Unsustainable

I act like I don’t remember, The Artist acts like she doesn’t notice. Sometimes we struggle to hide the reality that we both just don’t care for each other any more. For example, not once this year has she asked me how I’m feeling whereas I make a point of it every morning, honestly more out of habit than anything else. Words are often lies but actions (and inactions) always speak the truth.

In the last month we have both had more job interviews than the rest of the year combined. The result has been the same each time, just like it has been for years on end for both of us: rejection. I still take it on the chin, while she caves in emotionally, retreating to pretend to sleep in bed. We’re a matter of months away from running out of money.

To add to my list of emotional challenges, my mother’s bladder cancer returned. Various attempts at operating had to be postponed because she wasn’t well enough. She is about to turn 91. Besides the cancer, a few months ago I got panicked phonecalls from cousins who occasionally see her. Long story short, it appears she is developing Alzheimer’s. Delusions people carry with them throughout life, but the hallmark of Alzheimer’s is the hallucinations. There is nothing I can do for her, what with me sitting penniless on the other side of the planet. All I can do is muster up the strength to make a phonecall and then recover from what is becoming increasingly bizarre conversations. Her plight plays on my mind daily.

The Artist and I dote on our daughter because that way we don’t have to face each other. A couple of months ago she blurted out, “All we do at night is watch television because we have nothing left to say to each other.” Since she said that I have no interest in watching television. That was an uncharacteristically blatant assertion by her; normally she’s passive-aggressive. Now I prolong cleaning the kitchen and loading the dishwasher every night. I take my time sorting and doing the laundry. I look for DIY jobs to do around the home. We’re just co-parents.

In the last two months she has said three things that collectively paint an unpalatable picture. First, at my asking, she said she was unsure if she wants to spend the rest of her life with me. Secondly, she doesn’t want to be married (I asked her to marry me shortly after our daughter was born). Lastly, she said she doesn’t want to have sex with me.

None of this surprised me, only the honesty that finally confirmed what I have figured out for myself. I keep hearing her words, over and over, like a toxic mantra. Today I feel the same about her on those three scores, which disappoints me. How can a love so good turn so sour? There’s a space between us that I have repeatedly tried to bridge, but to no avail. Now I know why for sure. I won’t try any more.

I also have the issue of Brexit to overcome. I’m in an EU country that allows British passport holders to remain resident, but only as long as I meet certain requirements. As it stands my case is tenuous, but have only until the end of the year to secure this visa. I can only count on a couple of bureaucrats deciding that the Covid epidemic has precluded me from meeting their exacting demands. I think it is 50/50 as to whether I’ll be allowed to remain here. I apply in the next few days. My being told to leave the country will certainly clarify matters.

I’d be emotionally shredded to be removed from my daughter. I don’t know how I can cope with that. She is the only positive thing in my disappointing existence. Just imagining her round little face with her piercing blue eyes smiling at me makes me smile for a moment.

I dread this coming Winter. I can’t see anything good coming about during it. My regular winter blues will need to be endured as usual and I’ll smile through my teeth over the holidays. It might be our last Christmas together.

I have never felt as lonely as I have the last six years. Things can’t carry on like this. It’s not financially and emotionally sustainable.

I don’t know what else to do with this emotionally desolate relationship. Maybe nothing can be done. Maybe it’s time to move on.

What do you think?

Things people do to each other – Part 2

Trevor is a likeable guy, always with a cheeky smile, willing to listen and the most easy going boss I ever had. I sat next to him and several times a day, day after day, his wife would phone him. Often I’d see him glaring at his phone as it bounced around on his desk. The conversation was always a series of him saying “yes, dear”, pause then “yes, dear” then ending a minute or two later.

He was the typical hard-working family man, always the first at work and the last to leave. He had a daughter with his wife, while she also had two sons from her first marriage. He was providing for all of them. Him and I used to go for lunch together and we became quite close to such an extent that we even began swapping sexual histories. Like I said, a great boss. More of a friend really; we even considered starting a business together.

