We were in Frankie and Benny’s and I was feeling very happy, even though it was terribly obvious how chubby and 25-40% bald Roland is. I felt even more pretty by comparison. I had battered fish and chips. Theoretically I should’ve been starving by now – I hadn’t had anything to eat after lunch the previous day – but I didn’t eat that quickly. I amused myself by thinking how none of the other diners knew my thrilling secret. They might be wondering what a pretty young girl was doing with a lump of lard like that, but they would never guess! They might think he was a work colleague or family friend, maybe; hopefully they wouldn’t think I was banging him but I don’t think so, because we don’t do the sort of body language that would make others think that. But whatever they thought, they would never guess! I looked at Roland and thought he was cute in his own way. Sometimes he loks good if the lighting is right or if I think about how much worse a man of his age could look. I wanted icecream or a coke float for dessert (which is the favourite part of a meal for me).
We were talking about next time, and the enema bag he’d shown me. I said I wouldn’t bring the knife next time because I could tell he wasn’t into it.
“I really thought you’d like it,” I added.
I said I’d get some supplies off Ebay for next time.
Roland: “Yes, but we have to make sure that it’s something we both want.” Sometimes I hate that law that says you can’t fuck people without their consent. Then again, as a woman I am not legally capable of rape*, so…
“Oh,” I said in a disappointed voice, “So no drilling?” I said it with a totally straight face. I really wanted to see his expression when I said it.
He looked at me for a few moments.
I could imagine drilling him right there as he was sitting, the fat slut. He was totally asking for it, acting like a whore, going with any woman who was nice to him, and his perverted ways. Like he’s been around the block, one more time wouldn’t count. I bet he secretly wanted it anyway, he’s such a pervert.
“I won’t,” I said, “I won’t do stuff you don’t want. You can trust me.”
We carried on talking about stuff. At one point when we weren’t talking Isaid, “Roland?” using his blog name, literally ‘Roland’ and he looked up and I asked him something – it was sonething I wanted to know, or say. Then after he’d answered and I’d gone back to my food, I went “You answered when I said ‘Roland’! You are Roland!”
I was nearly finished when he said we’d have to “go after this,” because he had to drive up to Aberdeen or Glasgow or somewhere to meet the lawyers.
“I thought you could maybe show me the sights in Newcastle,” I said, in a whine worthy of Anastasia Steele. “I never got to look around the city.”
We were talking about Newcastle and he sid there’s over a million people in Newcastle, and way more if you count Sunderland. He looked it up on his Blackberry and said there’s 3 million in the region, and I said, “So you’ve got a pound or every person in Newcastle.” Boy did he suddenly look more attractive!
Roland looked at me and said “You like money, don’t you? Some people might value other things but you see a lot of money in a bank account and you think, ‘that’s good’.”
“You think I’m superficial,” I said, pretending to be a bit sad. I enjoy putting on emotions to see how others react. They always fall for it. And Roland is an excellent psychological study.
“No,” he said, “No I don’t think that you’re superficial.”
After a bit he said “I don’t think we’re gonna have time for you to have a sweet, Kalika.”
I was worried he’d be late so I said we could go now, but he said I could finish it, so I ate more quikly. It was pretty good.
Roland paid, and the waiter chatted to us about what we were doing in Newcastle, and Roland told him we’d come from Edinburgh. After we left the restaurant I giggled about “imagine if we’d told him the truth about what we were doing!” and “What would he think? What would he think about you, if he knew!” and “He could never have guessed!”
Roland said “I think that you think it’s naughty. So you get a thrill out of it.”
“It is naughty. What would your employees and colleagues think, if they knew you’d skived off work with a hooker to take nude photos of two girls tied together?”
“Well, I think that everyone is entitled to their private life.”
We found the car and drove out of Newcastle, Roland driving the wrong way and passing the place whre we’d done the shoot. I read him the directions from memory, going backwards, as we left Newcastle.
We stopped for gas at the Newcastle Airport and I read his book on women in antiquity that he had in the glove compartment; he had shown me it once.
*It is prosecuted as sexual assault. Legally, there is no age of consent for male children, so in theory a woman could rape a male child. Obviously, as you’ll know from the news, the courts do prosecute female paedophiles for having sex with boys below the age of 16, though this is not a recognised offence. It is often prosecuted as ‘lewd conduct’ or similar offences, as it cannot usually be prosecuted as ‘having sex with someone below the age of 16′. Sadly, in Ireland the age is 17 for girls and 14 for boys – a reverse sexism which leaves male minors vulnerable to sex predators and suggests that their bodies/virginity aren’t as valuable as female minors’. It also harms girls by ‘protecting’ them more than boys, suggesting that their bodies/virginity is more precious and perpetuating the idea that women are harmed by sex but men aren’t. This only fuels the double standard. On a lighter note, I once told Roland that if I raped a man (i.e. him) I couldn’t be prosecuted for it. He saw through this very easily though, and instantly said it would be sexual assault. Roland, at other times, has said “I think you want to be raped” and “I could have raped you [at the photoshoot]”. It’s lucky I’m not in love with him, as he thinks, or it would be a very dysfunctional relationship.