'Tis Done

Dear Dobson,

It's taken me a few weeks to get over the frustrating disappointment of an adjournment, but I can feel a gentle shift in attitude beginning to happen. I never expected to feel optimistic about the impending new year, yet that seems to be where my mood is heading.

The 'C' word has been and gone, and it seems to have been something of a success. Mes enfants were happy and grateful; I don't know that I could have asked for anything more than that. I'm relieved. I've never much enjoyed Christmas, the pressure to have fun and feel close to those I love on one particular day is suffocating. Anyway, it's over and it was okay.

Tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of my relationship with The Man ending. Yes, there is still unresolved business to deal with but that needs to be parked until May. I have plans to hang with some jazzers all day and all night - it will be joyful, the complete antithesis of what was happening this time last year.

Tomorrow will also mark seven months exactly since my first date with SG Guy. He blew me away with the Christmas present he gave me; beautiful, exquisite, French lingerie. I can't wait to 'try it out' when he returns to London in the new year. Things are good. It's lovely and easy.

I was reflecting on the past year last night - I think it's inevitable when a new one is on its way - and I came across a picture of The Man that had been posted on the internet. I wasn't looking for it, but perhaps I was meant to find it. He appeared more 'ordinary' than I remembered. His hairline seemed to have dramatically receded. He was smiling, but looked dead behind the eyes.

Perhaps I was meant to find it?

Frankie

The Law Is An Ass

Dear Dobson,

After much anticipation and anxiety, my day at court finally arrived. I felt sick, nervous at the prospect of seeing The Man after all this time. Despite my desire to be anywhere but the witness care 'suite' (and I use that word very loosely), there was a sensible voice in my head that kept repeating what had happened was fundamentally wrong and this would be my opportunity to voice that belief.

Three and a half hours later, and after many trips to the lavatory, I was informed the case would be adjourned for another six months. The judges were delayed by the morning's case and they do not, ever, work beyond 4 o'clock.

Upset, disappointed, angry... etc. I know you've heard it all before. So given those feelings, plus the absence of my children and SG Guy who was in Europe, I embarked on a three day binge.

I took my finger off the self-destruct button on Sunday afternoon. It was then reality managed to sneak its way in. I wish I'd managed to shut the door in time, but I failed. It's been a quiet week and numb is where things currently feel most comfortable. I'm hoping it's a temporary state of mind, it's not a pleasant place.

Frankie

Round Midnight

Dear Dobson,

The title of this latest instalment is a song I'm currently learning for gigging purposes.  It was suggested to me by someone else, but man...  It's screamingly appropriate right now.

Sarah tells it like it is and no mistaking.  I'm meandering through my days in fierce denial.  The trial is almost two weeks away and I've a feeling that, no matter what the outcome is, it's going to feel shitty. You know it's not how I wanted things to be with The Man.  Nevertheless, it's the way things have gone so a pragmatic and practical approach is required for the time being - if only to get me through the dreaded day itself.

In other news, alcohol is proving to be something of an emotional buffer for me.  I know it's not a healthy way of coping with the situation, but the way I see it, the 'situation' will be over soon.

It hasn't all been doom and gloom though.  I've a nice little earner coming up in the form of a dinner / dance gig.  Although not the most satisfying in creative terms, these 'dos' always prove to be quite lucrative.

And there's more good stuff...  At the weekend I was a willing participant in some gin research and discovered some real corkers.  I think I can safely say that Brockmans, Monkey 47 and Cadenhead's would all be up your straße.  Especially Cadenhead's; it's Scottish and 50% proof.  What's not to like?

I continue to spend wonderful evenings with SG Guy.  He's uncomplicated, generous and has the most sublime touch.  His apartment has become something of a haven for me, a rooftop escape from all the sewage down below.

Time for me to attempt sleep.  These days it tends to be disturbed by anxiety inducing dreams, but I have a feeling things might be a bit easier in a month or so.  Goodnight Dobson.

Frankie

Resurrection

Dear Dobson,

We need to get back to doing this shit.

In my mind, I don't care whether we're simply writing for you and me.  I don't care how many followers we have, what the figures are, who's interested or not.  This bloggage, as I understand it, is ultimately for us.

I think, whilst desperately trying not to sound like Tammy Wynette, sometimes it's hard to be a woman.  It's fucking hard.

As you know Dobson, I'm up in court this month - a witness for the CPS.  Partly I've been reluctant to write because I don't know who's going to read this.  'The Man' is aware of this blog and he may well come across its content.  I've reached the point where I don't care if he does or not.

