Tag: black dress

Dating in the suburbs.

I love the idea of meeting men. Slipping on a pretty dress and strappy sandals, a little lipstick and a splash of perfume.

Having my hair washed, smelling like a strawberry, and then, heading out into the big wide world, to hook up with somebody new.

Exciting.

Exciting, but also – such an effort.

The reality of driving to a date, after the waxing, moisturising and perfuming, is a drag. It’s not that easy to change gears in heels. My dress gets crushed and crumpled underneath me in the car and I come close to death every time I take to Johannesburg’s roads. It’s tricky giving the finger, while keeping the window closed for the air conditioning.

And it’s really hard to text and say ‘I may be a little late’ when taxis are pushing in to my lane.

So on my dating profile, I am very clear that men, in this big wide world, must live within a five kilometre radius.

Not only am I a snob and would prefer to meet a man from my area, but I would never dream of driving out to Alberton. Or, even worse, Centurion.

Imagine! The horror.

The long journey.

The moustaches. The paunches. The odd hairstyles.

The conversation. And the sideburns.

Perhaps I’m a little mean. Because there are some nice men from those areas. And men in my area have paunches too.

The truth is, I am just very lazy. And my laziness has led to many a problem.

Laziness has led to the loss of lust.

Laziness has led to the loss of liaisons.

And laziness has led to the loss of many a good lay.

Yesterday morning I met my girlfriends for breakfast. The local coffee shop. It felt like running the gauntlet.

‘Why are you blushing?’ Sara asked me.

‘Because Parkhurst is sitting outside.’ I said.

‘Who’s Parkhurst?’

‘The guy I had dinner with last Saturday. It didn’t go so well.’

‘And the guy who just called you over, the one you tripped over and pretended not to see?’

‘He’s Blairgowrie. Check out the facial hair…’

‘Ah’, she said. ‘What about him, in the white shirt, you stopped to chat to him ?’

‘I think he’s Saxonwold’, I said. ‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if I dated him. They all look the same’.

I was very clear about the guy who was sipping tea at the corner table. He was my ex husband.

He was not alone. And he was smiling.

Behind him, nursing a cappuccino, sat my ex lover.

At least he looked miserable.

I was so uncomfortable I asked my girlfriends if they minded moving to the next door coffee shop.

No problem. Because they felt uncomfortable too. They’d also gone through most of the men.

Next door was no better.

I saw Rosebank, Delta Park and Westcliff. All together at one cosy table.

Sara had slept with Rosebank, Lucy had dated Delta Park and well, I’d kind of done Westcliff.

So much for the five kilometre radius.

It was a disaster.

I have no choice but to extend my low mileage rule.

I’m going to have to put on flat shoes, wear a dress that doesn’t crease, wind down the windows of my car, and put the music on full blast.

Because…

Hello Alberton, hello…

driving in heels

When the sex is just so good.

I slipped on a new black dress and admired myself in the mirror. Nice, but I dropped it to the floor.

Pulled on jeans and buttoned up a crisp white shirt, but no, whipped it all off. I tossed a skirt on to the growing pile of clothing, a lace bustier, a kimono, a hat, went back to the first black dress, then rushed out to the store to buy another one.

On the way home I picked up the lobster, bought a few bottles of wine and chose a shiny new lip gloss. All pretty expensive, but hey, it was only money.

A luxurious bubble bath, a splash of my new perfume, sexy stockings, and I was ready when he rang the doorbell. The wine was on the table, tulips in the vase, dinner bubbling away in the pot.

He walked in. Hot. My knees felt weak. My heart nearly exploded. I said hi, took him by the hand and lead him to the kitchen.

Before I had time to pour a glass of wine, he’d pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard. Within seconds my stockings were torn, my French underwear ripped and my dress off and over my head.

He was holding me, kissing me, messing my hair, smudging my lipstick and pushing himself deliciously against me, into me.

The oven timer was beeping as I wrapped my legs around him and he carried me to the dining room table. Crash. The Clementina Van Der Walt dishes, beautifully set up for dinner, shattered on to the floor. Whoosh. The wine bottle went flying.

Smash. The glass candle holders burst into a million pieces, the sofa caught fire and there were flames licking the tips of the curtains.

He went down on me, on that table, glass everywhere. I came. Once. Then twice. It was so good. We were both on fire, and it had nothing to do with the flames all around us.

He cracked open another bottle of wine, poured two glasses, then picked me up again and carried me, gently this time, to the bedroom.

We had sex. Sweaty. Messy. Magnificently. For hours.

Afterwards, we lay on top of the bed, stained sticky sheets, sharing a cigarette and a glass of wine, breathing in the soot of the smouldering sofa.

When I got up to go the bathroom, I could barely walk. He rubbed arnica gently between my bruised thighs. I gave him panado for his headache and removed shards of glass from his feet.

He left in the morning. I swept up the damages, showered, called Davenports to come fix the oven and Fabriports to re-upholster the sofa.

I gathered the sheets, tablecloth and dresses and dropped them off at the Dry Cleaners. And then, because I was going to see him again, and again, and again, chose another new black dress.

And a pair of high heeled black shoes.

I still don’t know how the heels broke on the ones I was wearing.
But I know I need new ones.

And stockings. And underwear. And curtains.

Sex with me – or him – PRICELESS!

Tally:-
Tulips – R 140
Wine – R 400
Lobster – R 600
Dress – R 800
The other dress – R 800
The stained dress – R 800
Stockings – R 200
Underwear – R 600
Dry cleaning – R 300
New crockery – R 900
Medication – R 150
Candle holders – R 1200
Upholstery – it has to wait.
Stove – it has to wait

wall