I never ever saw her but he said his wife was a stunner. I wasn’t surprised to hear that; women would like the way about him. Then one Monday lunchtime he told me what they had got up to on the weekend. They had been to an outrageous house-party where they had indulged in the free cocaine on offer. He became paralytic and slumped into a chair. His wife became the centre of the party. In her semi-conscious state she was stripped naked and splayed on a table. Most of the men at the party fucked her, queuing up even, as Trevor watched.

I was shocked by him telling me this and wasn’t sure how to react. I don’t like that kind of behaviour. He then told me that they had a testy relationship because he had once cheated on her. The annoying checking-up phonecalls now made sense.

Shortly after telling me that story Trevor resigned to go work elsewhere for more money. It was also closer to home and his insecure wife liked that. We lost touch but had a mutual friend that we had both worked with. A few years later this friend told me about Trevor’s news.

His wife’s badgering became worse and she was always accusing him of having an affair. To him it felt like he was constantly being punished for something he hadn’t done. One night he was far away from home for work. In the lobby bar he met a random guy who told him about a wonderful escort he knew of and handed Trevor her details. Years of suspicion and blame had mounted up and taken their toll in him. Trevor succumbed to the temptation and summoned her

The guy in the bar was a private detective hired by Trevor’s wife. He’d rigged everything and even managed to get photographs of Trevor having sex with the prostitute. His wife took him to the proverbial cleaners. Her lawyers were better than his and she got everything: the big house in the country, the cars, the alimony and the kids.

The last I heard of him Trevor was shacked up with a woman twenty years his junior in a shady part of London.

My take: People, when the trust is gone, it’s never coming back. Don’t kid yourself: there will always something to trigger an outbreak of doubt. That’s no way to live, for either of you. Cut your losses and move on. My experience with my Ex-gf taught me that.

The way it is

I miss sharing with you the accounts of my sometimes-debauched experiences on the dating scene. I felt a pang of nostalgia today and reread my latest posts. It has been years since I last shared anything. It’s time…

I somehow was granted a post-Brexit visa which allowed me to stay in the Central European country I found myself in. For a moment I felt a sense of stability, a security in not having to depart my child’s life abruptly…foolish me for thinking this.

One night I got a rude phonecall from a drunken, distant relative summoning me to “live up to my responsibilities”. My mother was gravely ill, her cancer had become aggressive, she had been operated on, was now convalescing in his home and he wanted her out. I knew nothing of this. As usual my mother didn’t “want me to worry”.

An hour after the call, The Artist got a call of her own, but a good one. An employer had finally decided to take a chance on her and it even came with a total work-from-home arrangement. The two of them would be okay while I was gone.

The next day I spoke to my mother. I could tell she was in a bad way and needed me. She was scared; I know her tone of voice. I had no choice but to go, despite having no money of my own, nor having any resources to carry out a workable plan over there. The Artist refused to fund me, so I borrowed money off Tech Titan to buy airfare to the other side of the planet.

A week after the call I arrived at my mother’s side. She had contracted pneumonia at my cousin’s home and they had to return her to hospital. The sight of my 91 year-old mother in an emaciated, befuddled state hooked up to a drip and reliant on an oxygen mask is a sight I see in my minds eye every day. The doctor gave her six to twelve months to live.

I shan’t bore you with the entrails of what transpired over the next 7 months, so I shall summarize somewhat. The “family” whom she had done everything for when their parents died or divorced abandoned her in her time of need. From the moment I arrived they washed their hands of her. We were left to twist alone in the wind. Her pension only covered the rent of her one-bed apartment in a dreadful, crime-ridden suburb. There was no money for food.

When the chips are down help comes from unexpected quarters. A high school friend was my saviour; she brought us food regularly. Most valuably her and I went out once a week for a breakfast at a diner over at the local mall. Being cooped up with my difficult mother, not knowing how or when this experience would end, was taking a heavy toll on my psyche. Having a couple of hours of normality kept me going. I shall be forever grateful to my friend.