Our relationship ended in the messiest of ways.  He hurt me, physically as well as emotionally, and as you know after a period of contemplation I went to the police.  It wasn't an easy decision to make, but ultimately, at the very heart of it, was the belief that what he had done was wrong.  Very wrong.

I have done my best since things ended, to get on with my life.  I've successfully gigged, I've achieved a Certificate in Counselling, I've tentatively embarked on a new relationship and yet life feels 'stuck'.  Until the trial is over I'm unable to move on.  We still have a connection, even if it's in the most negative of ways.  I want to be liberated.  I want it to be over and I acknowledge that, soon, it will be.

I hope that with the end of the trial - no matter what the outcome is - I will be able to disconnect.  In spite of everything, I still feel tied to him, as if this trial binds us in the unhealthiest of ways.

Obviously it's been a long time and there's much more I could divulge but I feel I need to be economical with what I share right now.  The time will come when it feels safe again, but until then this is the best I can offer.

Frankie

Spiralling

Dear Dobson,

I have an essay to produce in sixteen days and as you might predict motivation is low, so I thought it was time to pay a visit to our sacred space. 

I have found myself wondering if this complete lack of focus is what it's like to have ADHD?  If so, it must be exhausting.  My brain only seems to be able to cope with minute pieces of information and I'm finding it frustrating.  In a bid to change this state of affairs and given my surplus of singleton hours, I have taken to watching series after series of anything in a foreign language.  As you know I'm a fan of anything dark and Scandinavian, so both series of 'The Bridge' (Bron || Broen) have been an absolute godsend.  I'm now into the third series of 'Spiral', which is also dark but French.  Watching this kind of thing forces me to engage.

My heart remains broken; my emotions feel as if they've been blasted into a million pieces - someone has kindly scooped them up and plopped them in a bucket for me, but now they have to be sifted through.  That's proving more painful than the initial blasting itself.

I am doing my utmost to be 'normal' and do 'normal' things.  Parenthood offers little space for indulgence which can be both a blessing and a curse, my singing is on the up, college is going well (essay aside), I'm back running regularly and support from friends and family is forthcoming.  However...

Going through the motions has never been my bag and there is a distinct lack of joy in most of what I do right now.  Where is the fucking joy Dobson?

Speaking of fucking, the last time that happened was Christmas night and I miss the physical contact.  Though having said that, the idea of being intimate with anyone ever again terrifies me and it all feels a bit dead from the waist down.

As I said, where is the fucking joy Dobson?

Right, I'm off to watch another couple of episodes of Spiral.  The essay can wait.

Frankie

Dignity or Dignitas?

Dear Dobson,

Life seems to be meandering from one day to the next, so I suppose that's evidence I'm hanging on in there somehow. It's an existence of sorts but I'm aware I'm lurking in the shadows, courting anonymity instead of the spotlight for the first time in my life. I feel jaded, used, discarded.

The Man ignores the odd phone call I chance, my e-mails and occasional texts. All fall on deaf ears. I've a feeling he doesn't even read the words I carefully construct. Each agonising phrase dusted with a whiff of hope - hope that he'll be sufficiently moved to reconnect. I realise it's futile. My services are no longer required.

Sadness is a constant, disappointment a regular visitor and anger an unwelcome one. Then there are the dark thoughts; the powerful fantasies of revenge countered by those of pitiful self-destruction. I am lost. Broken.

As you know Dobson, this isn't just a case of heartbreak. It's more complicated than that. It's old wounds revisited. I didn't want to have to go to 'Rejectionville' again but I'm fresh off the bus, suitcase in hand and the locals seem to know who I am. All because someone said 'trust me', and I took a chance.

January is nearly over ergo I have been single for almost a month. Time flies when you're empty and numb. I miss The Man - I miss 'us' and 'we' and I miss 'my boyfriend'.

Frankie

Which One Is The Dead One?

Dearest Frankie,

Fancy meeting you here... Is it sheer luck that we even remembered the passwords to the magical kingdom of Blogger. Serendipity. Or just a catchy password. Who can tell...

I am as surprised as you by your shock exit from the love train. I really can't understand it.  I am, however, pleased to see you here and talking in rather positive tones.

So.  Here's to blogs and stuff.  And the remaining / still alive BeeGee.

