Up and Down!
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
I thought I
was in love with my Italian lover. A handsome man
with an aquiline nose of 69 in 2013 who looked 10
years younger, without a single grey hair and all
his teeth! I was blind to his zillions of faults,
like his financial and spiritual meanness, his
loathing of Italians, how he despised the
arrogant French and too many Muslims in Turkey,
so he would not travel there! Despite
speaking Italian, he never once complimented me
on my advanced Italian conversation only speaking
to me twice in Italian on the phone when I was
away in Rome. Franco mentally abused me
putting me down asking when I had 'let myself go'
after having seen black and white sexy photos of
me. He commented that I looked like Raquel Welch
and how we could have had children had we met in
the 60s!
One evening he arrived at my flat and, as usual,
took off his shoes and sat at my computer,
watching porno to get himself into the mood for
sex. A frustrated impotent man who refused to see
a doctor or take the Viagra I had bought for him.
But to me he was so good looking with a beautiful
body and silky skin I loved to touch. He was
unaffectionate too. Certainly not a passionate
Romeo but a cold intellectual from Verona. What
the hell was I doing with a man who slept with
not one but 3 duvets at night and even went down
the bottom of the bed to face the other way? A
man who sat at my computer screen in front of an
excellent photo I had taken of him in Amsterdam
who spoke to his own image saying, 'I AM good
looking,' to which I commented, 'on the outside
but not on the inside.' Silence was his reply. He
knew deep down what a insincere Narcissistic shit
he was!
At my suggestion and expense, we had a long
weekend in Amsterdam even visiting the
interesting sex museum. I had my photo taken
sitting in a gigantic phallic wooden carved seat
and ran my ringers over bronze penii in the shape
of a free standing bronze sculpture 'chalice.'
He seemed to blame me for being impotent!'
I suggested we look for a slim blonde, non tarty
looking prostitute, in the famous Red Light
District and see if he could get 'it' up for her!
It was a warm balmy Saturday evening and the
district was chockablock with punters and
tourists all looking for pussy. No men in the
windows for us ladies! A few obviously
outrageous Latino transvestites completed the
picture in the windows. The women were all
vulgar, scantily dressed in iridescent garish
underwear or bikinis, sitting or gyrating in the
neon lit windows. Most looked like they came from
Eastern Europe looking hungry and not, in our
forensic opinion, sexy.
Then I saw her in the window! Franco's
fantasy woman was young, blonde and slender, like
a gazelle. In fact he wanted me running
like a gazelle despite having water retention in
my legs. I was a middle aged Rubinesque hippo
with dyed medium length amber hair, parted in the
middle and not a Twiggy lookalike!
Franco would sit for hours transposing blonde
film star hairstyles on to my photographic facial
features even asking me to cut my locks and go
blonde. Pathetically, showing my vulnerability, I
asked him if he would love me more if I were a
blonde but he declined to answer. He considered
me an Alpha woman, loving my mind, so he said,
but not my curvaceous well endowed body. He
wanted me to loose weight and engage a personal
trainer.
She didn't look a slut, in fact she was natural
with good skin. Possibly about 30, with a
charming smile and good teeth, who turned out to
be Russian. She opened the glass door to inveigle
him in to sample her wares.
'Franco come over here!' she
cooed, beckoning him over.
'How much?' I demanded as I
was his 'minder' that evening.
'E40.'
'Back or front?'
'No, just for a hand or blow
job. You can watch if you want.'
'How long for?'
'20 minutes.'
'But it's only going to take
10 minutes for him to cum, what do you do for
the rest of the time?' I
enquired.
'I dance with feathers!' She
smiled knowingly lowering her eyes.
Franco got cold feet or should I say cold cock
and moved away with his tail or useless cock
between his legs! Her smile vanished instantly,
shutting the glass door rapidly as there was 'no
sale' and she had wasted her valuable 'sexual'
time. Time is money after all in the oldest
profession.
We moved on and sat on a canal bench wondering
what to do next. We had already looked at
displays of sex toys, vibrators and dildoes in a
couple of sex shops to no avail. I suggested a
live sex show. He agreed, in desperation, and so
wasted E50 on entrance including 2 beers, on a
mechanical sex show on stage with 4 couples. In,
out, shake it all about! So boring and so non-erotic.
All in all we had an interesting weekend until he
irritably snapped when I couldn't keep up with
his fast walking pace. That made me cry and later,
back in Brighton, he mumbled what a shame the
Russian hadn't shown me what to do so I would be
more experienced 'on the job!'
'Do you realise what you have
just said to me?' I said astonished at his
cruelty.
'Yes, a shame you didn't
watch her.' He retorted.
Franco had to go, I'd had enough of his snarky
insults. I cut my hair and went blonde in the
front but he never saw my metamorphosis. Yes, he
was right, I looked more attractive as a blonde.
I have been a blonde ever since.
That was in the spring of 2013. I have avoided
him but unfortunately our paths have crossed 4
times in Brighton. He scurries away like the rat
that he is. However, I still ask myself the
lingering question, would it have been 'up' for
her?
Written
on the train London to Brighton 17.8.2017 after
hearing the sexsploits of a best selling author
who inspired me to write my Amsterdam vignette.
Read on BHCR on 27.7.18
Performed at The Komedia
Performed at Cascade on
Performed at The Cabaret Lab
Epilogue
My life continues to be synchronistic. On
Saturday night I met a new friend, Lydia for
dinner. She was fascinated by my headgear and
wanted to know why I chose to cover my head with
a bejewelled turban and asked me if, in fact, I
had hair! This conversation took place as we
walked towards our chosen restaurant, Lemongrass,
in Brighton. I told her in vivid detail about the
mental abuse, Franco's impotency and the Russian
prostitute in Amsterdam.
Suddenly she suggested we took a bus for just one
stop. I continued on explaining, as went to sit
on the bus, that it was because of Franco wanting
me to go blonde. I then pointed to the smirking
man sitting directly opposite us on the bus. We
had acknowledged each other silently with our
eyes. We knew!
'That's
the very man!' I whispered in Lydia's ear.
Updated
in my flat in Brighton on 19.8.17 If only I
had said to Franco that I had been speaking of
him that very moment but my courage failed me!
Performing time 11 minutes. Performed at The
Cascade 7.10.17.
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