A* and I have been together for several years. In a way we were thrown together. There aren’t so many of our sort around. We’re still a minority, despised by some. I've experimented as most do, but for some time now I've been in no doubt about my orientation. He’s the perfect match really: he lives just down the road, keeps the same hours as I do, has the same pragmatic outlook as I do and, most importantly, when it comes to the dirty deed, provides ten minutes of intense, directed attention, rather than a tedious, directionless, hour-long slog. We are, as they say, compatible.
I see L* once a week. He lives in the next town. He is of the same deviant sort.
I never meant to be unfaithful. I guess a lot of these stories begin like that. I didn’t mean to stray; I didn’t even mean to look but one day when I was needy he lent a helping hand, and that’s where it all started. It was on an outing to a weekly gym class that I had a sudden craving. L was there. He showed me an open door and, once I had crossed that threshold, I found it hard to back out. It wasn’t long before he revealed to me his startlingly thick sausage. Kabanossi, he calls it. I wish I could say now that I resisted, but I did not. I grabbed at his turgid banger, clutched it in trembling hands, and completed the transaction.
It could have stopped there. I went home and got rid of the evidence. A suspected nothing. I saw him on our next date as usual and nothing was amiss. That should have been the end of it, but deep down I knew I’d go back for more.
Attraction for me is always sensual and his heady aroma of freshly baked goods haunted my dreams in the coming nights. On my next trip abroad, my feet took me automatically in search of that intoxicating smell. No sooner had his scent penetrated my nostrils than I was grabbing him by the maple pecan plaits and devouring his seeded triangles. Propriety thrown to the four winds, there was no stopping me. Selection packs of miniature speciality tomatoes, achingly huge pomelos, tantalisingly cryptic foreign chocolate biscuits, TWENTY-FOUR cheese food triangles stacked in an elegant cylinder, Greek style yoghurt in a volume so vast that it comes in a pail with a handle. And chorizo - chorizo twice as long as A’s.
When you begin to compare, I fear, that’s the beginning of the end. I don’t want it to end with A. I know I will always love him and I want him to still be there for me but I must treat him properly. I’m not sure what I’ll tell my friends. I was one of those annoying people, who raves about their beloved, who is blind to their faults. A could do no wrong, “If A hasn’t got it, I don’t need it,” was my catchphrase, but I’m already planning my next visit to L for things that A can’t give me. Did I mention L’s a bit of rough too? My friends aren’t snobs but they’ve come to accept my unusual preference because A has won them over with his generosity and his classiness. He turns up to a party with D.O.P. parmigiano reggiano and marinated garlic. This week L surprised me with dirty, reduced price packets of Pasta ‘n’ Sauce, more of it than I could consume, and I grabbed at it hungrily. Perhaps I’ve found my true level. Time will tell…
*The names of two budget German supermarkets have been changed to protect their identities.
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One Mean Housewife, with pencil and slate, tallies up the brazil nut count in two discount brands of luxury muesli.
I see L* once a week. He lives in the next town. He is of the same deviant sort.
I never meant to be unfaithful. I guess a lot of these stories begin like that. I didn’t mean to stray; I didn’t even mean to look but one day when I was needy he lent a helping hand, and that’s where it all started. It was on an outing to a weekly gym class that I had a sudden craving. L was there. He showed me an open door and, once I had crossed that threshold, I found it hard to back out. It wasn’t long before he revealed to me his startlingly thick sausage. Kabanossi, he calls it. I wish I could say now that I resisted, but I did not. I grabbed at his turgid banger, clutched it in trembling hands, and completed the transaction.
It could have stopped there. I went home and got rid of the evidence. A suspected nothing. I saw him on our next date as usual and nothing was amiss. That should have been the end of it, but deep down I knew I’d go back for more.
Attraction for me is always sensual and his heady aroma of freshly baked goods haunted my dreams in the coming nights. On my next trip abroad, my feet took me automatically in search of that intoxicating smell. No sooner had his scent penetrated my nostrils than I was grabbing him by the maple pecan plaits and devouring his seeded triangles. Propriety thrown to the four winds, there was no stopping me. Selection packs of miniature speciality tomatoes, achingly huge pomelos, tantalisingly cryptic foreign chocolate biscuits, TWENTY-FOUR cheese food triangles stacked in an elegant cylinder, Greek style yoghurt in a volume so vast that it comes in a pail with a handle. And chorizo - chorizo twice as long as A’s.
When you begin to compare, I fear, that’s the beginning of the end. I don’t want it to end with A. I know I will always love him and I want him to still be there for me but I must treat him properly. I’m not sure what I’ll tell my friends. I was one of those annoying people, who raves about their beloved, who is blind to their faults. A could do no wrong, “If A hasn’t got it, I don’t need it,” was my catchphrase, but I’m already planning my next visit to L for things that A can’t give me. Did I mention L’s a bit of rough too? My friends aren’t snobs but they’ve come to accept my unusual preference because A has won them over with his generosity and his classiness. He turns up to a party with D.O.P. parmigiano reggiano and marinated garlic. This week L surprised me with dirty, reduced price packets of Pasta ‘n’ Sauce, more of it than I could consume, and I grabbed at it hungrily. Perhaps I’ve found my true level. Time will tell…
*The names of two budget German supermarkets have been changed to protect their identities.
-----
One Mean Housewife, with pencil and slate, tallies up the brazil nut count in two discount brands of luxury muesli.
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