Dobson x

Happy New Year My Arse

Dear Dobson,

These are difficult, desperate days and in the face of such adversity, resurrecting our online tête-à-tête seemed like the only thing to do to preserve a modicum of sanity.

When last we spoke I was on board the Love Train and life was good. It continued to be so until just after Christmas when the stoker decided to throw me off. Nothing was negotiable. Perhaps he thought I'd dodged the fare but I can honestly say I hadn't.

Heartbreak over the Christmas / New Year period is possibly the worst kind. It's that time of year when couples strive to outdo each other with overt, gaudy displays of bile-inducing affection and being involuntarily single amidst all this is akin to having bubonic plague. No-one wants to get too close in case they catch it.

This wasn't what I anticipated going into 2014. I feel as if I missed a big clue along the way; the one that said 'He's going to dump you'. And let me tell you, the man is as stubborn as his Taurus the Bull birth sign - he won't be changing his mind or compromising in any way.

I'm shocked and saddened. I believed we were good together / for each other. Our experience was obviously very different.

Initially I will try and fix myself by taking on board what the Bee Gees have to say above, but luckily for me, I've been broken before so have a few tried and tested methods of my own; good people, running, singing, my course, this blog and strength of character. To be honest I'd have preferred to be planning a holiday with my boyfriend in the new year instead of my solitary emotional recovery, but needs must.

Despite the miserable overtures, it feels good to be back here.

Frankie

Highs And Lows

Dear Dobson,

My week, in a nutshell.

Low Point:

Parenthood has been one of this week's crashing lows.  I've never rated myself much as a mother if I'm honest; I don't make my own houmous or anything, but I like to think I do a decent job and most importantly, my boys know they're loved.  Unfortunately oldest has entered what we have labelled 'The P Zone' - yes indeed, as his thirteenth birthday looms, Puberty arrives and the odious stench of testosterone hangs heavy in the air like ammonia.  All kinds of muscles are currently getting a good flexing.

He has behaved appallingly of late and I yearn for the days when a clip around the ear wasn't something that could land you in court.  If this is just the beginning of a catalogue of heinous pubescent behaviour then I'd like to terminate my contract here and now.

What do you mean I can't terminate my contract?

I suppose I simply attempt to muddle through the best I can, like many other parents have before me - except my own mother of course who did less than her best, but that's a whole other story I can't be arsed investing any energy in right now...


High Point:

The Love Train is stoked full of coal and is chugging along beautifully.  I don't know where it's destined to go, but being aboard it makes me very happy.  The Man is warm, wonderful and uncomplicated - I love having him in my life.


Any Other Business:

The application form has gone away.  The waiting game commences.  I shall know within three weeks or so if I'm up for interview.  Obviously they'd be mad not to take me.

I went to the cinema to see the new Star Trek film and found myself strangely drawn to Spock.  I never thought I'd use a Vulcan as stimulus for a wank.

I miss you and would like you to come back.

Frankie

Love Is A Many Splendored Thing

Dear Dobson,

It seems we have both been distracted from bloggage for one reason or another.  Alas, I have not been dreamy-eyed about hall tables or doing up my house...  I have been riding the express train of love, travelling first-class, accompanied arm in arm by The Man.

Much can happen in a short space of time and as you know from previous confessions I was very aware that stirrings of a non-sexual nature were happening.  Those things called 'feelings' were manifesting themselves and as uncomfortable as they were making me, I sat with them.  I'm glad I did.

All areas of life are good.  The Karma Police have finally discovered where I'm living and decided that a little payback is due.  I'd say way overdue, but beggars can't be choosers - or summat.  Even the weather is warming up, about cunting time though, it is the middle of April...

The Man is on his way round now so I must love you and leave you.  Would it be wrong to crack a quick one off whilst watching Thatcher's funeral?

Frankie

The Big Thaw

Dear Dobson,

I cannot believe yet another respective birthday has been and gone.  I must confess I've been thinking a lot this evening about the passing of time - a classic symptom of getting older.  Unfortunately I've reached no earth shattering conclusions, other than time seems to be accelerating a little too quickly for my liking, especially the good stuff which seems to be gone in the blink of an eye.

And please don't interpret my ruminations as sad or maudlin, if anything, what I've said above makes me value the good stuff even more.

Could I have injected more clichés into the preceding paragraphs?

