Searing
Expose of the Secret Sex Lives of the Over Fifties,
in
Swinging Suburbia.
Part
Seven: Two's Company, Three's a Ménage
The
bedroom, was sparingly lit, the only source of illumination being
supplied by one small, corner bedside lamp, and the light streaming
in through the door's over-head transom, from the landing outside.
Which, along with the solitude and peace in the room, created an
atmosphere, conducive to wallowing in a state of alternating moods,
from personal reflection, to self-doubt, down to nervous nausea. With
only the incomprehensible chattering of her “ guests ” below -
aided and abetted by what seemed like the criminal record ' Now,
That's What I Call – The Worst Bosa Nova Music....EVER ! Volume:
T.B.A' - to puncture her train of thought.
George,
poised at the bedroom door, then quietly, and hesitantly, he pushed
it slightly ajar, to see if it was safe to proceed any further.
There, he found Angela, just standing in front of the full length
mirror, staring at her reflection, looking back at herself, gazing
back at her, in the mirror...etc. etc. She was fully ' pimped out',
in a backless, strapless, bra less little black number, fully scrubbed up, and with the suitable amount of war-paint applied. Her hair, was
like a golden halo in the sympathetic lighting, and the cubic zircon necklace – that George had bought her, for that
'special birthday', the exact details of which, had been withdrawn
from public records, along with the mutual agreement, that there
would be no further mention of it, in the future – plunged
attractively, and dangerously, near her cleavage, whilst it's diamonds and their
radiance, sparkled and danced, throwing up an array of coloured prism
lights, across the room and upon, Angela's many facets.
George,
crossed the room towards this vision, laying his hands gently on
Angela's shoulders, and then leaning forward, gently kissed the back
of her neck. “ How, are you doing there ?” he opened. “ Uh, Oh,
! I'm good....I think ? How are things downstairs ? “ Angela,
returned to the present, and the position she was about to find
herself in. “ What the party ? Fine, all set ! Your friend seems to
be in her element, I'm beginning to suspect she was a brothel madame,
in a past life.” George tried to make light of the situation,
" A PAST life ?” Angela, laughingly challenged, “ what about this ONE
?”
" Hey
! That's not fair, she's your friend, you can get away with a crack
like that. If I tried that line, she'd kill me !” he paused for a
moment, and then enquired, softly. “ Is there anything you'd like
me to do up here ?”
" Well,
you need to change out of your work clothes, and into the clean shirt
and tie, that I've put out for you” Angela pointed towards the bed,
and the crisp white shirt and a dark blue, silk tie that was laid
flat out, on George's side.
"You
mean to tell me, that I have to wear a tie.... for this lot !” he
queried.
"Yes,
well I think so, anyway. Lulu, definitely told me not too worry, as '
all the men will come with their own ties'”.
"Hmm!
I'm not sure that's quite what she meant. Still, if the lady wishes
me to wear a tie, then
a
tie, I shall wear, “ George, resigned himself to his attire, as he
stepped closer to Angela, then looking her in the eyes, began
stroking her upper arms, in a sign of solidarity and empathy.
"You
look good, is that a new dress ?” complimented George
"Well,
new-ish “ Angela answered.
"New-ish
? Is that an actual word, or just a woman's way of saying, ' Don't
ask me how much ? “
he
playfully teased with her.
"You
don't really expect me to answer that, honestly, do you ? Why, the
women's league of 'Don't Tell Your Husband Everything', would have
my guts for garters, and I'd have to hang up my special, golden tape
measure of truth.”
"The
golden tape measure of what ?” George queried.
"You
know, the one that gives an inch and takes a mile,”
"Oh
! That one ! Well, we can't have that, can we ?”
"So,
you like it. then..the dress that is ?” Angela retraced the steps
of their conversation.
"Yes,
it's lovely, and you're not so bad yourself “ George smiled.
Angela,
looked into his face, looked deep into his eyes, and there was the
man, the one with whom she had shared her love and life with, these
last 30 odd years, or so. Yes, there had been a lot of changes along
the way, and of course, they had seen their fair share of
ups-and-downs, but through it all, they were still here, together, it
was only recently, that they had lost their way in life.
"This
is it, then...I suppose. We're actually going through with it. You
and me, a couple of swingers, who'd have thought, eh ?” Angela summarized.
"Not,
me, that's for sure. Even now, I can't bring myself to accept it...
as a reality, I mean,” George empathized.
"Well,
it is, and it's OUR reality, right now ! We went into this
with our eyes wide open, so to speak. We knew it wasn't going to be
easy, for us. But, we have to give it a go, at least once. Afterall,
we've tried everything else, if this doesn't work, then... I don't
know what's left for us,” reflected Angela.
" I know, it's just, well...not exactly in my comfort zone,” George
explained.
"Oh,
and you think I'm 'comfortable' with it , then, do you ? Look, I was
the one who suggested we should try counselling, oh, but YOU couldn't
bring yourself to talk about your feelings, to a 'professional
stranger', Could you ?”
"Hey, to be fair, I have trouble most of the time, talking about my feelings to you ! ”
"Hmm
! Well, let's hope we have more success with this, than we've had
with some of
our
other, big ideas,”
"Yeah
! I suppose we have had some corkers, haven't we ? Which one of them,
stands out to you, as one of our more, outstanding failures, then ?”
George resigned himself, to friendly fire.
Angela,
paused for thought, where to begin, there was – afterall - quite a
history of sexual non-adventures. Before this all started, the only
marital aid, she had at hand, was when she leant against the washing
machine, during the fast spin cycle. And, recently, their idea of a
'dangerous liaison', was having sex in the afternoon, with the
bedroom curtains, wide open. But, the time had finally come to face
the truth, and more importantly, face each other. A mutual agreement
was easily reached, as it was clear, they both needed to re-connect
with their life together, to relight the fire of their passion, they
had as a young couple, and to find new contentment – in this next
phase of their lives - just as much for themselves, as for their
marriage.
A
few suggestions were thrown up, various shared activities, hobbies,
interests, that could perhaps aid them in their quest of rediscovery.
They decided to start off, safe and slowly. So, enrolled in an
introductory, 3 x month course, of Strictly Old Ballroom classes,
held over a small, local shoe shop - which George found somewhat
ironic, and couldn't help from shouting out “ COBBLERS !”
whenever making his way through. The congenial host, was the original
'Lord of the Dance' himself, - Rick O'Shea, and his abled body
partner, Carmen Rolla - and regional dance champion, whom had
appeared in several nationwide events, and on one occasion, had even
won a runner-up cup, third class... that is. His catchphrase of ,“
Just bring your own shoes.... and a smile !” could often be heard
waltzing out through the open window, down to the High Street below,
as he would greet that weeks surviving returnees, to his hallowed
halls.
They
didn't attend many classes though. Between, Angela's habit of
slipping an out of place, kick-ball-chain routine, a hang-over from her Wild West Line dancing days, into her
latin-based dances – on one occasion, she took out one of her
instructors legs, resulting in a hair-line fracture of his pride –
and George's discovery that his foot-loose-and-fancy-free lifestyle,
didn't transfer itself too well, in the ballroom department, they
soon came to the conclusion that Fred and Ginger... they were NOT !
But, the real nail in their syncopated finished coffin, was when
George became aware of his main 'shortcoming', the inability to
actually 'hear music', resulting in a complete lack of any 'rhythm method', required to pull off a polished performance – a condition
that Angela had been personally aware of, for a good many years.
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