Ex-Cougar

Well, SYT dumped me.  Who would have guessed, eh?

On my birthday following a wonderful evening.  The timing could have been a little less audacious but I guess young men aren’t famed for their sensitivity to women.

Odd creatures, men.  Is it me, or do they have a habit of raving about the successor to the predecessor?  What the fuck is that about?  My ex-husband told me about the detailed nature of my successor’s singular way of coming.  A superfluous image I find hard to eviscerate, even to this day.  I wonder if nearly a decade and a certain amount of domestic bliss and child-bearing later, her orgasms are quite so startling and note-worthy.  Oh, for his sake, I do very hope so.

At least SYT restrained himself on that score.  Just.   But raved about Successor nonetheless.  Her youth!  Her talent!  Oh, my, the things they have in common!  Their mutual attraction!  Their understanding of each other!  Bless.

Are predecessors, for men, transformed automatically into confidantes?  Or is that my special feature?  Last fucking person they should be telling, oh, but can they resist?  Well, not with me they can’t.  None of them.  (And I’ve never got the impression that the inverse happens, that when I am the successor, my predecessor is getting the rave reviews about me and wanting to stick her fingers down her no longer happily-yielding throat.  Where’s the justice?)  While I may have stood on the roof tops waving the bunting at my ex-husband about the fact I was (was!) seeing a man (at fucking last), somewhat junior to him (tra la!), feminine tact and kindness dictated that I did not compare the size of his cock or his oral technique with that of his leaner, fitter, less grey pubed, more sizeable afterword.

Anyway, what does it matter now?  Such nuance, such diplomacy: redundant, for  SYT is toast.

On my own head was it.  All along.

Meeting someone else.  Well, that was inevitable.  I knew THAT, all along.  Suppose I just kinda (kinda! ? WTF?  Who am I?  American?  14?: KIND OF) hoped it wouldn’t have been quite so soon.  In fact, if it had been 3 days after my birthday that would have been OK and I could have been all cool and oh-so-sanguine, because two days after it we had a night out, long planned, and that would have been nice if it had ended more intimately than it did, as opposed to me driving home alone to an empty house at two in the bloody morning, my very headlights shining REJECT with all the swagger of Blackpool’s illuminations.  (Do other women allow this sort of thing to happen?  Men to wank on about their new lovers?  Call it successor-wanking.  Or is it just me?  World’s most capacious mug?)  It would have been faintly more amusing had I not been dropping him home like a dutiful mother, back from the party past the witching-hour, directly into the taut , eager and waiting squelch of my successor’s distinctly younger and better-alternative-less-child-bear-y-less-silo-like cunt.

Ach!  Forgive me.  Cross.  But not surprised.  Not bitter.  Swear.

Fool me.  I had it coming.  (Or not, as the case may be!)

Still.

Cross.  Today.

But not for long.

Already scrabbling about for more irons if not in the fire – there are no irons; there is no fucking fire – then at least for the odd popping-its-clogs ember.  In the ashes.