]]>'How would you feel if daddy married Lu?' He asked in the car, on the long journey to come over to us. Nowadays we spend the weekends together, and have synchronised the 'having the children' rota.
'That means that Pest n.1 and Pest n.2 would become our brothers?'
'Yes.'
'Ye-ey! Great!'
Mr Mechanic's first born, after a pause: 'I think you should live together for a while, and then decide.'
He is not nine yet.
Obviously he goes to a school which does not teach number tables, but certainly equips for the ways of life.
Mr Mechanic laughed. I was not amused when I heard the story.
'Why did you put the question like that?' We are not getting married.'
'Oh, it was to make the question easier for them to understand. It does not stop here.'
'No?'
'No. I then asked whether they thought mummy would marry her beau. They said they did not think so.'
'Why not?'
'Because they said that mummy and the beau argue all the time about THE OTHER GIRLFRIEND.'
'What other girlfriend?'
'I don't know. I think he is married already.'
Last year I thought that family cobwebs were a million light-years from me. Nowadays I am not too sure.
And I have not even started weaving in Mr Mechanic's OTHER ex-wife's story. Or the story pertaining the mother of his third child.
Mr Mechanic's first child - let's call him Mechanino - is wrong, of course. I reckon that the only way is not even living together... it is to live as far away as possible.
]]>1. Is there anyone of your friends that you would ever consider having sex with?
NO. Friends are sexless.
2. Sex in the morning, afternoon or night?
Afternoon, ideally. But "beggars" and "Choosers" spring to mind...
3. What side of the bed do you sleep on?
Wherever he is.
4. Have you ever taken your clothes off for money?
Of course. It's called being a wife.
5. Have you ever had sex in the shower or the bath?
Does the Mediterranean sea count?
6. Do you watch/read pornography?
Thank God I do not.
7. Do you want someone aggressive or passive in bed?
Why is aggressive the opposite of passive? Should that not be "active"? And no, I don't like "passive".
8. Do you love someone on your blogroll?
I used to. Now I am fond of my blog-friends.
9. Would you choose love or money?
Erm... I am the living proof that poverty can be very romantic.
10. Your top three favourite kinks in bed?
A little strangulation, being held down, and having my hair pulled.
11. Has anyone ever gone beyond your personal line of respect sexually?
Yes. Not pretty.
12. Where is the most romantic place you have had sex?
Wherever I have been 'THERE'. With him. Right 'THERE' where our souls join.
13. Where is the weirdest place you have had sex?
On a cross.
14. Have you ever been caught having sex?
Yes. Very embarrassing. My partner was black, the catch-er was white South African.
15. Ever been to a bar just to get sex?
I think it was a pub.
16. Ever been picked up in a bar?
Wasn't that the idea?
17. Have you ever kissed or had sex with someone of the same sex?
NEVER.
18. Had sex in a movie theatre?
Theatre... exploring... in the dark.
20. Had sex in a bathroom?
Yes, not impressed.
21. Have you ever had sex at work?
Yes.
22. Bought something from an adult store?
Been bought.
23. Do you own any sex toys?
Left it all behind. Nowadays I have a little spider massager.
24. Does anyone have naughty pics of you or are you on film?
Yes. Oh yes.
25. Have you ever had sex with someone and called them the wrong name?
I think "darling" covers a multitude of names.
26. Do you think oral sex constitutes as a form of intercourse?
It's a form, that's for sure.
27. What's your favourite sexual position?
The one which unfolds me from the inside.
28. What's your favourite sex act?
I have a huge range, and add to it as I go along.
29. Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time?
In my dreams, very often.
30. How many bloggers do you think will post this meme this week?
No idea.
Mr Mechanic insisted. I did not know whether it would be suitable with four children in tow.
Our children argue and play very loudly. My boys' minds work fast and love an audience. Their naughtiness is never a private affair. His children are fragile and, usually, less stimulated. A heady, explosive combination.
We all went to this place although I had my misgivings. I was tired, the weekend trickles in a blur when there is no time for oneself, only for the others. I feared that this place might be inappropriate, although for whom... I did not quite know.
