I had mentally and physically prepared myself last week for having sex with Boy Widower. Yes. A lesbian widow and a man widower. Since I first kissed him, and following lots of enjoyable messaging, the question marks over my sexual orientation have been abundant and worrying me. Something changed though and I decided that if it was meant to be, it was meant to be and I shouldn’t keep fretting about my persuasion. We’d arranged to meet up. I gritted my teeth, booked myself in for my first bikini wax in years, and exposed my bits to a straight girl (also for the first time in years) in preparation for sexy times.
Turns out, it was not meant to be because Boy Widower nonchalantly cancelled. When the next meet up shall be, I do not know. His enthusiasm for me and expectations of the evening are not matched with mine. It wasn’t a date and I knew it, but I’m still a bit miffed. We did have a heart to heart the other night about stuff (I shan’t share all over the internet since it’s his business and not mine), so his behaviour makes sense. If we have sex, it will either have a fairytale ending, or be a total utter fucking disaster. Deep down, we both know it.
So there I was last week, with selectively stylish bald bits (as stylish as pubic hair can get, I guess) and nobody to hold. Nobody to play with. Nobody to even fucking tease. My vibrator is broken and I was basically just gagging for it.
Eerily Cheerily’s solution? Fuck a client. No, not a prostitute relationship type client, but a corporate business client. The kind of client who comes along as a guest to a posh gay charity do and expects to be wined and dined in return for her custom. It was great – delicious dinner, rich people bidding £20k in the auction for a week in a villa, gay celebrities like Claire Balding to gawk at, excellent chat at the table etc. I, however, went the extra mile with client relationship management, made sure she got (to my) home, helped unzip her dress, gave her two orgasms and made her a cup of tea in the morning. Bet she didn’t see that one coming. OK, so that pun was intended.
The only complications are that she has a girlfriend, she also has a boyfriend (polyamorous), I have a dead wife, and I’m a lesbian with a crush on a Boy Widower. Ha.
But at least the bikini wax didn’t go to waste.