I must congratulate you on your purchase of 'Orgasm' blusher, I shall pay close attention to your flush when we next meet, but don't go overboard will you?  I imagine the Aunt Sally look would probably have an adverse effect...  Luckily, and without wanting to sound like I'm bragging, I have no need for such cosmetic indulgences at the moment.  My cheeks are aglow like two enormous Belisha Beacons and my Bunny™ lies redundant in the drawer underneath my bed; just for the record, there are many other reasons I think The Man is wonderful.  The Ice Queen never stood a chance in such company.

On that note, it's time for me to retire to the boudoir where I shall slip under the covers and inhale what remnants are left of the weekend spent with him.  Defrosted...

Night Dobson.

Frankie

PS.  Happy frickin' Anniversary, this is our fiftieth post.

Mommie Dearest

Dear Dobson,

Given your absence I can only postulate that things like work, young children and life in general are all demanding your time – either that or you’ve buggered off to the Maldives for three weeks and kept it from me.  I miss you when you’re not here, and you know how much I hate to talk about myself…

I have decided that tomorrow I will buy a Mother’s Day card for the person in question; always a difficult task for a misomater.  Do I assuage my own feelings of guilt by getting her the prettiest card containing the most genuine message, or do I adopt an insouciant attitude towards the whole thing with a cheap and meaningless token gesture?  Decisions, decisions…

Matricidal fantasies aside, I currently have very little to gripe about.  Your previous advice has been heeded and I am doing my utmost to enjoy whatever time I am able to share with The Man.  I find his company fulfilling in many different ways.  I like him – a lot.

I never thought I’d see the day when Justin Timberlake’s standing in my wank bank was rescinded, but given current levels of gratification his position is now somewhat redundant.  When I mailed him to tell him so he took it badly, but that’s Aquarian ego for you…  He’ll get over me.

Frankie

Señorita

Dear Dobson,

Have I told you lately that I love you?

Despite having accumulated many friends over the years, I have always believed you are the one who knows me best.  You may view this as a blessing or a curse, but from my perspective I definitely see it as the former.  If you were within arms’ reach right now, I would grab you in a headlock and reiterate how much ‘I love you, you little fecker’.  

Admittedly, you might shy away from such overt physicality given that I am full of Penis Grigio and spicy food.  I’m also having a Justin Timberlake half-hour on YouTube (an homage to your previous blog title), so there are many ways this scenario could play out...

‘Normal’ life has resumed and, as a result of this, I am currently seeking solace in the fact that Justin is going to “have me naked by the end of this song...”  My boys have returned home and my time with The Man is over until next week at the earliest.  It’s difficult to postpone desire; not only the lust driven brand of desire, but also the kind that leaves you wanting more time to simply be with the person in question, even if you’re only lying au naturel discussing 1970s TV theme tunes.

In part, I suppose sating those lust driven yearnings is where a vibrator comes in handy, though I will always maintain there's nothing like the real thing baby...

In the five years since splitting with my charming ex-husband I have managed to work my way through two vibrators.  My third is serving me well.  The first one frustratingly died on me mid-session, never to be revived despite spending a fortune on new batteries...  RIP #1.  The second death was a much more distressing affair.  I had settled down for a mid-afternoon wank and all was going well until I felt an obvious change in sensation; I paused and looked down between my legs where I spied two small pieces of pink ‘flesh’ lying on the bed sheets.  My initial and rather anguished thought was that my labia had fallen off, luckily however, what was actually lying on the bed were the two pink ‘bunny ears’ and not bits of me...  RIP #2.

I think it’s time to go and commend #3 for a job well done, alongside which, Justin’s going to “give me his heat”.  I look forward to that.

Frankie

I'm Bringing Sexy Back

Dear Frankie

I'm going to layer this blog like a Mary Berry Cake, or probably more like a Findus Lasagne.

First layer. Your enjoyment of your relationship. To most, this is a good thing. A wee gift from The Gods. A big 'hurrah' for you. A lucky man.

I know that that is not how you roll. Most of the time. I have learned that you may be searching for the self-destruct button.

You must not do this.

You must instead go back and re-read some of your blogs. Think about the negatives of not feeling this way. Also, don't read about couples on Facebook. We all know they are bastards. That Valentine's stuff gives me the dry boak.  What a waste of money and time. And mostly it's from people who can only function when told to, or show love through a shit teddy, cheap chocolate and a crappy card.  When the fuck did they gig to a packed house in town, or run a marathon? They don't do, that's why they pepper Facebook with that stuff.

Enjoy it all.  A fucking bus might mow you down tomorrow or some other clichéd death.  I am very, very happy for you.