Nothing in life prepares you for taking care of a dying parent. Time seemed to stand still as I saw to the every need of my nearly-blind, borderline-Alzheimer’s frail mother who had various degrees of atrophy going on. I slept on a 2-inch thick foam mattress in the tiny lounge. She would wake in the middle of the night and demand breakfast. Her wounds became infected several times and I cobbled together ways of getting her to hospital. She had become incontinent and mercifully her medical insurer paid for the pricey adult diapers.

Her occasional stays in hospital were my only real reprieve during a stressful time. I was ensuring that she got three meals a day, whilst I skipped dinner; every penny mattered. Her insurer was almost always at odds with the hospital that they insisted be used. Sometimes I was asked to pay for services after admission but somehow I always found a way around it. I was dreading the day when the hospital declined service because of all the outstanding bills that the insurer was quibbling over. These bills were becoming sizeable.

During all this, with the end-date unknown, The Artist was constantly complaining to me about what was going on in her life. It almost always descended into an ill-tempered conversation driven by her need for me to return. There were days at a time when we didn’t speak. I really didn’t need her pressurizing me, but I wanted to talk to my daughter.

I often wondered whether to remain where I was and get on with my life, a new life, a better life. I applied for a few jobs as a test and the response was luke-warm, but no interviews. I couldn’t resolve myself to not seeing my child again.

I was taking strain. I had lost over thirty pounds in weight. My once-muscular calves were scrawny. My back was killing me from sleeping on the floor. The midnight calls for food and bad sleep were wrecking me. I had to get my mother in to a facility of some kind somewhere. My own health was becoming a problem.

Even in my childhood years my mother had always said for me to never put her into a facility. After much coaxing she finally relented on this but insisted on one particular place near her family whom she expected would come visit her. The same family who had not visited in months, the same family whom she asked me if they were paying for things and I had to lie about. The same family who had not visited the previous Christmas when she had fallen, cracked her coccyx and crawled around for months afterwards until she took herself off to hospital because of her bladder cancer. (A good neighbour helped her out over this time.) Yes, that family.

Over this time it was a cold, rainy Winter. The country was experiencing power failures daily, lasting hours at a time, several times a day. One day there was no electricity for 14 hours. It’s amazing how much hot water we rely on. A flask became my best friend. Keeping my mother alive was challenging. There were many nights when I thought it was our last night together. I braced myself for finding her dead in the morning more times than I care to remember.

One morning I was dressing her after having washed her, when in an increasingly rare lucid moment, she said to me, “You know, you’ll make a good carer”. I took that as a compliment and it stuck with me.

Inevitably she contracted pneumonia, so I had to take her into hospital yet again. This stay turned from days into weeks, then two months. During this time she lost the ability to walk, went deaf in one ear, totally blind and contracted a host of other infections courtesy of her environment. The low point was a Wednesday morning when she didn’t know who I was. For others it was entertaining watching her give the nurses hell, but I was often having to go apologize for her behaviour, much like I had all my life.

I made extensive use of Uber to get to and from the hospital almost daily until the little money I had borrowed was almost gone. During this time The Artist softened her attitude a bit and put money on my bank card a few times so that I could eat better. I was getting tired of eating my mother’s leftovers at the hospital. Things between The Artist and I remained strained nevertheless. My low-cost local phone plan came with very restrictive data and I used the hospital wifi to make video calls, more to see my child than her.

Those last two months were the most stressful. My mother’s preferred facility declined to accept her. The landlord announced a rent increase. The hospital was putting the squeeze on me for things the medical insurance refused to pay for. I was getting calls from the blood lab and various doctor’s accountants about unpaid bills. The hospital doctor was getting ready to release my mother. One of those days I thought I was on the verge of a heart attack.

I got my mother to see sense about the facility idea and she relented. I finally found a place on the outskirts of the city that was willing to accept her. The finances were tight and I had no choice but to cajole my richest cousin into standing surety for my mother. Twice in his life she took him in when he had nowhere else to go; he stayed years each time. Nevertheless he insisted that I make good any shortfall. I guess that is why he is one of the richest men in a city of four million people.

