"I think I'm going a bit mad." 

"We're all going a bit mad, sweetie." 

Now I've never been a happy recipient of pet names or even inappropriate chumminess. 'Luv', 'babe', 'dearie', or even 'you guys' is likely to cause me to bristle like an over-amorous porcupine. Admittedly, at home, I might be 'honeybun' or 'dinkums' or 'sweet cheeks' or 'sugar lips' or even 'dreamy dripping cunt bitch I'm going to skewer on my cockhead', but these are random sobriquets and always run the risk of being met with a hailstorm of crockery or "fuck you" screamed repeatedly full lung.  Celia, however, is the matriarch in our relationship and I am just some fawning ingenue so if she's decided I am 'sweetie' then 'sweetie' it is. Or maybe she just couldn't remember my name.

And back to the conversation. 

"No, Celia, I really, really think I'm going mad. I'm getting really obsessive about stuff; yesterday I realised that my foot exactly fits in the brick paving in the yard. Exactly fits. There are 372 bricks in my yard, I know, I put one of my feet in each of them. Checked each one. And then I checked them all again with my other foot. Honestly, I'm going a bit potty."

"You need to do more baking." 

There it is, Celia's solution to everything; do more baking. Or to be more exact, it's Celia's recommended solution to whatever ails I've decided to moan about this week. Also I think it is a dig at my complete lack of baking skills and lack of respect for all things baky, as well as a sly dig at my slatternly housewifely domestic standards. 

Each Tuesday afternoon Celia and I meet on our bench. I bring the coffee and she brings the cake; today's is a scrummy lemon drizzle and already I'm picking at the crumbs in my lap and salivating at the possibility of a second slice. Our bench is on the outer circular path of the park, partially shaded by a scrawny silver birch, sandwiched between the three old men bench and the oversized hoody wearing, skateboard carrying youf bench; both of which I've unsuccessfully tried to infiltrate. So here I am stuck with Celia nattering about all things middle-aged and inconsequential. 

"Or maybe you just need a good fucking." 

Well if I hadn't been so intent on picking cake crumbs out of my skirt and wondering whether maybe, just maybe, the cake was a little dry and over baked, I'm absolutely certain I'd have been swooning like a Regency Romp heroine, reduced to a crumpled heap on the tarmac desperately in need of smelling salt restoration. 

Now, Celia and I chat about many, many things; baking, cleaning products, gardening, vases, children, acquaintances, health, the weather, the upcoming weather, and the long term weather forecast. What we never, ever talk about is S E X. 

Silence descends as we eyeball each other in curiosity. There's a smirk playing about her lips and a sparkle glinting in her eye. Stick or twist? To play or not to play? I suck in a deep breath and launch myself. 

"A good fucking! That is quite the last thing I need, Celia. I am so, so done with lockdown sex. All day. Every day. What that man needs is a fucking hobby that doesn't involve fucking." 

Sorry, dear reader, but let me offer up a quick apology. Normally, I am quite well-spoken and perfectly capable of expressing myself without resorting to coarse language, but when I get on a bit of a rant I do get rather 'potty mouthed'. Now, I could have edited them out, presented myself in a more flattering light but I am trying to be honest so please don't judge me too harshly. 

"And I don't really give a shit what it is if it will stop him trying to stick his dick in me ten times a day. It's fucking unbelievable. Just because he's bored. Just because he can't think of anything to do. Why can't he get addicted to some childish computer game or something. Go and kill people or rescue dragons and shit."

I drag in air.

"I got that wanky Obama book for Christmas. Took me forever to finish that. You know why? Okay, so it was dull but every time I picked it up, every time I tried to understand the intricacies of the Deepwater fucking whatever disaster he'd be waggling his cock in my face and demanding lip service." 

"It's almost like my body is not my own. Like I'm some latex blow-up dolly, something hot warm and wet for him to masturbate into. It's got so I can't even go to sleep without him slamming it into me somewhere. And he isn't picky. Doesn't seem to care what hole he finds. It's just in, out and shake it all about."

