One kiss from you would cure me.
Chaper one
Though I think my heart is breaking.
Okay. It’s happened again. That’s another bottle of wine, and another packet of cigarettes. Men just love to fuck about. This one really stung, it stings so much it's turning to a dull aching numb. He was my big love. William Dowton. I admitted defeat, finally threw my hands up and let him destroy me.
Well, I think we can all say we’ve spent a hopeless night in with just yourself for company, that low aching feeling of self pity, a box of chocolates, a box of tissues, the soaps and a glass of wine, red or white, it doesn’t matter as long as you have the wine. The wine is good. I flick from channel to channel, P.S I Love You is on channel five, fuck that. Something about animal abuse is on BBC1, no not tonight thank you very much. ITV2 has Towie, I could attempt to watch that but the ignorance and idiocy of the show's stars would annoy and I'm already pissed off as it is. Each TV channel seems to be taking some sadistic pleasure in adding to my upset.
I turn off the TV with a sluggish movement and retire to bed to read my book, I slip on my reading glasses and then it happens, it’s been happening for weeks. Month’s. Actually from the first night I spent in this flat.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I stop reading my book and look at the closed bedroom door with a displeased look, though if someone was here with me you’d be able to sense amusement in my eyes. The disgusting little man next door has another woman round. His bedroom is directly against mine, we share a wall. In fact I may as well be the one having sex with him, I feel the shake of it every night and his low beast like grunts.
“Oo.. Oooo.. Oh Johnnnnyyyy..”
The fact that his women never fail to scream and shout his name makes the whole situation marginally better, at least he seems to know what he is doing. I live my sex life through him and I don’t even speak to the man. I had eye contact with him once in the building lobby and that was close enough, in fact too close. I gave him a stern glare.
I try to continue reading but I give up. It’s been 30 fucking minutes now. How bloody long does this go on for. It’s 11pm and I have work in the morning, at 6am.
“Gurrr.. gurrunt.”
Finally he finishes with such an animal styled moan he could pass for a gorilla or a wild man, from a tribe forced to live in modern society without a hand book.
I hear his female companion giggle and compliment his technique, whatever that may be it seems to work, he knows his stuff.
Knowing that the silence won't last long, I put ear plugs in. I've learnt to keep them handy having such a nymphomaniac of a neighbor, he's only taking a breather, and in the next twenty minute's he'll be back to pleasuring her and himself. I can bet my life on it. I reach over and switch off the lamp, throwing my book on the floor, not caring for what page I'm on.
I wake up to the stinging beep of my alarm, groggily slamming my hand down on the awful little machine and reluctantly getting up out of bed and hazily walking to the bedroom door, out of the door and down the hall and into the shower.
It's 5am.
Crack Sparrow o'clock and Johnny next door will be sleeping off all those orgasms.
No this isn't a book about how I never looked twice at the womanizing next door neighbor, but in reality he was Mr.Right, under my nose the whole time and how I managed to tame him into having me and only me. I don't even know why I'm bringing him up. Jealousy it has to be the naughty next door neighbor and all his sexcapades and lie ins. Jammy bastard. I clamber out of the shower feeling slightly more awake and back into the bedroom, flinging open the wardrobe. What to wear? What to wear?
