Caitlin Writes Ch. 01

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Mature lady finds herself in an unhealthy relationship.
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Part 1 of the 3 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 02/02/2007
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"Would you like someone to tie you up whilst you have sex?"

"What? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. What was the question?"

"Caitlin, pay attention! Question eleven: have you ever let a man tie you up? Nat and I said yes, and Liz will if she ever stops wasting time and lets you-know-who get into her knickers!"

"Shut up Jen, I'm just making him wait. I just want to make sure, that's all, just make sure that we're ready for it!"

"Oh my god, he couldn't be more ready! His tongue permanently hangs out. He has a thing for you so big you can see it from space! Caitlin, answer the question, we're nearly there. Ever indulged in a little tying-up?"

"Sorry, no, I've never been tied up. Never tied anyone else up. I might have tied someone's shoes up once or twice, does that count?" I ask, smiling innocently. They all laugh at me. So far I've answered no to pretty much every question. Where do they find these silly magazine questionnaires about sex? Is it really necessary to read them all out loud on the tram in the morning? And how is it that I end up answering no all the time? Of the girls that I am with, Liz is the youngest, and even she's done more than me, if her answers are to be believed. Maybe I'm just in a bad mood, seeing as I really did have the worst weekend ever. Shouldn't have gone clubbing on Saturday night. I ask them for the next question, confident that, as the oldest, sooner or later there must be one that I can answer with 'yes'.

"Okay, question twelve. Ooh, maybe we should skip that. Let's do thirteen, it's about anal!"

"What's wrong with twelve? Ask me number twelve."

"But we know what you'll say to this one. Oh, what the heck. Question twelve then: have you ever kissed another woman?" Immediately, and in spite of my best attempts to resist, my face wrinkles at the prospect.

"Told you!" Jenny laughs. "You always pull that face whenever someone mentions it."

"I'm sorry," I say, pretending to look offended. "It's just that some of us know exactly which side our bread is buttered, thank you. I'm quite happy sticking with men, which is more than one or two here might say!" With this last, Jenny and Nat have the good grace to go at least slightly red. On several occasions -- admittedly only when very drunk -- they've ended up sprawled out on a sofa in a bar somewhere with tongues down each other's throats.

"We only do that for the free drinks-"

"It's just to make the guys go crazy-"

Complaining in unison, Liz and I laugh at them. Furtively they glance at each other, pride knocked but not mortally damaged. None of us think that they're actually lesbians, and it does only ever happen towards the end of the night when they're very drunk. Maybe it's because they're so much younger than me -- I have a good two decades on them -- but somehow it doesn't seem right to me. I can't blame them, I suppose, because men do seem to find it extremely captivating, and when they surface for air offers of drinks are never far away. Smiling, I shake my head as they start picking on each other over who does the most outrageous things when they're drunk.

They were doing it on Saturday night, in the club. Jenny and Natasha pulled each other, bitch-face Karen shagged the best-looking man in the city centre and I had a pizza. Technically, I had a hot and spicy garlic bread on a pizza base, but the point is that I had to eat it alone.

"Am I boring?" I ask, throwing the question out from leftfield somewhere. "Am I too plain for words, or simply too old?" I don't actually know where that came from and now I wish I hadn't said it. They looked at me as though I had just produced a mountain bike from a bowl of semolina. "It's just that..."

"We know what you mean," said Liz, the United Nations Ambassador for Nightclubs and Bars in Sheffield City Centre. "This is about Karen, and that bloke, isn't it?"

"Absolutely not," I lied firmly and unequivocally, before inspiration struck. "I was thinking about Richard, actually. Although the, uh, the Karen thing sort of summed it up nicely."

Richard is my partner. 'OFT', as the girls call him -- they claim it's an acronym for 'Old Father Time' but I'm fairly sure that the 'F' is an expletive - is ten years older than me, and a lecturer in drama at the local university, which is sort of how we met. I make props and scenery for the theatre in the city centre where we all work, he wanted to send students for practical experience, yada yada yada.

He asked me out when I was at my lowest ebb for years -- the driver of the car that killed my husband had served his eighteen months, or whatever it is that drunken teenagers are given when they steal a car and kill an innocent person. Anyway, said murderer had just been released from prison and I desperately needed a Samaritan. I broke down on him one day backstage, he took me out for lunch, and we spent the whole afternoon talking. The afternoon became the evening, and that became night, and for the only time in my life I went to bed with a man who wasn't my husband. His first marriage had also been until death parted them, and it just felt right.

