and gave up. âYup.â I paused. âIs that a problem?â
I was expecting some show of disappointment, maybe even antipathy. But his mouth formed into a wicked grin and he said, âA 60-year-old granny. Even kinkier.â And he kissed me again, hard.
*
Lying in bed, I watched Max take off his clothes and lay them down neatly in a row on the floor. Thatâs when he mentioned his OCD. And suddenly it all made sense. The examining of the rooms, the preoccupation with tidiness, the blunt statement about not being able to live with anyone. When he had mentioned during our meal that he never cooked because he didnât want to get his kitchen utensils dirty, Iâd laughed because I thought he was joking.
So. OCD. That must have been what he meant about there being more to him âthan meets the eyeâ. Must be tricky to live with, I thought. What a palaver. I had never before observed this condition at such close quarters. But after years on Fleet Street there wasnât much about the human race that could surprise or shock me. I could handle it. If this was as bad as it got.
But then it got worse.
Max was a forceful sex partner, strong and insistent. I didnât mind that â although a little tenderness would not have gone amiss â because, like most women, Iâm partial to the occasional âbit of roughâ. But he took it too far, going at it with as much obsession as he put into his orderliness with clothes and kitchen utensils.
Pinning me down on the bed, he looked into my eyes and said the one word I had hoped he wouldnât utter. Mummy .
âAre you enjoying this, mummy ?â His face was only an inch from mine.
I closed my eyes. âDonât say that.â I turned away and squirmed underneath him. âIâm not your mummy.â
âBut he wouldnât stop. âYou like it, donât you, mummy?â
â No ,â I breathed up at him. I found this role-playing unnerving. Raunchy is good. A bit of manhandling is fine. But this mother-son fantasy was not at all fine. It was warped. Christ, we were so not on the same page.
âIâm your boy , arenât I? Say Iâm youâre boy.â He put his hand around my throat and squeezed hard. When, after a few seconds, he didnât let go I tried to prise his fingers off my neck but it wasnât easy. I was finding it hard to breathe. It was as if he really meant business and that unnerved me.
When he finally loosened his grip I said, trying to be reasonable and calming, âCome on Max, you donât really want to choke me, do you?â
He said nothing after that but kept his hand on my throat a while longer, pressing a little too tightly for comfort, and I pulled at his fingers. At long last he reached his climax, let go of me and fell back on the bed in a sweat.
And as I lay there recovering from these exertions, all I could think was: what the FUCK would Freud make of that? Perhaps Max had already found some creepy women prepared to play the mummy game, women who even enjoyed it, and he thought I wouldnât mind. Wrong.
Later that night there was another, less edgy session, without the role-playing this time. Then we fell asleep.
Early in the morning I tiptoed downstairs to make myself coffee. I drank it out in the garden, breathing in the cleansing fresh air. I pondered on the dicey doings of the previous night. Wow, Iâd really taken a risk this time. How stupid. In future I would have to be more cautious. I dreaded to think what Sara would have to say about this episode.
Max came down a little later, dressed and ready to leave. After gulping down a coffee he said he had better go, it was a long way back to Hackney.
I dropped him off at the tube station and before he got out of my car he gave me a peck on the lips and muttered, âIâll call youâ. But he didnât sound as if he would and I hoped he wouldnât. As he strode off,
I was expecting some show of disappointment, maybe even antipathy. But his mouth formed into a wicked grin and he said, âA 60-year-old granny. Even kinkier.â And he kissed me again, hard.
*
Lying in bed, I watched Max take off his clothes and lay them down neatly in a row on the floor. Thatâs when he mentioned his OCD. And suddenly it all made sense. The examining of the rooms, the preoccupation with tidiness, the blunt statement about not being able to live with anyone. When he had mentioned during our meal that he never cooked because he didnât want to get his kitchen utensils dirty, Iâd laughed because I thought he was joking.
So. OCD. That must have been what he meant about there being more to him âthan meets the eyeâ. Must be tricky to live with, I thought. What a palaver. I had never before observed this condition at such close quarters. But after years on Fleet Street there wasnât much about the human race that could surprise or shock me. I could handle it. If this was as bad as it got.
But then it got worse.
Max was a forceful sex partner, strong and insistent. I didnât mind that â although a little tenderness would not have gone amiss â because, like most women, Iâm partial to the occasional âbit of roughâ. But he took it too far, going at it with as much obsession as he put into his orderliness with clothes and kitchen utensils.
Pinning me down on the bed, he looked into my eyes and said the one word I had hoped he wouldnât utter. Mummy .
âAre you enjoying this, mummy ?â His face was only an inch from mine.
I closed my eyes. âDonât say that.â I turned away and squirmed underneath him. âIâm not your mummy.â
âBut he wouldnât stop. âYou like it, donât you, mummy?â
â No ,â I breathed up at him. I found this role-playing unnerving. Raunchy is good. A bit of manhandling is fine. But this mother-son fantasy was not at all fine. It was warped. Christ, we were so not on the same page.
âIâm your boy , arenât I? Say Iâm youâre boy.â He put his hand around my throat and squeezed hard. When, after a few seconds, he didnât let go I tried to prise his fingers off my neck but it wasnât easy. I was finding it hard to breathe. It was as if he really meant business and that unnerved me.
When he finally loosened his grip I said, trying to be reasonable and calming, âCome on Max, you donât really want to choke me, do you?â
He said nothing after that but kept his hand on my throat a while longer, pressing a little too tightly for comfort, and I pulled at his fingers. At long last he reached his climax, let go of me and fell back on the bed in a sweat.
And as I lay there recovering from these exertions, all I could think was: what the FUCK would Freud make of that? Perhaps Max had already found some creepy women prepared to play the mummy game, women who even enjoyed it, and he thought I wouldnât mind. Wrong.
Later that night there was another, less edgy session, without the role-playing this time. Then we fell asleep.
Early in the morning I tiptoed downstairs to make myself coffee. I drank it out in the garden, breathing in the cleansing fresh air. I pondered on the dicey doings of the previous night. Wow, Iâd really taken a risk this time. How stupid. In future I would have to be more cautious. I dreaded to think what Sara would have to say about this episode.
Max came down a little later, dressed and ready to leave. After gulping down a coffee he said he had better go, it was a long way back to Hackney.
I dropped him off at the tube station and before he got out of my car he gave me a peck on the lips and muttered, âIâll call youâ. But he didnât sound as if he would and I hoped he wouldnât. As he strode off,
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