquee instead of tent. He wasn’t lying about it… and I checked it with both thumbs! Anyway, I must get back to him before he sees anything better or, worse still, asks me to introduce you two. I’ve already told him he’d be wasting his time because you’re both dykes… but you know what men are like!”

And then she was gone, leaving us both open-mouthed as she took her friend’s arm and practically hauled him out of the door. I don’t think the poor man even had time to finish his drink! We stared at one another for a moment or two, and then burst into helpless laughter. That was what really relaxed us, I suppose. Although we hadn’t got to each other very well before then, we were soon chatting away like old friends, and a waiter with a definite gleam in his eye made sure our glasses were never empty for long.

Before long, I’d told her (an edited version of) my history and I’d learned that she’d had a number of unhappy affairs which all seemed to have ended badly. Although her language wasn’t crude, she still managed to be fairly graphic when it came to describing her love life, but it seemed as if it had stalled since her last big romance some months earlier so, despite my brief interlude with Alec, we appeared to have a lot in common.

We had discussed the possibility of going on to a nightclub to have a dance and a few more drinks. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea but, enjoying the company so much, I was quite happy to go along with it. The drinks were flowing very nicely, however, and time passed very quickly. A couple of times, some young men came over to try to hit on us, but we politely turned them away — we were happy just as we were, getting slightly drunk and relishing loads of ‘girl-talk.’

Sometime after midnight, we finally decided to gather our things and head for Beth’s place — getting ourselves some fish ‘n’ chips to eat on the way. She had a nice, single-bedroom place that was in a large, old house which had been converted into flats. Unlike mine, it was neat, tidy and well-kept. She brought out a bottle of wine and, without asking, poured a large glass for each of us. I wasn’t sure about it because I’ve never had much of a tolerance level for alcohol and I was probably well over my normal limit by then but, why worry?

I freshened up in the bathroom and changed into the rather drab nightie — actually a very large and long t-shirt – I’d tucked into my handbag, then Beth took her turn to use the bathroom and get changed while I settled into her large bed with my glass of wine. The difference when she came back to the room, was that her nightie was not only the silk-smooth kind that clings to every curve; it was also so sheer that it was more or less see-through! Not only that, but it was see-through enough to reveal that she was wearing nothing underneath it — the dark patch of her pubic hair and the rosy pink forms of her nipples were enough to tell me that. I observed it all with a brief glance before turning away, feeling a bit embarrassed but not quite knowing why.

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