I should not have worried. We sat separately, he with his, me with mine. There was silence, and there were voices. Singing, mostly. And voices from the past, from the dead. From almost a hundred years ago, from last year. From little villages and from afar. From the young and from the old.
I could not see what his children when doing, but heard them answer a question put out to the congregation. I wa impressed. I looked at mine, completely still and listening to those voices. Singing along. Following the lines.
I should not have worried. Yes, I cried. But I felt as if I were back home. Comforted and soothed.
I have been away, I whispered. You know why I have been away.
Mr Mechanic was right.
It was the right place to go to.
]]>Train, tube. There and back.
With four boys under nine.
Now the fireworks.
I have more energy now than I did when I was eighteen.
And so much more love.
]]>Pest n.2 spends an inordinate amount of time with her. Let's call her Rosie. Pest n.1 gets occasionally picked up from the bus stop, and spends an hour or so doing his homework at Rosie's house.
Rosie is an unusual childminder. For a start, she is not overweight, slovenly, oldish or grumpy. She is not ugly, she does not hold a yearly membership at Mcdonald's. She does not shout or punish.
Hell, my childminder actually LIKES children.
I have never, ever called her with an emergency only to be turned down. Rosie does not let down, nor does she charge by the minute. I am always late, but she does not look at the clock. She feeds my child without being asked, or indeed without working an extra charge into the fees. She cooks home-made meals, and loves animals.
It takes me an hour to drop Pest N.2 off and then go to work - she lives in the opposite direction. She cannot help a lot with Pest n.1's homework because, frankly, her spelling, English and general knowledge are not that brilliant.
Her accent is also not particularly Sloany.
Tonight, as I collected Pest n.2 and asked her AGAIN to let me have the bill for this month (she cares so little for the money, although she earns a pittance, that she won't even work out the monies until I force her) she proudly announced that today MY child did well at spelling, wrote beautifully, and read even better.
Pest n.2 is not... how can I put it... academically gifted. When I complained last month about my lack of time to follow his efforts and make sure he works as hard as he can, Rosie decided to take it upon herself to help him.
'So, what did you do last night?' I asked her. She has recently separated and has been going through a tough time. Last night was her 'night off', as the ex takes the children away for one day or so.
'I... went out...'
Her blond hair flicked as she turned her face away. She has pretty features, and young, sad eyes.
Rosie.
Actually.
Blushed.
At the end of 2009, when teenagers get pregnant with the same ease with which they eat an icecream, when little boys tell my eight-year-old all the swear words I only learnt when I was eighteen, when there is no God, no morality, no values and no hope, my 29-year-old fantastic, caring, pretty and lovely childminder actually blushed because....
....
'I went to the cinema with a man. It was... a date.' She whispered it as if it were a big dark secret.
I looked at her in awe. If she blushes about going out on an innocent date, and to the cinema, what would happen if this guy tried to kiss her?
I am a guilty mother. With little time, and little patience. I shout, and rush things. I feel guilty most of the time.
I try my utmost to give my boys the best, most loving structure around them to support the young years of their innocent lives.
I have made mistakes. Hell, I have survived my mistakes, and paid for them ten-fold.
But I have chosen the best nanny I could possibly have.
This is for you, Rosie. You will never read this post, but I shall make sure you always know how much I value you.
]]>Then I made the mistake of opening one. Then another. And another.
Most photos are of my boys. The camera has followed their arrival into the world, first smile, tooth, walk, play, friends, toys, places and family. The photos freeze young lives at the best moments. So far.
I am displaced. Rattled. Suddenly raw.
I thought only I held the memories, only I saved the smiles.
Arrogant bitch.
Only time does, and it leaves everything behind.
There are photos of a pretty me; of many years ago, of another life.
I barely know her. I barely ever did. Nowadays I make an effort to talk to the woman, not the ex-wife, or mother, or free spirit.
She still surprises me. More than people ever do.
I lean towards her and stretch my hand, but she won't take it. There she stands, in a light which never fades, in legs which will never grow old, sporting a face which will not lace with wrinkles.
If I could bottle my children, I would. If I could bottle their memories of me, I would.
But all I am left with is photos.