Now, it's different. What struck me as passion for his work when we first met now just seems like workaholism, and we barely see each other. We still have our own places, I haven't even met his family, which to be fair only comprises of a son, Ben. Although I have recollections of enjoying a sex life, that seems like a long time ago. When he can stay over, when he isn't too tired, and when I can get him to stop talking about work, it lasts about eleven minutes. Strictly lights off, no talking, by the book missionary position. The girls know all of this.

"No, the thing with Richard is nothing to do with what happened on Saturday night," said Natasha soothingly. "Richard's just not interested in sex, and the bloke in the club was using you to get to Jenny."

"Thank God," I mocked, "I was worried men would only have one reason to reject me, but I'm pleased they're operating with a whole panoply of reasons." It was Jenny who piped up with a pointless and inane comment to break the sarcasm.

"You should have an affair, C, that would sort everything out." A stream of bizarre comments punctuated by neologisms would often constitute a conversation with Jenny. I don't understand it, much as I don't understand why I love her to death. Some things just are. This last was quite a surprise even by her word-salad-as-conversation standards. We'll come to why in a moment, but for now we must pause to let Liz interject.

"Jen, even for you that's a daft thing to say. Caitlin is altogether a more sensible and mature person that to lower herself with a cheap fling." Jen was ready to rebut, but Natasha also had an opinion.

"Actually I don't think it's that bad an idea," she said, pensively. "She might realise that the grass is not always greener, or whatever cliché best sums it up, and decide she's better off with what she had." An interesting point of view - misery and rejection preferable to finding someone else. I would let Jenny make her case, then deliver my verdict.

"I don't doubt that OFT is an excellent partner, in his own way. He never cheats; works hard at a very decent job, makes sure you lack nothing, and is generally attentive to your needs except in one area. Granted he can be quite vacant and self-absorbed," she paused, building up to the punchline "but as I see it his lack of sexual interest is cancelled out by the fact that he's so bloody self-absorbed you could take lovers in the kitchen and he wouldn't notice. What you need to do is find a nice, safe shag; someone who's only interest is banging you until yours ears bleed, and doesn't want to stop for conversations."

"Jen!" Liz exclaimed. "She would never do that, she's so much more sensible than that."

"So what you're saying is," I started, quietly, "I should sleep around so people stop thinking of me as boring."

"Caitlin!" they cried in unison for entirely different reasons. I was determined to make them understand my reasoning.

"Liz, you used the word 'sensible' twice to describe me in less time than it takes Jenny elicit a marriage proposal from a stranger." Jen shrugged in an 'I can't help it' sort of way that made me want to hug her. "I know that you meant it in a complimentary way, but I don't see myself as sensible. I think of beige chunky-knit arun cardigans as sensible."

"Ooh!" exclaimed Jenny, hot on the trail of a random statement. "If I were clothes I would be a denim mini skirt!" We look at her and she fails to understand the meaning of the look.

"Perhaps," I smiled, "I wouldn't mind being thought of as sensible, as long as that's not all people think of me, but I think it sums me up." The tram lurched to another stop and people started to file on. "I would rather like to be thought of as exciting, or attractive, or sexy, or desirable. Frankly, even interesting would be an upgrade." Silence sidled into the carriage and we shuffled along our seats to accommodate it. Unfortunately silence was forced to give up its seat when Karen got on.

"Hey ladies," she smarmed charmlessly. My head filled with an image of keeping butterflies in a jar until they died. At the exact same point last Friday I thought about raptors ripping someone to pieces. That's the effect Karen has on people. Jenny calls her 'trout-face' behind her back. Different strokes, I say. "What's happening, bitches?"

"Caitlin's going to have an affair and I want to be a pair of strappy fuck-me shoes," Jenny said conversationally.

"Actually that's not quite what I said..."

"Oh Caitlin, why would you want to do that? It's not like you, you're so... I don't know, what's the word?"

"Sensible?" Jenny added helpfully, failing to evade the flying pumps of both Liz and Natasha.