After some niggles everything fell into place at the last minute. I cleared out her flat, sifting through her lifetime’s collection of memories, photographs, postcards, newspaper clippings, love letters, etc. that I had no choice but to throw in a dumpster. I got a cousin to help transfer my mother from the hospital to her new home.

My mother seemed satisfied with her new surroundings and I was at peace with what I was able to do for her with very little at my disposal. I said my last goodbye to this broken husk of what was once my lioness of a mother, knowing it was our last. I can still see this crumpled bag of bones slumped in a wheelchair, pretending to smile in my general direction.

The Artist paid for my flight home the next day. Walking toward that plane I felt the need to look over my shoulder to check for hospital bailiffs and doctors accountants chasing after me, waving pieces of paper that legitimize their claims. At the top of the ramp I took the time to look back at what has become of the country of my birth. I don”t expect to see it again.

I eventually arrived at the cold, lonely local train station, the same one this odyssey had started from in what seemed like a lifetime ago. I had not felt Summer this year. My welcome from The Artist was perfunctory. At “home” walking in I noticed a new Dyson hairdryer and new, latest Ipad. I said nothing and went to sleep out of exhaustion.

The next morning The Artist went on the offensive almost from the get-go. I had said nothing to provoke this.

Then she told me to get out…

To be continued…

Things people do to each other – Part 1

In my time I’ve witnessed things that call into question the nature of humans as a species. I find myself thinking of these stories and the characters involved, trying to make sense of their compelling desires and dubious behaviour. As I progress through this crazy, unpredictable experience called Life, these episodes and their meaning changes for me as I garner new insights into us.

First, I’ll start with Bev The Bitch. She was a comely blonde with sparkling blue eyes, the colour of the sky on a Summer’s day. As attractive as she was physically I found her personality repulsive. Her obnoxious, arrogant, aggressive demeanour led to my moniker for her. Everything was extreme and intense with her. She was also my ex-wife’s best friend. They were friends before pre-school as their mother’s were best friends.

Over the years we would get together for meals or occasional outings, Bev The Bitch with her docile, dopey husband Brian. They were high school sweethearts and he did as he was told and only spoke when spoken to. He was over six foot tall, built like a ninja with chiselled looks. Despite the look of a thoroughbred stallion, he had the heart and brain of a donkey. I felt sorry for this guy.

Bev The Bitch would talk down to him, berate him in public if she could and was generally bossing him around. He would take it, sometimes rolling his eyes, usually saying, “Yes, Bev”. Once I saw them arrive at our place, parking outside and seeming to be arguing about something with her waving her finger at him. Then they came inside and behaved as if nothing had happened.

I felt exhausted after every encounter with her. I never could figure out why he would so lamely eat up her shit. I told myself that he must love her; you never really know what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe this was their foreplay and back home angry sex would ensue?

Then her behaviour became slightly more bearable for me once my ex-wife confided in me. Bev The Bitch’s father had regularly forced her two older sisters to have sex with him. To make matters worse the older brother (like the father a camera buff) would photograph proceedings. Bev as the youngest was excused from this. Did the mother know? On Sundays they would all troop off to church, occupy an entire bench and sing songs together, putting on a happy, smiley front for all the world to see. I remember being at Bev and Brian’s wedding and seeing the clan together at the main table, all smiling for the attendees as if they hadn’t a care.

She had only found out about this once she had left the family home to go travelling with Brian. One of the sisters had told her about what had been going on, but the mother didn’t want to talk about it. Apparently Bev’s biggest issue with her monstrous father was that he didn’t try anything with her. More than anything she wanted to know why not. Not knowing why played on her mind.

After years of this endless drama Brian finally snapped. On their wedding anniversary he didn’t come home. Instead he went out for post-work drinks with a secretary from his office and ended up going home with her. The wheels of their marriage flew off after that. In a heady maelstrom it wasn’t long before they were divorced. In a bizarre development they still lived together. You have to know the insane British property market to understand that this happens. Neither of them could afford to live alone. Brian then took to bringing his Kiwi lover home on weekends. Bev The Bitch had to listen to her ex-husband having sex with another woman through the tissue-thin partition wall that separated their beds. Did she cry her eyes out or rub one out?