Arrogant bitch.
]]>Time to re-focus, re-group and re-consider.
Time to gather and tie-up; re-assemble and shift around. I fold inside myself to look at life as it is now. I speak to people I have not spoken to in a long time, and meet others I did not know.
I have always been the one who organised the baby showers, who ran the Sunday classes at my church, who cooked for the Alfa Course, the needy and the sick. I have been the one to manage crises and clean toilets. To entertain when I wanted to sleep, to read aloud when I had no voice.
I got part of me back, now I need the portion which was never mine to hold, as it belongs to the others.
I still struggle. I still try to get out of a car which is moving, and shut out what I cannot cope with.
Nevertheless I like myself infinitely more than I did. My children like me more than they ever did. A holiday indeed.
]]>
]]>Better than a slow strip-tease. If you can cope with fear.
For, however trusting you are, and sure that it is a game, there is something of the darkness in being completely enveloped in black and clueless about the pattern your actions in bed will take.
Is making love 'give and take'? What is my 'taking' then, as the creature reduced to object? I can't pout, I can't tease. I cannot whisper naughty or sweet nothings.
But I can...
...
Trust.
Obey.
And wait.
I listen to my body in a way which is usually denied to me when my full senses are allowed. When only body positions and the weighty touch of a man's hands are the language I can understand, what is there to listen to but his power to own and the thrill of surprise?
You will push me down and guide my mouth where your pleasure resides. The darkness around me will focus my mind on the task in hand, as I shall perform as the only actor in the eternal theatre our bedroom is.
I am unique in my anonymity.
I am the sole instrument of your enjoyment.
You will take me and I shall not know whether I am reclined on my back or forward on my front, for the only sensation I feel is your eager visit, the only exchange of flesh your parting and entering.
I soak in and out.
You can touch me and possess me, but I am still in my own universe, where senses speak to a mind as bright and alert as the eyes convey utter emptiness. Will you enter it as you enter me?
Not for the faint-hearted, and not for cheap thrills.
You need love to join, and trust to love.
I feel his release trickle between my legs, and it is only in my mind again. For I am still wrapped in black plastic, and my own flesh should have no messages for my brain.
It is when the scissors come out to tear through the sheets that I shiver and come back to reality.
The blades caress my skin, moist with perspiration.
To allow the closeness of that cut, I must love you beyond repair.
]]>One by one, my limbs get covered and taped. Enough to hide every inch of my flesh, but not so tight that I cannot flex my muscles.
Next, my body. Strategic, narrow areas are left exposed.
I am sure that if I could look at me, all I could see is a black mummy.
Now I could be anybody. Gone the red, long hair.
Gone my features, my long fingernails. My clothes. The tone of my skin.
All that is left is the shape of my body.
I.
Do.
Not.
Exist.
As Lucrezia.
I am reduced, regressed, and compacted. Cannot speak, cannot decide. Do not know where he is, and what he is going to do next.
Altogether frightening.
Altogether...
Rather exciting.
Without the 'ego' in one, one can do, feel and be more. Or less. Tied up but free.
I am so wrapped up in the complete silence of my black plastic universe, that I must make an effort, pay attention to what is going to happen to me.
My senses are kidnapped and yet heightened.
The paradox of sex games.
]]>The 'dementor' effect, Mr Mechanic calls it.
He has one.
I have one or two.
You start well, and life looks reasonable. You have pep-talked yourself into having a good day.
The 'dementor' walks in, or emails, or calls.
You are left feeling empty and sad.
Does anybody else have one of those?
]]>My boys have written clues and his boys will go on a treasure hunt. Sweeties, and a midnight feast.
He has brought pancakes and five pumpkins. Sleeping bags and a huge tent for four hyperactive boys to hide and argue in.
He sets it up in the empty room (no money to furnish it yet) and involves the children, makes it fun.
Back in the kitchen, he will carve the pumpkins following the pattern the boys have drawn on each of them.
He is clumsy and holds the knife in a way that worries me.
His socks have holes in them, but I have none in my soul. Only a darned rip: sometimes I pass my finger on it to feel the ridge. Sometimes I lick its harder edges. It is darned but sore.
