"Enough!" she said, turning off the vibrator. She looked at the clock. It was almost nine. Nobody watched her at work, she could come and go as she pleased, but she was getting worried that punana was taking over her life. Twice this month, she'd taken off an entire day and stayed home to masturbate to the stories. The second time, she'd even done her own body modification. She'd duct taped wooden dowels to her calves to pretend they were the stiletto implants. She'd taped her ears flat against her head and fashioned stretchers for her nostrils to get some tiny, tiny feeling of what her character was going through. She's even gone as far as to sneak into an adult bookstore and buy one of the big, thick, black dildoes she'd seen on so many websites and could pretend was one of Patricia's horses. She'd locked the doors (even dead bolted them just in case Ben came home early), blindfolded herself, and crawled around the house naked, pretending to be punana, pretending to be blinded by. Then on Saturday nights we joined the crush at the West End Ballroom. Ballroom dancing was out of fashion then as the hurricane of new music had blown in from America, which our parents regarded as sinful, spelling the breakdown of society’s order. Our dancing would be Rock and Roll, to the sounds of Bill Haley and the Comets, Freddy Bell and the Bellboys and Little Richard. We watched the films at the cinema then went to the dance and tried the steps for ourselves. We called it Jive. Always towards the end of the evening they would play slower, romantic stuff from The Platters and Connie Francis giving us the opportunity to dance close. That was the time when much face powder would be transferred from her face to my jacket and lipstick somehow found its way on to my collar. Later walking Mavis home more powder would appear on my jacket. Nat ‘King’ Cole got it so right. Our relationship was good, although I doubt that either of us would call it love. We got on well together, and.
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