"No," Karen said. "Not sensible... You're so... old," she added grandly. "I mean, at your age. You really shouldn't. It's just not becoming of a mature lady." I hated Karen. I hated her killer cheekbones, crystal clear eyes, and perfect lips. I hated her naturally vibrant red hair, body honed through twenty years of dancing, and never-ending legs. Oh, I hated her, and I hated her more for actually proving my point.

It's while I'm busy hating her that I see him. See him again, technically, because we see him most mornings on the same tram as us. Sort of fair-ish brown hair spiked on top, with too-long-to-be-stubble but too-short-to-be-a-beard facial hair. Wearing a smart black suit (jacket never buttoned) with a white shirt and no tie, he is absolutely, totally and utterly not my type at all. Yet when I see him...

"Girls... look at her..." Nat hisses, giggling.

I snap to, suddenly aware that they're looking at me. I break from my definitely not fantasising about a stranger commuter-trance and smile. They all laugh at me and several of the other 'trampanions' (as Jen once called them) turn round and look, or tut-tut disapprovingly out of the window.

"Bet I know who she's dreaming about," Nat says, and without wanting to I instinctively glance over at him. Immediately I search the floor between my feet but it's too late, they've all seen it. Another peal of laughter, and I think at this one my cheeks start to go a little pink. I contemplate fanning myself a little with the paper, but that would be to draw attention to it.

"Caitlin," Karen schmoozes, "I really don't wish to be disparaging, but are you serious?" Clearly I fancy him so there's little point denying. Rather, I stay quiet, try to give her no ammunition. "Honey, he really is out of your league, you simply don't have a chance. I mean, he's not just too good-looking for you, he's so young! Compared to you, I mean. You might have gone to school with his dad, or something!"

Smiling sweetly, I reach over Nat's shoulder for the bell whilst trying not to look further back into the carriage at him. Instead, I try to force my way into the gangway of the packed tram and as I do Karen can't resist one last attempt to light my fuse.

"Caitlin, if you hurry I'm sure he could help you with crossing the road!"

Ignoring trout-face, I make an attempt to leave with dignity. It's my turn to fetch coffees from everyone's favourite coffee super-power, which is why I'm getting off the tram one stop before everyone else.

"Caitlin, don't forget not to put sugar in mine!" Liz calls as I try not to get swept away by the tide of travellers. I half-turn to reply, but the dangerous combination of not looking where I'm going and some sort of learner-tram-driver emergency stop conspire to make me miss the step and for a moment my mind is wholly taken up with close-up images of the floor, and imagined sensations of how hard it must be.

That's when his arm comes out and catches me in the perfect romantic Hollywood embrace.

Somewhere beyond the dark side of the moon I can hear the girls gasp, and I think Karen may be laughing at my less than graceful introduction. We're leaning over like the winning contestants on 'Come Dancing' and I think I may be digging my nails into his biceps. Trying to seize dignity from the jaws of embarrassment, I compose myself for just a moment before looking up to thank him in a composed and business-like way.

My mouth sort of droops open and I think there's spittle on my chin.

"I never dance before midnight, but if you insist..." That's the first time I've heard his voice, and it's not the deep, British leading-man baritone that has of course never featured in my dreams. It's more of a transatlantic drawl and it comes as a surprise. Is he foreign? Worse, is he -- gulp -- an American?

"Stole that line from a film." he says in a completely different voice while raising me upright onto unsteady legs. "Stole the accent too, although", he adds, lips curling into a mischievous smile, "obviously not from the same film. Never was terribly good at doing the voices. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I say.

"That's great, just terrific. I'm glad you're okay." Awkward pause. "So, no harm done then," he says. Trying to think of suitable words of thanks, I just smile in a prim manner.

"So, not hurt, or shaken or anything?" Rummaging through my memory for some indication of how to employ my voice box, I do at least manage to shake my head without hurling myself to the floor. He's still looking down at me, and I'm very conscious that I feel like I'm sixteen again. In fact, this is just how I felt the first time that Andrew Rose asked me out to a dance. It's exactly like that; in fact, I think I'm getting the same vibes from this stranger too. I think to myself, careful Caitlin, you're daydreaming! This complete stranger, this incredibly beautiful man, is not going to ask me out and make winning the bet easier. He's at least half my age, if not more. Then, he opens his mouth to speak, and I stop breathing so that I don't miss anything if he does ask me out.