It would be wise to stay away from those who hold the scissors.
'Who do you love the most, daddy? Me or Lu?' one of the boys asks, from the back of the car.
'It's two completely different kinds of love', Mr Mechanic says.
The question implicitly implies love. The answer explicitly admits it.
It would be wise to stay away from those who hold the scissors, but sometimes I am so scared of them I wield the scissors myself.
]]>Could you... strip yourself free of your own identity?
Could you... 'decide' to be an object of pleasure, for half an hour or so?
And if you both agreed to that, would your decision, taken out of free will, not empower you further?
By deciding to be a non-you, do you articulate your control anyway?
'Don't ask questions', he said. And he threw masking tape roll on the bed. Red sheets. Lots of pillows.
]]>He asked.
'Rather a lot,' I replied.
'That'll be a challenge.'
'I'll bite you.' I said.
'You won't be able to, honey.'
]]>As far as I am concerned, and I may be in the minority here, relinquishing control and sinking into the 'I am an object, enjoy me' passive role is a big 'turn-on'. Not all the time, and not even regularly, but often enough to satisfy my need to let go and give pleasure.
There is something, however, which - if that's what you want to achieve - works even better than raunchy underwear.
For that, you will need a few black bin bags, very black and very thin. Some clear tape.
And a naked female body.
Do I continue fantasising, or do I stop here?
]]>Meet the dark lady.
She owns me completely.
]]>I find Pest n.1 and Pest n.2, who have been duly hiding in the cupboard or the wardrobe. If and when I find one or both, I am allowed to force a kiss onto their red, excited cheeks.
Whenever I am fighting little hands off my mouth with one of them, the other screams and jumps on me from a great height, simultaneously protecting his brother and stopping the Kissing Monster from scoring.
Things have, however, changed.
Today, as I was struggling to subdue Pest n.2, and plant a wet kiss on his cheek, it occurred to me that he was so strong I was about to lose. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get close to his face.
That was BEFORE Pest n.1 threw his eight years and full 27 kilos onto my ribs, squashing my back and knocking my breath out.
'Run, F, run!' he shouted. His little brother wiggled out of my arms, slid from under my body and disappeared into yet another hiding hole.
'It's my turn to be a Kissing Monster,' he said then, threateningly.
And boy, he managed.
Either they are getting too strong, or I should start eating better.
]]>The place was clean; the bucket and mop outside, drying.
Where once was his dining table and a lot of rubbish, stood a magnificent yellow tent. Inside, an inflatable double mattress and the sleeping bags.
In the fridge, pancakes for my younger son.
My boys LOVED camping overnight.
I loved him.
]]>It was very late; the sun had gone down. The late bus takes the last stray children to their harrassed mothers, strained homework and late suppers.
'Is your son ill? Diabetes? Low blood sugar levels?'
Odd question.
'No.... why?'
My son stepped out of the bus, looking as if in a daze.
'He fell asleep on the bus and we had to try for a long time to wake him up. He just wouldn't. We thought he'd slipped into a coma.'
Ah.
My son is so tired that he falls asleep on a late bus which usually carries children twice his age.
And he is too tired to wake up.
Bad mother.
Bad, bad mother.
]]>I took some medication beforehand. I practised meditation. I had a hot bath. I told myself not to worry.
I also told Mr Mechanic not to worry. He still insisted that a two-hundred-mile drive was nothing really, and came up anyway.
We sat there in the waiting room full of couples and single people, running children and the depressing leaflets stuck to the walls of the ugly building from the 50s.
He told me a few jokes. I thought of surgical instruments and white gowns.
When my name was called, I shook my head and sunk into the plastic chair.
'I'll take you, come,' he whispered, holding my hand.
That convinced me very quickly. 'No,' I said. I did not want anybody there.
The female doctor was very understanding. I had had a bad experience before and my body had frozen into a state of induced coma.
We negotiated positions and agreed order of procedure. I looked at her friendly face suspiciously.
'I shall be here too,' chirped the nurse happily.
'Oh great. Now I have to make small talk as someone else pokes me inside as if I were a casserole in need of a stir,' I thought.
