I had a dabble in the vanilla world this week. A male friend has an advert in the adult personals section of a publication. He does quite well and I have shared the delights of his respondents on more than one occasion. Some months back he had shared a drink with Marta, but had declined to pursue her for a proper meet. He passed her number on to me and suggested that I call as though she had responded to an advert of my own. A subterfuge, but not wholly immoral as she was seeking a connection. I rang, Marta was happy to chat and arrange a day to meet for a drink.
We meet as arranged at a station in the outer reaches of London. From there we depart to a local restaurant that she frequents occasionally with her grown up daughter. We click right away. Conversation flows uninterrupted as does the wine. I tell her immediately that I am a swinger. That requires some explanation and she tells me that she is not interested in the lifestyle.
"What are you looking for?" I ask.
"I'd like to meet someone who's single."
"You know I'm married?" I reply.
Her thoughts are on my swinging. "Are you bi?"
I grimace, an affected reaction. "No, its not my thing."
I somehow sense it is what she wants to hear.
At this stage I'm thinking, I'm with the wrong woman. I'll tell her about my lifestyle and when we part we'll go our separate ways, but Marta has other ideas. She has consumed the wine and we each order another. My first remains half filled.
"Do you think you could be satisfied by just one woman?"
"It hasn't happened yet, but could be possible," say I.
" Maybe I could be the one."
Marta has made up her mind and I tell her that is the challenge I am setting her. Our food arrives and Marta orders a third glass. "I'm not a lush," she informs me.
A decision made, the mood lightens and we flirt openly. Marta has a grip on my hand across the table which tightens with each mouthful of wine.
"We are not going to have sex on a first date and you are not coming back to my place", she insists.
"That's fine," I tell her. "Next time will be so much more to look forward to. Where would we go?" I enquire.
"What do you mean?" Says she.
"Well, I'm married. I usually arrange a hotel to stay in."
"Oh no! We'll go back to my tiny flat.
"Your lair", I agree.
I ask for the bill. Our food hardly touched. No, there is no problem, I tell the waitress. Marta is keen for me to kiss her and I do, several times, leaning across the table. The bill settled, we have no plan. I scoot my chair round to her side to make our canoodling easier and to be fair to our fellow diners, they studiously ignore us. Conversation with Marta is getting increasingly confused. She has worked her way through my barely touched second glass of wine and I'm now painfully aware that Marta was right. She isn't a lush. The alcohol is going to her head and there is nothing I can do to stop it. She falls asleep, her head resting on the back of her seat and a handy piece of wall. I ask the waitress to order a cab. "Where to?" She asks. I have no idea and suggest the local station.
The cab arrives, I wake Marta and while I am gathering up her bag, coat, notebook and earrings, plus all my baggage, she has staggered off in the opposite direction to the exit. I catch up with her and baggage scooped under one arm, take her's with the other, then guide her out of the door. "Is she alright?" Says an understandably concerned cabbie. "Yes, fine," I say, as I bundle her into the cab, following close behind. "Where to then?" Says the cabbie "Marta? Where do you live?" Marta, still confused, asks where we are going? "We are taking you home, what is your address?" She mumbles something incomprehensible. "What town?" asks the cabbie. She tells him and off we go to a town some thirty minutes drive away. "Do you have a postcode?" Marta digs the notebook from her bag and peers inside the cover. I can see lots of numbers scribbled down, but no postcode. The cabbie radios in to his control our destination. "She told me it was to the station", complains control, but we are in place and en route. Whomever else needs our cabbie's services will have to wait.
In the back of the cab, Marta dozes, wakes and clings on to me. "You will call me in the morning?" "You won't will you?" She asks several times. We kiss. Marta is a great kisser. Her lips are expressive and I can feel her telling me a story. I remove a hand that had been cupping her breast, she takes it and puts it back in place. In one of her dozing moments, she begins moaning, so much so that at one stage its like the scene in 'When Sally Met Harry'. Lord knows what the driver thought I was doing to her.
He gets us to her road and we begin looking for her number. Marta recognising the neighbourhood, insists that we stop, for her to walk the rest of the way. I can't stop her and follow her out of the car to escort her to her door, which we already judge to be some hundreds of yards further on. Marta won't let me stay with her and shoos me back to the car. We wait while she walks ahead and losing sight of her, the cabbie thinks that she has gone indoors. We move forward cautiously and come abreast of her still walking. Well, staggering to be accurate. She stops and waves us away. We have no option. The road is narrow and a bus route and at that moment one pulls up behind us. My driver is obliged to drive ahead and clear the road. Now I am in a quandary. I'm abandoning a drunken woman on the street, yards from the safety of her home, but feel I have no choice, since she won't move while we are in sight. Abandon her I did and this troubles me as I write. To reassure you, she did get home in one piece and I'm probably overstating her drunken state by this stage. Nonetheless, I'm struggling to come to terms with leaving her on her own.
My cabbie takes me to a nearby station to continue my journey home and I leave him forty pounds the poorer and giving thanks for his patience and assistance. On the train home, I ponder the evening and resolve in future to stick with swinging. It is so much simpler.