Weird Sex and Cinderella.

Did you ever have a date with someone whose shiny coach turned into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?


harbinger to the cold light of dawn…

Keeping up a fantasy to justify wanting to have your paws in somebody’s knickers is an exhausting business. The masks of social nicety will slip onto the floor along with the clothing after several hours and several glasses of wine…

not to mention that weird sex is what weird anything might be…

when things don’t do what they say on the tin.

So, you had no prior inkling….

well, yes, there was a whole spiel about how awful her brother was and she even showed me a ‘poisonous’ letter from him on her tablet which was actually pretty measured…

no explicit death wish anywhere..

…and how she wasn’t angry anymore, but went on endlessly about it..

…and when I commented on the warmth of her cashmere, she snapped, ‘I don’t wear shit…’

and that didn’t deter your efforts..?

Well it would have, but I was starkers except for my socks at the time. I wasn’t going anywhere, at least not until I got my breath back.

She had you.


It started a few weeks before. She was a local woman who had been giving me the eye… We’d spoken a few times in the street and flirted a bit. Married but clearly…unfulfilled.

I listened and was…supportive.

She said he was away for a bit and would I like to come over for dinner, all anticipated by a flurried exchange of steamy messages.

That’s not weird…

I’m getting there.

I went with my hopes up.

I felt perky.

It was the beginning of something beautiful.

She answers the door in rompers. Straight to the wine and enough family gossip to pass for the intimacy needed to cross thresholds between bright kitchen and subdued lighting next door.

Nibbles on the couch by the fire and before long we are at it..

that’s not weird…

Then after, she’s all, ”Oh God, I thought I was going to be all right with all this throwing convention to the wind.. but, I love my husband, blah, blah,’ and her lip quivers a bit…

that’s not weird..

I’m getting there.

By now its late. She doesn’t want to ‘put me through any more’ of her remorse so I go crash in the spare room while she ‘processes her feelings’.

5 am: I’m awake. So is she. I can hear movement upstairs. I think, I can’t be having post-mortems over coffee. I’ll go now. But I won’t.. just leave.

That would be.. ungracious.

Is this the weird bit?

Yes, please be quiet.

So I think, I’ll just go up, just knock gently and put my head round the door to say that I’m on my way and don’t get up.

So there she is, bare arse naked being mounted by some random dude…

not her husband…

all hung like a donkey that she must have bussed in after the big story about her guilt and showing me magnanimously to the spare room..

Either that or he was hiding in a cupboard the whole time.

So the feeling is like being circled by a Moray eel in the shallow end of your local pool or perhaps losing your arm to a hamster. Something unknown is doing I don’t know what..

‘Orlrite?’ asks the bloke, all chipper.

That is a bit weird..

Yeah, but the weird bit, the really weird bit, was not that she had so utterly thrown out the very conventions she’d been agonising over only a few short hours before, nor that she might have had Dial-a-Nob’s special midnight deal voucher..

nor even that her contrition for our carnal encounter was less in evidence than her pudenda,

The weirdest bit was that she asked me, in all seriousness, to observe the most minute of social conventions whilst having her proffered furrow ploughed from behind by Bideford’s answer to Valentino.

‘don’t you knock?’

Dong, dong.

I rap again, like a slow clap, to demonstrate audibility above the squeaking bedsprings, avoiding the obvious suggestion that locking her door would have been a more secure option, since it was clear that this scenario and what might come of it was the real end game and not the hors d’ouvre by the fire a few short hours before.

‘Its so early,’ she added, as though the time of day had some causal relation to being caught ‘inflagrante delicto’ with her local friendly Rastafarian. As though Sunrise was to blame for the swing of his pendulum.

Dong, dong.

”What light from yonder window breaks?”

And it was weird, not because I’m moralistic about threesomes, or that I felt  confused and stupid standing there and shouldn’t have, but because of the violent collision between her request that I fine tweak the volume of my knuckles whilst she’s down on hers being vigorously knocked into breach of every rule in the Dating Handbook.

I went away feeling angry and humiliated, her contempt for my apparently woeful prior efforts clawing at me. I had been her entree.

her burrito, mon.

Thankyou. I walked the seven miles home, chuntering and wounded, trying to spit the taste of it all out of my mouth. I had had feelings for her..

there’s no fool like an old fool.

I had enjoyed making love with her…

that’s why people do it.

How can I have been such a poor judge of character?

Nah, you just confused the gratitude of getting laid with love, happens all the time.

But what am I doing being the masochistic patsy in the equation?

Is that what happened?

Well no, I wasn’t stupid enough to lose my rag or say, ‘how could you?’ But I’d been made an ass of. I made an ass of myself by not listening to any of the whispering wisdoms swished into the wings by naive romantic fantasy all tagged onto the cotton tails of pussy fever.

So what actually happened…?

Momentarily, with horrible clarity, I heard myself of not so long ago prating about what made her so attractive to me, how wholesome she was, the pretense that this was not a one night stand..

… the consummation of which effectively freed her from any dating contractual obligation… denial of which had required extra ordinary efforts on her part in order to underline.

So once midnight had chimed, her handsome suitor fell  into Unconsciousness and the riverside mist condensed into Demon Lover to rectify the unreality that this was the beginning of something beautiful….

So what actually happened?

I left with the one unbinding sentiment that might free me from the entanglement of weird sex thrown over my shoulder..


Cheer up, she could have asked you for money.

That would at least have been a straight transaction..

see how easy it is for you to start feeling sorry for yourself ? How can you have a straight transaction if you go into it with your eyes closed?


at least open them on the way out, your seven miles of high dudgeon was also a seven mile walk of shame which really is weird…

…because it could all have been avoided if you’d just said thankyou at the end of the evening and gone home like a normal person instead of hanging on like some middleaged Romeo hoping for protestations of undying love on the back of a two bit shag.

Sex is symbol as well as activity. The perfect fit of fucking brings with it all kinds of archetypal expectations and fantasies of Union, the timeless story of the divine or royal lover, the hoped for redeemer, the one who’ll make, who is making, everything better.

But its hoping on the outside for what is needed on the inside. So no wonder you felt depleated, as though you’d been robbed. You gave yourself away and all of these qualities you thought you saw in her were fragments of  your Self, a waking dream of your own inner world… projections that, once they are withdrawn, or forced back to roost, can leave the beloved looking like a cold fish at best or an ungrateful haddock at worst.


In the original Cinderella story the slipper lost at midnight was a furry slipper, altered by later storytellers to conceal the obvious erotic metaphor and the ease with which sexual fitting and true love are so easily overlapped.

so you’re not the first or the last to make a complete idiot of yourself.

I feel better..

That’s ok, leave the money on the dresser.