"And don't even start me on marigolds. What the fuck is so sexy about a woman on her knees, bleaching shit, her hands stuffed into fluorescent yellow latex? It's not like he's got any rubber kink or anything. No, talcum powdering and squirming into flesh clinging, black shiny latex for me in the bedroom, but slap a pair of crud encrusted gloves on my fingers and he's got my skirt up around my waist and something buried in my cunt before Mr Cif has even stopped bubbling. He's fucking lucky he hasn't had bleach squirted all over his bastard cock." 

And breathe. 

Now, Celia may have started out with a smirk and a glinty sparkle but really the best words to describe her expression by this point would be goggle-eyed and open mouthed, so that's what I shall say. 

Open mouthed and goggle-eyed, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, regret and embarrassment playing about her features, Celia followed my tirade no doubt wishing that she'd never mentioned the dreaded S E X. It's your fault, I want to tell her. You started this. You broke the unwritten rule. All of this, all that is to cum, can be laid at your doorstep, every last engorged cock spurting heated spunk, every dribbling and twitching pussy, each caress, each kiss, each dragged nail, every ravaged bumhole, each drooling mouth, every taut sensitive nipple. All yours. All your fault. 

Though what I actually said was:

"What about you and George. Are you missing the parties? Do you all still throw car keys into a bowl? And what happens if you don't have a car? What then? House keys, shed keys, bike lock? Is that why I'm never invited? Because I don't have my own car? Not that I want to be. Raquel Stuart. Eeuucchh. Who wants to see that close up? Who wants that released from its foundation garments? The bitch sweats just from breathing, I can't even begin to imagine what it might be like between her thighs. A jungle I imagine. A humid, sweaty, piss dribbly, circle of hell. At least with Brian (her husband) you'd be comatose with boredom before his toilet brush tash started abrading the sensitive nakedness of your razored public mons. Though that breath. Oh my God, the awfulness."

I wrinkle my nose briefly at the thought before plunging onwards. 

"Why, Celia? Why on earth do you? What's wrong with a nice bit of socially distanced, stay in your own car, play with the cock you married, dogging? We should do that. You, me, him and George. Bake some cakes, do a picnic, head on out to Mortimer View Point. There's always some action there I hear. We could make a day of it. Do car swaps, husband swaps, cum kiss swaps. Take a camera. Post the pics online or live stream it on YouTube. Bet they'd love that, George's hairy, pale buttocks bashing against the car window as he slams himself into your receptive cunt." 

"Or, or, or..."

I'm struggling a bit now, my head desperately trying to keep up with the words tumbling from my mouth. 

"Flashing. We could flash. We could do it now. Both of us. Both together. You take the old men, I'll take the hoody youf. Tit flash. Cunt flash. I don't care, either, both. Or we could just strip each other right here, right now, and streak around the entire park wiggling our titties in everyone's faces, seeing how many mouths we can get to suckle on our tight, stiff teats. You go that way... "

Arms flailing, slightly deranged. 

"... I'll go this way. We could meet over by the rhododendron bushes. I'll drag you into them. Throw you on the ground. Shower you with petals. Worship each and every last one of your lockdown pounds. Nuzzle my nose into your fleshiness. Tug at it with my teeth. Kiss and lap and lick and salivate over every crinkle of your skin before diving between your rippling alabaster thighs and tonguing your engorged clit into frenzied submission. I could..."

But the words stutter, collapse in on themselves, get caught in my throat as I gasp and heave struggling for breath. 

Near silence descends as, before us, park life continues its steady, placid, uninterested rhythm.  The breeze whispers through leaf canopies, feet fall, private thoughts are murmured, dogs snuffle and bound, clouds wander uncaring across a tranquil sky and, eventually, Celia speaks.

"I think you're quite right, sweetie."

"I am?"

She nods

"You are going a bit mad."

And that would have been that, but right then, before our only half-attentive eyes happened the thing that forever after we would refer to euphemistically as 'That Tena Moment'.  So if you'd like to join me again next time I'll see if I can find the words to tell you all about Daisy, Beth and 'That Tena Moment'.

And I'll try my best not to go completely mad in the meantime.