Eventually they were able to sell their home at a break-even price and move on with their lives. He moved in with his lover from New Zealand while she took a small apartment far from anything. From the time he didn’t come home until my ex-wife and I divorced Bev The Bitch was coming around to us seeking consolation from my ex-wife. Every day she was texting or phoning my wife, constantly in her ear. Bev The Bitch went through a distinct “All men are scum” phase. I kept my distance but came to realize that Bev’s effect was detrimental to my own marriage.

Naturally Bev The Bitch became broody. One obsession was replaced by another. Men now seemed less scummy. She joined dating sites and went on a rampage of having sex with strangers in London. Now she was Bed The Bitch She was making up for lost time; I can identify with that. Apparently Bev and Brian were having problems in the bedroom, but apart they seemed to have no problems. Like my own marriage their union had run its course.

Bev The Bitch then got an idea in her head. Whatever happened to Whatsisname from high school? She looked him up on Facebook, got chatting on Skype, then got on a plane and went to visit him in…New Zealand.

Wait, it gets scarier.

Guess how long it took from first approaching him on Facebook until Bev The Bitch married Whatsisname?

Ninety days.

My take: Such women exist. Gentlemen, proceed with caution. I think there’s a lot of truth to the saying that if she’s hot and on a dating site then she’s crazy. My experience in my dating days with Krazy Girl and a few others proved that to me.

Empty

The cupboards are almost as empty as our relationship. Time and fortune has not been kind to either of us and its effect has been to tear us apart. The Artist and I can go can a whole weekend without making eye contact. We have become that cliché of, “Oh, we’re just together for the sake of the child”. We’re co-parents and not much more than that.

I hate this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but it is what it is and I don’t know how to make things better. Even if I did, we’ll never be as good as we briefly once were. Underneath a thin veneer of civility lives a seething resentment that she feels towards me. I’m not stupid nor blind, I know it’s there and I know it’s growing.

I’ve now not had a steady job in seven years. The toll of this long-term unemployment is that my self-confidence is almost non-existent. Every day is an emotional struggle for me. I can only take it one day at a time. It feels impossible to make any plans for even a week ahead.

I guess you need some updating…

After years of us both failing to get work we were at a decisive crossroads. All my money was gone; my bank account was empty. I was broke. She was unemployed too and paying for everything out of her inheritance from her mother. The UK is an expensive place to live; money was a problem. Then Brexit came along and public xenophobia became acceptable. I was subjected to verbal abuse that still plays on my mind today. I did not want my child growing up in such a hate-filled society. It took The Artist a while to accept that returning to her homeland was our best option.

So at the end of Summer 2018 we moved to central Europe, to live in her picturesque hometown. For me it was a breath of fresh air, this new pristine, serene surrounding. For her it felt like failure. Her narcissistic, judgemental father weighs heavily on her psyche. His remarks cut deeper than any knife can. She knew that he was going to be her biggest emotional challenge and she has failed to deal well with it.

Our daughter we placed in the local kindergarten and she is thoroughly happy going there for the mornings. Her development has been astounding and she is a delight to be with. A life without her in it I would not want. She is the only reason that I have not ended the relationship with The Artist. I can’t give my child the things that money can buy, but I can give all the other things that perhaps matter more. The Artist struggles with practical things and is truly a bookworm; she is not physically capable of raising a child by herself. She can barely look after herself; I sometimes feel like I’m her nurse.

Despite many well-intentioned people promising to help us if we were to settle near them, all these promises have proven empty. More than a year after a arriving one contact did finally pay off and The Artist got a contract position. However, it was in the capital city, more than 2 hour’s drive away. So she has come home for weekends, largely spending the time with her daughter. At night she slumps on the sofa, usually falling asleep. I’ve been daddy-daycare for twenty hours a day, five days in a row. The Corona lockdown earlier this year meant that she worked from home for three months. We live in a small, cheap apartment that the remaining inheritance money paid for and that I renovated. This was a difficult time for all of us, being housebound all day, week after week.