"I'm awfully sorry to interrupt your meditation, but do you think I might have my arms back now?" Realizing that I'm still gripping him hard, I disentangle myself hurriedly, musing over the strange way he has of speaking. It makes him sound older than me. Meanwhile, I nod my assent whilst mentally thumbing through the owner's manual for my voice. I discover that it's in Swedish and curiously there seem to be some small, plastic items with a flange left over. Maybe that's why I still can't speak.

I think I should explain at this point that I am not normally like this. You may if you wish mock me, given the ineptitude of my performance so far this morning, but the fact is that I am a mature, educated woman, a widow for the past few years, and not generally given to schoolgirl flights of fantasy. I am intelligent and independent, eloquent and erudite, with no previous history of hurling myself at strangers on public mass transportation. To complete the picture, I am a curvaceous five feet and six inches tall, wavy brown hair (looks sort of red in the sun) that curls just below my shoulders. Bored to the point of distraction since the death of my beloved husband, who I met at university. He was taking some qualification in architecture, and went on (as one does) to become a chef and later restaurant owner - a placed Kyz Kuu, down by the canal. I'll tell you the story behind the name some other time, but for now all you need to know is that it was the sort of restaurant without a menu. My husband would come to your table once you were seated, and discuss what he was going to make for you. The place was never empty until he died, and it passed to me. Oh, it's always full and very popular, but without him it's empty. Now we're introduced!

"Well, it was nice talking to you. Try not to hurl yourself at any more strangers this morning!" Awaking from my reverie in time to see the beautiful stranger walking away, I discovered that I was standing outside one of the quieter bars on West Street.

Making my way towards coffee ground zero, I shake my head as I try to understand exactly what as just come to pass. I don't know his name, he's so much younger than me, and now it would appear that I have a crush on him the size of a decent hotel in Dubai. Weaving in and out of the morning rush hour human traffic, I try to recall the usual coffee order.

"Big Issue! Morning ma'am, would you like a copy of the Big Issue?"

"No, I'm okay thank you... "

"'Ave you got change for a cuppa please?"

"Sorry, I've got no change on me at all."

"Spare a pound for an old ex-cripple?" I spluttered with indignation, then used a hankie to clear the indignation from my jacket lapel.

"An ex-cripple? I don't even know where to begin with that!"

Realising that I hadn't picked up a paper yet, I made my way to the kiosk near the tram stop and wrestled with a hefty broadsheet. A gust from a nearby tram threatened to separate me from my intended purchase, and the instant I start juggling I dropped my purse - change everywhere. The miserable witch behind the kiosk tutted and served the next customer as I tried to gather up the loose coins.

"Can I get you anything?" she snorts at the lucky person behind me on whom she has focussed her immense charm and personality.

"Actually no, I think I'm quite content just enjoying the view from where I am." There's a pause of several seconds before it occurs to me that I know that voice. When I look up, there he is again, doing exactly what he described and staring down my vest top. Normally such overt leering would make me wretch, but instead I just blushed, and abandoned the rest of my change for the tramps to find.

"Well, I'm glad I brightened your morning." comes my riposte.

"Twice."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's twice you've brightened my morning, in just a few minutes."

"Well, I'm pleased that my efforts have not gone unnoticed!" I bluster, faking light-heartedness.

"They haven't, because now I shall be thinking about you all day..." Oh God, that should sound so cheesy, but you had to be there.

"Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow," I say, smiling at him shyly as I sashay away. Unfortunately what would have been a magnificent pose is broken by the fact that I still haven't paid for my paper, and at a yell from the fat spotty girl I have to return to pay for it. I hear him chuckle as he walks away.

Flustered, I decided to stop for death by cholesterol breakfast on my way to the theatre. Annoyingly, the queue at the 'restaurant' was longer than the queue to avoid a Jamie Oliver book signing, which meant that I had to wait in a queue at everyone's least favourite fast death chain. And as usually happens when you're there, food you wouldn't normally consider feeding to a dead yak inexplicably seems incredibly appetising. When the foreign student whose English vocabulary seemed to be limited to gangster rap lyrics took my order, I asked for the cardboard imitation of a breakfast.

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