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WWWBT 14 or the never ending story

Of course I didn’t go to Su’s party. I cannot even remember why. I might have been busy that evening. Watching CSI. Listening to Barbra Streisand. Trying to write something. Knitting… So many interesting things a woman with her bloody TomCat can do! I mean, why would she go out, meet some nice people (all people are nice after some gin tonic!) and maybe, just maybe, end up making out with the sexiest man of the last decade? Really, why?
Lara was the one pointing it out.
‘You didn’t go?’
Silence. She seems so serious, I’m afraid she’ll start yelling at me. And I have a habit of breaking into million of small pieces whenever I’m yelled at. And it’s soooo complicated to put them all back!
‘You didn’t go? Why? You were waiting for Ulysses? Godot? End of the world? What exactly stopped you from going?’
And if I had an answer to this question, would it change anything? I’m not telling her that, she’s got a nasty look in her eyes. Like she’s just discovered one of my spiders in her tea. Or worse, her beer.
‘Are you planning to join some convent or something?’
I’m looking at her exactly like the model who was posing as some angel must have looked at Michelangelo.
‘Honestly now, what’s your problem? You don’t like the CF guy anymore? Still mourning Luca? Are you menstruating?’
‘Please, TomCat can hear you!’
We start laughing.
I brewed some coffee, lit some cherry cigarettes and we decided to talk about anything else but the CF guy, her problems in the office, global warming or why Cinderella should have worn some Nike sneakers instead of those crystal pointed shoes… Those Grimm guys were some misogynistic little….
‘Oh, come on, you didn’t wear any crazy shoes when you were young?’
Lara doesn’t have that serious look anymore; she is relaxed and very intellectual on a nice, peaceful Thursday evening.
‘Oh, yes,’ I’m reminiscing… ‘There was a black suede pair, high-heels, really high, thick soles, with laces. Really sexy…’
‘And I bet there was no misogynistic little…. to force you to wear them… Though they would kill your feet, and you would walk funny…’
‘What do you know?’, I ask rhetorically, with a little smile in the corner of my eyes.
I remember my strutting on the boulevard, with my little grey dress, showing off my knees…
‘Hey, come back!’
Lara yanks me out of my reverie, and I’m back in my living room talking about anything but the Japanese killing dolphins, bad people killing rhinos, Ebola and that nice movie with Dustin Hoffman…
Lara’s voice is serious, and I know I will have to speak about my not going to Su’s party.
I must look pretty desperate, because Lara gets up, hugs me and says…
‘I really need to go.’
As simple as that.
I’m alone with my thoughts; my hedonistic TomCat and I think I’m going to bed. I need to wake up early tomorrow.


CF session is as hard as usual, but somehow I’m enjoying it to the fullest. I have days when I can barely run the mile, and then I simply drag myself from one station to another. But today is different. Today I’m super planking as if there’s no tomorrow, and I am jumping like the craziest little goat in Africa, and… I’m feeling watched. Have you ever had the feeling that you’re being watched? You cannot literally dot the I, but there’s a sort of burden which makes all the crazy butterflies in your stomach go mad at the same time, and that’s not good.
The class is over, I drive back home, take all the sweat stuff off me, and yes, taking off sweaty sport bras is the worst, you need to contort and use inappropriate language and finally it’s off. And the shower is bliss and someone’s at the door. I turn off the water and keep quiet, hoping the unexpected guest – most probably the security guy or CD sellers or who cares, will go away thinking I’m not at home. The bell rings again, impatiently. What if there’s a fire? I can’t hear any fire alarm though. I decide to answer, eventually. I put the bathrobe on my wet skin, I’m all naked of thoughts, of desires, it’s just early morning, and I feel alive. Sounds contradictory, but it isn’t!
He stands in front of my door, with a newspaper under his right arm, his tired smile, and his incredibly grey-blue eyes.
I open the door wide, and he enters my apartment.
I close the door behind him and I grip my bathrobe to my wet body. I decide to play the nonchalant card and ask him if he wants a coffee.
He must have been for a run, he’s all sweaty and extraordinary cool. Mr. CF guy is in my living room, reading his newspaper while he waits for his coffee.
‘Some croissants would have been amazing.’
His voice is incredibly calm. He looks at me with that look I felt all morning in CF.Was he there? How did he know where I lived? What is he doing here? Does he want to know why I didn’t go to Su’s party? Does he simply want to have a coffee with me? While I’m dressed in a questionable bathrobe? Is he tired as well of not knowing what my skin tastes like? Or how many moles there are on my left elbow?
I’ve been fantasising about this man for almost a year. Maybe more. Time is of no relevance here. You can get infatuated with a pair of blue eyes and tens of years can pass by, and you’re in the same place, with your high heels, black suede shoes, strutting down the boulevard of your reminiscences…
The coffee is ready and we are both drinking it in silence.
Then I know I cannot wait anymore.
I stand up, walk in front of him and open my robe. He puts down the cup of coffee, helps me get rid of the robe. His palms are rough, my skin burns and I close my eyes while he takes me in his arms and carries me to the bedroom.


WWWBT 1 – Meet the Woman With the Bloody Tomcat


My friend, Lara, has been pushing me to write about my men. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m not collecting men, I don’t work in the industry and, just for the record, I haven’t had sex in quite some time. Real one, I mean. The dream sex or the accidental Skype ones don’t count, right?

When you’re 40, not that ‘appetizing’ like the young, slim, glittering ladies wondering around in the open air – yes, they’re 20, what do they care?, pathologically shy, and sometimes blonder that one should ever be, the chances to find a decent guy in this city are … How should I put it to get the right image from the first shot? Like winning a Pulitzer price with a text like this. DITO.

‘Make it funny. Some sort of a Bridget Jones’ diary. Sex and the city. And don’t forget to give all the dirty details on the Skype adventure with the young Mr. Rob.’

‘Sex and the City? I’m not that good of a writer. Can I write instead about my trainings with Circuit Factory? They’re as sweaty and demanding like the real stuff, you know? I’m all worn out after a session.’

Lara looks at me and drinks from her beer. It’s a peaceful evening, and we’d gotten out to a small pub in a hotel nearby. To meet men. Socialize. Have some ridiculously expensive beers, watching two or three matches in the same time, having to scream to one another in order to hear us. And of course, the men were all watching the games too. It’s fun, though. Especially because she’s paying.

She’s going to the bathroom, and I’m all alone with my thoughts again. The guy on the right seems cute, as much as I can figure out by watching his nape. I check my phone, no message from Rob.

Rob is 31, he’s somewhere very far away from me, he’s got the most concupiscent blue eyes I’ve ever allowed to see me naked over Skype. And…

‘So, no more beer for a month?’

Yeah, tomorrow I start the challenge with Circuit Factory. It’s my third one, and I’m decided not to cheat anymore – meaning clean diet and no more sneaky glasses of wine before going to bed.

I’ve started this relationship sometime last year, in August. More seriously in November. And it’s been more rewarding than any of my latest relationships. Except for the one with my Tomcat.

He’s always there for me. Mostly because I don’t allow him to get out of the apartment. And not that he didn’t try to. Several times, actually. And I’m moody, and I leave him alone, and when I’m with him I mind my own business and even if he tries to beg for a little affection, I’m still very stingy and I rather read a book or waste my time on Facebook than pet him a little. Poor bastard!

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