Promises by her bosses that she’ll move on to a permanent position have proven to be more empty words. Her contract finishes in a month’s time and she is devastated. She liked where she was working and what she was doing, but the disappointment of the surprising abrupt ending has floored her. When she phones at night to talk to our daughter we exchange the usual perfunctory pleasantries afterward. I can tell that she is on the verge of tears the last few nights. What pithy words I offer are instinctively rejected, pretty much like everything else I have said in recent years.

The state will give her a handout that will pay for food, but only for 20 weeks. After that, we have nothing. The cupboards are empty. In the last year I have applied for over 200 jobs. My grasp of the local language is basic but I’m learning every day. I had two interviews and finally landed a position in February. It was supposed to start in April, but a week beforehand they contacted me telling that because of Corona the position is no longer available. Looking online it seems that they have gone out of business altogether.

Heading into this Corona Winter we feel like there will be no job opportunities for either of us. Even if one of us had a secure job that pays the bills I don’t think it would make things better between us. I’m no angel and in moments of frustration I have said things that can’t be forgotten; so has she.

If you know my earlier writing you might remember my saying that I believe ‘respect’ to be essential for love. My being unable to provide for myself, my partner and my child has led to her losing all respect for me. Losing respect for someone is like water dripping down a stalactite, it’s slow, steady and given enough time then the puddle below hardens. Her feelings towards me have hardened.

It won’t surprise you then to learn that we’ve only been physically intimate thrice in the last five years. I’ve not pestered her for sex, I have understanding for her emotional state. When it did happen it was mediocre; the passion is gone. I do still find her attractive, but our tactile beginning is distant history. I think she’s now frigid and I don’t blame her.

I don’t know how to make things better.

I don’t know if they can be made better.

I feel…empty.

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‘Did I date you – The Final Year’ is ready for you

The final part of ‘Did I date you?’ is ready for you.

The Grey Knight’s morals are further eroded by his raunchiest experiences yet, but does he find ‘The One’? The surprise ending will leave you blinking in astonishment.

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I look forward to hearing from you.

Your Grey Knight

The desert train that rocked

A bright moon shines on a lonely train as it trudges across the semi-desert called the Karoo. It’s normally a cross-country chugger that takes all night to make its thousand mile trek from Johannesburg to Cape Town. Tonight what’s different is that most of the people on board are wearing uniforms, military uniforms. The few civilians will notice the mix of army, navy and air force uniforms, as well the difference in behaviour between conscripts and permanent force, between officers and the fodder.

I am amongst them in my air force blues, sitting in the crowded, bustling dining car. Opposite me are two army privates, conscripts like me, being sent to Cape Town. I make small talk with them over dinner in Afrikaans, my father’s language. They’re nervous about being stationed so far from home, so I try to calm their fears and regale them with sights to see and things to do in my home-town. They have far bigger things to be concerned about, but these farm boys are innocents.

It’s the middle of 1990 and the world is changing fast. The collapse of the Iron Curtain has caused ripples even down into this troubled toe of Africa. Us in uniform don’t know what to think or feel any more. The Communists have been freed and the man we were told to pretend we were shooting at in the firing range seems destined to be the next president. Everything we have been brought up to believe in and be prepared to die defending now seems questionable.

“Excuse me sir,” the rumpled conductor says in Afrikaans, appearing out of nowhere.

I’m eighteen years old; I’ve never been addressed as ‘sir’ before. It must be my uniform, he might be mistaking me for a policeman.

He beckons to me to follow him. Being a good little soldier I do so.

“You’ve left your sack in your compartment that has had a coloured man allocated to it,” he informs me.

This is still Apartheid-era South Africa; old attitudes and beliefs don’t die quickly. It’s only been six month since the unbannings and Mandela’s release. In that time public spaces and facilities have now been de-segregated. He might not have got the news.

