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know what someone’s
thinking, and then my finger started to bleed again where Raffle Buffle had
caught it earlier.   “Shall I put a
stitch in that with my horse needle?” and he smiles his long and slow and
utterly beautiful smile.   I do love
him, I do, and I know he loves me, his love wraps me in golden paper, loosely
as not to hurt me, my love starts at my groin and rises to my throat where I get
a little stuck for words.   “So, do
you think it’s a good idea?” I am sitting on his lap now, stroking the back of
his hair, rubbing his neck for him   “should I get a lodger?   What
do you think?”   I am fidgeting with
a book now which is on the table by my side, stamping my dominance on it.   I am looking at his tweed sports jacket
on the floor by his chair ‘I chose him that’ I think, and it makes me happy
that I cherish him and look after him in all the ways I can, even just making
sure he looks nice “I think you should most definitely think about it” he said,
and that was that.
    My time with
Charlie is strange and fairy taleish.   We spend hours together talking and making love, being close and I am so
ecstatically happy, but only when he can make a good excuse as to why he’s away
from home.   Four years is a long
time to spend with someone who’s already married and who has no intention of
getting a divorce.   I want his utter
devotion and I want to marry him and I want to have children with him, but if
he won’t, he won’t.   “I know, I
know” I say “you can’t risk ruining your children’s lives” and then I drop it
because I can’t make him do something he doesn’t want to, and I couldn’t live
with myself if I bullied him   “I
don’t care, it doesn’t matter to me” I say to him
“but it does though doesn’t it Gussie?” and it does, but then it doesn’t.   It does because I can’t have him and I
want him, I can’t have him, all of him.   But it doesn’t matter because I cut off my nose to spite my face
sometimes and then I’m so fucking bloody-minded that nothing bothers me, I don’t
let anything bother me and I’d rather be on my own, miserable maybe, than half
someone else’s.   I want him only if
he really, really wants me.   And
when I say something I do mean it.   I am lethally unpredictable, I won’t play games, I am serious about
pretty much everything (except messing around) and I think that makes me a
little scary.   And I am tough, but
in ways that no one suspects and I have a feeling that my love could easily
turn to hate.   I question him, I
have to understand him, but he doesn’t question me in the same way, I throw him
crumbs and sometimes he takes them up, but he doesn’t want to know where they
come from.   And I look at him again,
naked, getting ready for me, still sitting on grandma’s chair, with his long,
thin hairy legs open and his bollocks hanging heavily down on to the sage green
velvet seat “that’s a very lovely sight” I say and shuffle over to him on my
knees.   I am the hunter, I am the
predator, I will have him and I lick, one long lick, up the length of his
penis.   My hair falls down all
around my face and he wraps me up in a puff of steamy deliciousness.   “I could eat you” I just manage to say
without taking my eyes off his erection and his eyes go dreamy and my head goes
all steamy and our sex is very good and far too exciting.   I’d miss that.

Chapter 4

 
    I remember once telling grandma about
a plan I had to do something important and she said “I should think about it
for a couple of weeks first” and I said
“OK” but I didn’t, and then two weeks later I told her “I’ve thought about it
and I’m going to do it.”   I am impulse
and I will do what I like.   And the
next day, without any thought whatsoever I walked down to the post office and
put an ad on their notice board ‘Perfect lodger wanted for perfect
house/cottage.   Must be female.   Own room, kitchen and bathroom.