Sally, a different type of sex.

Sally, a different kind of sex.

We all have our foibles, kinks, if you like. Most are harmless and meant for our individual pleasure. Kept in the privacy of our minds and imaginations. Our imagination is limitless, travelling far beyond the realms of possibilities and, in some cases, extremes.

A quick trawl through the internet will provide so much food for thought, ideas that had never entered our heads, and why would they? Models in impossible positions with unnatural attributes. Breasts that would cause major back problems or penises that would require rather too much blood to gain an erection.

I admit it, I have done that trawl many times and been fascinated by the imagination and imagery portrayed in fictitious real-life scenarios. Bunkum! I call bunkum. Our bodies, endless sources of pleasure and pain that they are, are just not designed for some of the more extreme acts one can see. Acts with a dubbed soundtrack. Things like snuff movies are so fake, unless one has access to the dark web. Not a good place to be in. But snuff movies are just one of the regular things offered for our delectation, sexual gratification and amusement, and no humans were harmed in the making.

One becomes bored or inured to porn. Seen one body, seen them all. Visits to porn sites become less attractive and just don’t fire up the required excitement.

I live on my own. My long-term girlfriend moved to Canada to take up a position that was a huge promotion and a hike in salary. It was a no-brainer for her, offering financial security and an attractive pension to boot. Ours was a tearful farewell at Gatwick. My last sight of her was her retreating back as she went through the gate, pulling her travel case behind her. Ours had been a nice relationship. Nice? Well, it had been comfortable. I guess we were more friends with benefits than in love. It suited us both to share an apartment and a bed.

Loneliness crept up on me. Not at first, but perhaps two or three weeks after Abigail had left and not called to say she had arrived okay, or what her new living arrangements were like, not even her job. I missed her, pure and simple. Coming home to a ready meal with no chatter, no shared bottle of wine. No cuddles while watching something banal on television. Abigail had moved on. I needed to do the same.

I met Sally on a dating app, “more fish” or something like that. Chatting online was pleasant enough. Her avatar looked nice in a girl-next-door kind of way. She was thirty-five, slim with a five feet five height. Of course, anonymity in chatrooms is rife, a bit like a curriculum vitae is littered with expansive half-truths. Based on fact but with embellishments. It seemed that we were virtual neighbours inasmuch as she was in the same county, about five miles away from me, on the outskirts of London.

Over a few months of nightly chatting and trying to find out more about each other, like a pair of sleuths, we broached the subject of meeting up. A drink, perhaps, to see how we liked each other, in the flesh, so to speak. Sally had been married to a career soldier. His transition from the army to civilian life hadn’t gone well for him. The bottle soon became his best friend, which ruined their marriage and left them broke. Sally needed a job and a fresh start to survive. Her husband just disappeared, out of her life.

We arranged to meet at Costa Coffee. A public place, reasonably safe. I appreciated her caution in meeting a stranger. At my advice, she had told one of her friends where she was going, at what time and the name I had given her. I hadn’t lied, my name is Jonathan, the one I was born with.

The door swung shut behind me, shutting out the noise of traffic and hundreds of conversations. The smell of the coffee was enticing. It was rammed in there. Seems like half of Bromley had had the same idea and descended on the outlet in Market Square at the same time. I didn’t see her. Or at least, I didn’t see the familiar face from the screen. It was stupid of me not to get her number so that we could call upon arrival. I berated my ineptitude and resigned myself to a wasted trip.

Armed with an iced latte with sugar-free caramel, I sought a table. None were to be had at the ground-floor level, so I gingerly went down the steep steps to the lower level. There she was, sitting alone in the corner. I smiled. I smiled in relief that she was there and that she had recognised me.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I took the seat opposite her and put my cup on the table.

“You aren’t. I was early.” I detected a slight accent in her voice and logged it away for future conversation. She smiled back.

I stuck out my hand across the table. “Jonathon. Very nice to meet you at last.”

“Sally. Likewise, good to finally meet you too.” She took my hand. We shook. Her skin felt smooth and cool.

“So, Sally can wait.” Dredging up a lyric as an icebreaker.