“So?” I counter.

“Well, he might steal something. Are you carrying any weapons?” he asks.

“No, I’m not. I don’t see any problem though,” I reply.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. They’re all the same, you know,” he sniggers and strides off.

I rejoin my new friends and we finish our dinner. It turns out that they’re spending the night in the compartment next to mine. Returning to my compartment I see that my sack crammed with military clothing has acquired some company. Two brutish-looking army military policemen are sitting where I had been alone before dinner. They glare at me and one moves his hip to show that he’s armed. I don’t like the look of them; I sense trouble.

Sitting opposite them is a pretty trainee nurse, her sparkling white uniform immaculately ironed. Small, shiny badges adorn her black cardigan. She flashes me a pretty smile, her eyes almost as dark as her hair, her skin almost as white as her uniform.

One of the policemen starts speaking to her in Afrikaans, to which she replies. His friend stares me down, unmoving. He looks like he’s used his gun and liked it.

I’m not welcome here. They have stripes and are MPs, best to make myself scarce.

I quickly step into the cabin and grab my sack off the top of the luggage stowage area above the fold-out seat that becomes a bed. Without a word I retreat, hearing the young nurse giggle at an oafish joke.

Luckily the compartment next door just has the two skittish army guys in it, so I join them.

As the stars blink, at an unheard of stop a few more civilians join the train. A priest enters our cabin, makes himself comfortable and begins preaching to us. I don’t care for his occupational hazard, but smile when appropriate. It’s time to sleep to I make my excuses in their bastard tongue and fold out the seat that becomes my bunk bed.

One of the army guys sees his opportunity and feigns sleep while his friend engages the newcomer in a theological debate. Sleep can’t come quickly enough but already I’m dreading the morning because we might all go to breakfast together. He’s old enough to be our grandfather so we can’t be rude to him. It’s not how we were all brought up in this fascist, police state that we all serve, one way or another. If you’re not resisting it then you must be collaborating.

My thoughts are disturbed by a rythmic thudding against the partition wall. It’s coming from the cabin next door. It could be something being rattled by the gently rocking train, but it isn’t. I think one of the policemen has literally charmed the pants off the young nurse. Now he’s fucking her and taking his time about it.

These sounds of lust unleashed is torture for me. I haven’t had sex since the beginning of the year. It was a farewell shag with my girlfriend. Little did I suspect that six weeks later she’d break up with me. To cool our collective ardour the military had been adulterating our food with what is known as ‘blue stone’. It’s an additive that suppresses a man’s sex drive. I think it’s starting to wear off because I’m now sporting a perfect erection.

The sounds of sex coming from next door are bringing back fond memories of teenage passion on sunny afternoons when we should have been studying for our final high school exams. I can still remember her perfume as well as the jarring smell of her pussy juices.

A stifled grunt signals the inevitable outcome has been achieved. The door in the adjoining cabin slides, muffled words are exchanged. Good, I can go to sleep now. The priest and his audience didn’t even notice.

“No, not you too,” I hear the nurse say in a pleading tone.

Her knee starts banging against the partition well. Wow, the second copper must have climbed on top of her.

“No, no, no, no…” she murmurs wistfully as the knee makes contact, harder and faster.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh,” is all I hear her say now. The other guy doesn’t make a sound.

If she puts up more protest then I’ll have to go to her rescue. She doesn’t.

I look around our dimly lit compartment. The priest is still at it, the guy below me seems asleep. I’m the only person who knows what’s going on next door.

After a couple of minutes this all becomes to much for sex-starved me. I’m so turned on, I have to go relieve myself.

Stepping out into the corridor I’m shocked to see one of the policemen standing by the other cabin’s door, talking to another soldier. They can’t help but look at me. They smile slyly.

I brush past them and go to the toilet at the end of the carriage. It takes mere seconds for me to jerk off. The thought of soggy seconds is revolting but my overhearing proceedings is the turn-on. I’ve never heard or seen people behaving sexually in public. This is Calvinist, repressed South Africa after all. Pornography has been banned for decades.