Probably best to keep wanking though or we may lose our fan.

Which leads me nicely unto layer two.

Sexy.

I have been told that I am the fall guy to your dirty stuff on the blog, so I am going to sex this puppy up.  Here goes.

Ooohhh, that boiler is leaking. Dirty git. Better get a plumber out, eh?  Yeah, big old plumber. With tools.  Ohhh. When's he coming? Get it? Coming. Cumming. See what I did there.  What do you mean he's cancelled? But I swapped stuff at work to get back early and picked up the kids for this. I can't believe this.

Oh wait.  Spoiled that slightly.  Will try again.

Ooooohhh,  that's right, oooh yeah, oh hang on, my bingo wing is trapped, move, fucking move, ahhhh, ok, I'm fine, ooh right, so, hang on, that's the baby crying, get up, no its your turn...

Bollocks.

Layer three.

I can't write sexy.

I like 'sexy' and I am not a prude. Rude stuff makes me laugh, I am unshockable.

But dear reader I am unable to put it down on paper.  I guess it's a part of my life I like to keep private, even though I can voyeur with the best of them.  Everything else about me is laid bare, in my job, on here, in counselling, in my limited stand-up stuff.

But you must be brave and soldier on.  Sex it up for me.  Except I know that it ain't sexing up. It's actually you.  And that's what makes you so darn fab.

Dobbers. x

Consternation

Dear Dobson,

It happened last night and it has terrified me. 

As you are aware, my dear friend, there is a certain someone I have been spending a significant amount of time with.  Yesterday evening he took me out for dinner.  He’s the kind of man who opens doors for you and helps you with your coat even though you're not a septuagenarian.  He is thoughtful, attentive, has a wickedly dry sense of humour and is easy going.

Post-dinner, whilst lying wrapped in my lover’s arms I felt a stirring which was nothing to do with sex or fucking.  It was a warm, hormonal surge which prompted me to press myself further into him, he responded by tightening his well-defined arms around me.

Each time I see him, the fondness I feel for him intensifies a little.  We’re not talking the ‘L’ word but these old familiar feelings – the ones which have led to so much hurt in the past – are certainly making their uncomfortable presence felt.

I am deeply concerned that my cynical writing style will be affected by the presence of emotions and the like.  Help me Dobson, you’re my only hope... 

Frankie

PS.  Having monopolised our blog for so long, I now refuse to write any more until you have made an entry.  Fnar.

Happy Valentine's Day

Dear Dobson,

Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day…  Something I had stealthily managed to avoid until early this evening when I made the fatal error of logging onto The Book of Face.  It was rammed with statuses (statusi?) and pictures of what all the joyous couples out there have been up to.  I’m glad they’re all so happy and that none of their vile display is a desperate ploy to convince their singleton friends, as well as themselves, that life as part of a couple is SO much more fun!

Cunts.

As a result I had to log off and have just spent an hour intermittently wanking whilst watching Crimewatch.  This led to me contemplating that perhaps my postman had been robbed or assaulted today and that he did, in fact, have a full sack of Valentine’s paraphernalia for me.  I shall never know.

Still, it is almost tomorrow when all those couples will be able to revert to quietly loathing each other once more.

Frankie

The Arrival Of Apathy

Dear Dobson,

I am sure you could look back on your many years of teaching and nothing would come close to the huge surge of pride you, no doubt, felt on handing out green pens to your class for self-evaluation...  I get the feeling green wax crayons might have been more appropriate?

The thaw of the Ice Queen is changeable given the cold north easterly winds we are currently tolerating.  I remain unsure as to the best course of action; ‘To feel or not to feel?  That is the question.’  Part of me knows from previous experience that if you open up and allow someone in, it can be a wonderfully enriching and fulfilling adventure.  Conversely, past endeavours have also taught me that the business of feeling can leave you exposed to hurt and heartbreak.  I will think on’t – and perhaps witness the joyful resurrection of the '4am Terror Club' in the process.

On a shallower note – the place where I am happiest – I am relieved to have found the perfect frock for my next gig.  A veritable gift of a dress; it flatters, it’s stylish, it reeks of jazz and I will be able to wear my pearl necklace with it, which will certainly bring a smile to my face.

It’s only just 10 o’clock and I’m already thinking of retiring to the boudoir for some literature and light masturbation.  There are worse ways to spend a Tuesday evening.

Bonne chance with the inspection tomorrow.  Tell them I think they’re cunts and you’ll go far.

Frankie