I did manage. An hour went by.
'Very brave, Lucrezia,' said the doctor. I saw in her eyes that she meant it.
'Really? I don't think so,' I muttered.
'Well... considering the abuse I get, how often I am shouted at, how much fuss other patients conjure up, and the fact that two months ago I was kicked by one of them in the ribs and was bruised for a week, I think you have done really well.'
It's all relative.
I saw Mr Mechanic waiting there for me, and was glad not to be alone.
Relatively speaking, I was alone in the doctor's room. But not in my life.
Other times, I have been with people in the same room, but have been completely alone.
]]>Each of them is movingly sweet and terribly decadent. It is his style, and it never rings hollow. Not even when I have been in bad, bad places with no light or hope.
I was rather wondering what else he could write that he had not written before, when the 'you've got mail' flashed up again.
"I have run out of words, but not of feelings."
]]>What would love make you do?
It wasn't the fact that I made the pie.
Love made me eat some.
]]>"This evening Lucrezia and I went to a local pub, where she was convinced that the locals were staring due to the fact that we were considered 'non-locals'.
This was an error because they were staring at a short skirt and incredibly long, slender legs.
Halfway through the evening, Lucrezia informed me that ten minutes earlier one of the locals had amorously rubbed himself on her thigh. I was a little shocked by this as I had not noticed, especially as she was standing next to me, and asked her to indicate the perpetrator, who was indeed standing next to his girlfriend.
I felt a sense of anger that in modern society it would be unreasonable if I would take my large club and whipped and beat him round the head. However, the singing from the curly-head dumpy wobbler pacified my savage inclinations.
The aforementioned wobbler was actually very good but due to Simon Cowell's hatred of any women larger than a size zero she would have no chance on X-factor, despite her obvious talent.
We left the pub far earlier than closing time to partake with Lucrezia's erogenous tiramisu, which went 'down' very nicely, thank you.
It is now eleven thirty and you ask yourself 'what the hell am I doing here at this time of the night?' especially as it is full moon."
The mucky Mechanic
]]>2. How do you flush the toilet in public?
Is there a toilet so public that you do it in public?
3. Do you wear your seatbelt in the car?
Only when the children are with me
4. Do you have a crush on someone?
Yes
5. Name one thing you worry about running out of.
Hope
6. What famous person do you (or other people) think you resemble?
Sophie Marceau
7. What is your favorite pizza topping?
Mozzarella, rocket and parmesan
8. Do you crack your knuckles?
That's not very feminine, is it?
9. What song do you hate the most?
Richard Marx 'Everything I do, I do it for you'
10. Did just mentioning that song make it get stuck in your head?
I hope not
11.What are your super powers?
Potions and charms
12 Peppermint or spearmint?
Chocolate
13.Where are your car keys?
I wish I knew. They get lost in the bag
14. Last song you listened to?
Abba 'Mamma mia'
15. What's your most annoying habit?
Having opinions
16 Where did you last go on vacation?
So long ago it doesn't matter
17. What is your best physical feature?
Legs
18. What CD is closest to you right now?
Radio, no CD
19.What 3 things can always be found in your refrigerator?
Milk, fruit, vegs
20 What superstition do you believe/practice?
All of them
21. What color are your bed sheets?
Sexy purple
22. Would you rather be a fish or a bird?
I AM a bird!
23. Last thing you broke?
My heart
24 What are you having to eat tonight?
Tiramisu
25. What color shirt are you wearing?
A little mini black dress
26. If you could be doing anything else today, what would you rather be doing?
I am very happy with what I AM DOING
27. Do security cameras make you nervious?
Only when I am not wearing makeup
28. If you wrote a book about your life, what would the title be?
Slices of Mediterranean Salame (yes, it is spelt 'salame', not 'salami')
29. Last time you went to a cemetery?
Four days ago
30. Last concert you went to?
R.E.M.
31. Favorite musician(s)/bands you've seen in concert?
R.E.M.
32. Next concert you're planning to attend?
My girlfriend's partner's
33. Do you talk to yourself?
All the time. I argue with her
34. Have you ever adopted or purchased a pet?
Yes, two rabbits, Twin Spark and Tazio
35. Have you ever been present when an animal is being born?
Yes.
