“Listen, I think you’d better go,” he said, shakily replacing the telephone receiver, and then, as panic mounted, “Get out, get out – just go!”
“Fuck you! You motherfucker!” I screamed – in my head – as I rolled off the sofa, gathering up my clothes from the floor.
Marching glumly home in my pretty golden dress, black stockings and heels, I was lost in thought as I held the metro station door open for the passenger behind me. It was a purely reflexive action, along with my perfunctory smile, and yet, as I climbed the stairs to the street, I heard his footsteps quicken behind me.
“Thank you for holding the door for me back there,” he grinned at me. “Not everyone does that, nowadays.”
“No problem,” I smiled.
“No, let me thank you properly,” he insisted, and, opening his briefcase, pulled out a small white book. He wrote something inside the cover, and handed it to me.
“What is this?” I asked, baffled.
“One of my books,” he said. “Not the best, but the only one I happen to have on me.”
“Read it when you get home,” he beamed. “And tell me what you think.”
We continued walking, and soon came to the driveway leading to a modern apartment complex just before my building, where he paused.
“I live right here,” he explained. “Read my book, and, if you like it, feel free to come over. Don’t be shy. A lot of my fans come… you’d fit right in.”
He gave me a knowing look, then we air-kissed good-bye.
It wasn’t until I got home that I took a good look at the book. It was a volume of pornographic poetry. Not erotic poetry. Pornographic poetry. I found his profile online – a leftist revolutionary in the seventies, now a prominent Union leader and pornographic writer.
“What is it with you and Union leaders?” DP asked, when he heard the story.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, distractedly checking my phone. “I’ve got something which appeals to leftist revolutionaries, I guess.”
“Well, it certainly appeals to me,” he said, wrestling me onto the bed.
What’s the difference between a Union leader’s sex slave and a housewife?
5 weeks’ paid annual leave!
“Hello darling, what’s up?” he messaged, the next morning, as if nothing had happened.
”Nothing much,” I thumb-typed back, with gritted teeth. “How are you?”
“Sprained shoulder trying to Hoover in a hurry after you left,” he wrote. “To make sure there were no stray hairs for wife to find.”
“FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!!” I shrieked – in my mind – while my thumbs tapped out the words: “Oh dear, that’s too bad. Can I kiss it better?”