As I approach the cabins I see the second policeman exit and the third soldier enter that cabin. The copper is same aggressive one from earlier; he sneers at me.

I’m shocked again to see that a fourth soldier is standing in the corridor talking to the first copper. He’s got his hands in his pockets and he’s fidgeting. Jeez, is he waiting his turn?

It’s after midnight,I have nowhere else to go but to return to my bunk bed.

I listen as the third soldier fucks the young nurse. He knee must be numb. She doesn’t make a sound but he does as he pumps his cum into her.

Seconds later, without a word, he stumbles out. The door slides again and I hear a new voice say something to her. It must be the fourth guy I saw earlier. Is going to fuck her too?

Oh yes, he is.

She makes no objection to this next stranger.

Is he enjoying this?

And they just kept on coming.

By my count at least eight guys used the nurse that night. There might have been a ninth.

I saw her the next morning in the dining car. She was talking amiably to another nurse. At lunchtime the train halted at a siding next to a moonscape. A solitary pickup van had a weathered man under a wide-rimmed hat waiting beside it. His jet-black hair hinted at who he was expecting.

The nurse clambered down the stairs of our carriage, her black cape matching her hair and small suitcase. She traipsed over to the man, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss on a cheek.

As I leaned out the window I looked to the right along the length of the train. A dozen guys were hanging out of windows, waving to her, whistling and making caustic comments.

A jolt signified our departure as the van kicked up parched earth.

I had to lie there and listen to all this. She put up no resistance at all. Only her plaintive, meek protest at the second guy using her could count as reluctance. Other than that she just lay there and let them do what they wanted.

Did any of them fuck her in the arse? I don’t think so. In this society at the time anal sex was considered totally abhorrent. AIDS was still an uncertain thing.

Despite this, finding a condom in South Africa back then was a mission and very expensive. It was a deliberate government policy to make them so scarce as to be almost illegal or mythical. Population numbers had to be grown so as to deal with domestic and foreign menaces.

So, every single guy who fucked her didn’t use a condom.

‘Did I date you? – The Final Year’ wants you

The third and final part of ‘Did I date you?’ wants you…to read it.

Your Grey Knight finds himself in a series of compromising situations and unimaginable sexual encounters. He gets sucked into a vortex of dates and experiences that test his character but broaden his mind.

The concluding part of ‘Did I date you?’ takes you on dates with The Brazilian, Busty Czech, The Cockaholic, The MILF of Xmas and several more.

Just when he thinks that matters can’t possibly get more complicated, they do. Does he see sense and give up on finding ‘The One?’

If you have read the two preceding books then you will enjoy the surprising ending to his quest even more.

You can get ‘Did I date you? – The Final Year’ now via your preferred Amazon site:

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Q8XVDLX
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dpB07Q8XVDLX
Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07Q8XVDLX
Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07Q8XVDLX

Please let me know what you think of it. You could tell the whole world be leaving a review too.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Your Grey Knight

‘Did I date you? – The 2nd year’ is waiting for you

The second installment of ‘Did I date you?’ is now available for you.

The second part of ‘Did I date you?’ takes the Grey Knight on a new series of bewildering dates that will make you laugh or nod your head in agreement, having been on a similar date yourself. He meets new women such as Randy Russian, Deranged Debbie, Angry Yank, The Bitch and many more.

His journey to find The One takes a surprise twist when notable women such as Krazy Girl from the first book reappear.

Despite keeping his eye on the prize, he can’t helped be sucked further into a murky world of easy sex and disposable relationships. He learns about the politics of sex and how to seduce women, but the cost is mounting. He even tries to have a relationship. Can you guess how that turned out?

It’s a story of our times, for our times. Make of it what you will, but don’t judge him until you know the full story.

You can get it now via your preferred Amazon site:

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M75P34H
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07M75P34H
Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07M75P34H
Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07M75P34H

Feel free to let me know what you think of it.

Your Grey Knight