Challenging and difficult, hairy and breathlessly fast. Desperately slow and worryingly complicated.
I have let go and I have held. I have been disappointed and I have disappointed. Built and destroyed.
I have earned focus and direction. I have lost stability and doubts.
People weave in and out of our lives, and make the fabric of our emotions. I have never been good at being self-contained.
I have learnt that drama does not, as I have always been accused of, colour my life and attract me to its flickering light. It was not drama. It was simple mismatching. I mismatched my existence in a way that could not be mended. It could only be erased.
One could even say that I deserve the life I live now. The excitement of not knowing whether I shall make ends meet this month; the despair at yet another bill from my old, rattling and impossibly decadent Alfa Romeo; the complete ignorance as to what will be of me in a year's time; the car boot sales and broken ceiling lamps; the second-hand toys and clothes; the holding hands across MacDonald's tables; the complete absence of a holiday or indeed its prospect.
There was a time in my previous life when I would have a professional electrician to fix lights and a chippy to put up shelves. Today Mr Mechanic had a go at being electrocuted, and fell through the cheap stool he was using to stand on, damaging his hand and destroying said stool. The ceiling lamp was nevertheless attached and it works.
I have the clumsy life I was too clumsy to seek.
And now it is tidier than it ever was.
]]>A plastic serenity.
A lycra elasticity of spirit.
I am a remote controlled car and no longer a raucous, bedraggled and ferocious Lamborghini.
All my ESPs are switched on. Traction control rules.
What's the point of going round the track safely if one does not do so sideways?
Do you potter about, or do you swing by the hair?
]]>There is silence in my head too.
The Princess looked for a tall, clever, handsome and fair man.
Many queued up for the job. Some were tall, and some were clever. Some were very handsome. Some were even clever and tall and handsome. But not fair.
Some seemed to tick all the boxes, but they were just in the wrong queue. So what's fair for another Princess is not fair for me.
Dear Mira, this is the story you asked me to write.
There was a man in the queue who was clearly not that fair. The Princess liked his voice and how he jumped up and down to get her attention. When she got closer, she realised that he was all mucky, hair matted and dirty fingernails.
'You are not really fair, are you?' she asked.
And he replied....
]]>My best friend.
'Please.'
She knows me too well. It was an odd reply by my standards, and she commented on it when she arrived in her little battered car, after searching her way to my place across two counties.
'You are thin. Are you ill?'
It was the great big hug I got. She felt the ribs and whispered that in my ear. She took over the house, the boys and me.
We sat and smoked. Something I don't usually do.
She brought cakes and left cigarettes. And wise words.
I still have the cakes, but only one cigarette left. It'll go well with my drink.
'I love you' she texted when she got home, two hours later. In Italian.
Just as well.
]]>So we went.
Fields and freshly turned turf; the smell of earth and autumn coming. My thoughts drifted like the fat wheels of Pest n.1 baby-quad.
'Faster, faster!' I shouted from under the helmet. His shoulders small and thin under his too-big helmet and the massive machine under his buttocks. Stubbornly, he refused to push the quad hard, conscious of his own comfort zone. He shook his blond head, but kept going.
I did. I stood on mine and weaved in and out of holes and bends, my legs turned into new shock-absorbers. The instructor started discussing the merits of the newest models with me. Pest n.1 teetered over the edge of a little hill, and braked. The quad stood suspended between the crumbling earth of the woods' undergrowth and the slope beneath. I dismounted from mine and pulled him out.
I do like a little drama peppering my boring life, every now and then.
Our hair smelt of a thousand sweats, the history of a muddy helmet and jacket lingering long after we had finished.
It was on our way back, whilst I was driving my car - no less fast - that I realised my thoughts had grown legs and ran away. Much faster than my car, way too fast for my son's quad-bike.
]]>Sometimes we only kid ourselves.
Sometimes the truth really is complicated and dirty.
I shower off memories and words. They gurgle into the plughole.
No... I shan't say 'hello' to her, much as she is suggesting.
I have just said goodbye. Surely that's enough.
]]>