Photo courtesy Pexel
Numbers test me. Not only have I forgotten my high school mathematics, I find dates difficult as well. This has landed me in trouble over the years: missed birthdays, forgotten anniversaries, arriving too soon or too late for appointments. Analogue clocks require deciphering, timetables appear complex and misleading, digital clocks geared to 24 hour time are baffling (won’t I have some fun when I come to the UK in September). I gave my cousin the wrong house number for the Oasis when he visited this week. Luckily I arrived first and spotted the car as he cruised by looking for an even number when it should have been odd and on the other side of the road.
I’d be in all sorts of trouble if I was a submissive in a D/s relationship and had to count punishment strokes. Blogging too has added an additional layer of complication as I attempt to juggle times zones, and international currencies.
Because of these numerical challenges I looked at the prompt this week with dismay:
21 what??? What wicked things relating to the number 21 could I write about?
21 lovers? 21 sex toys? 21st birthdays?
For a short while I thought I had it – my age – 64 – 21 x 3.
However: 21 + 21 + 21 = 63 not 64. Duh!!!
What to blog about?
I went through the list of my exes – perhaps I could do a follow on of my post S(exes)? I counted them, laboriously, on my fingers, but couldn’t get past 17.
Sex toys. No too many. Orgasms? Ditto.
The date? Nope it’s only the 17th here.
Is there a song? or a poem?
Back to age 21…
I ‘came of age’ in the ’70’s (yes, I had to work out the decade) as a married woman; my 21st birthday was marked by dinner at a posh restaurant with my first husband. He (very sensibly) had celebrated his 21st birthday prior to our marriage, marking the occasion with a party, a cake and a “pash” with my cousin, an action that should have warned me about his tendency to stray.
I may have officially been an adult, but I’d been doing “adult” things since I was in my mid teens. This included enacting fantasies of film stars with the use of makeshift dildo’s. I’d had my first piv sex when I turned 16 and left school shortly thereafter not even bothering to see the school year out. It was a time when work was easy to come by and I walked into a job in a milk bar and later moved on to work in a cake shop. I loved that second job and was devastated when they laid me off when I turned 18; it was my first taste of exploitative labour relations.
The work I undertook next wasn’t nearly as engaging, the boss was rude and domineering, but I made some friends and was reasonably content in the lead up to my marriage. However I was laid off again as soon as I was married, about 3 months after I turned 20. According to the boss it was ‘company policy’ but since he was the head of the company, once again it was really about the differing wages for single and married women.
After the wedding my new husband and I moved into a duplex house on the other side of town to my parents. There we entertained (or perhaps embarrassed) ourselves and the neighbours with the rattle of the knobs on our brass bed. There too, I spent one terrifyingly memorable hour dodging politely around a couch to avoid the clutches of a predatory uncle who thought I was fair game seeing as how we were now related.
Finances were tight and I took on work in a “nursing home” to make up the shortfall. The terrible conditions, huge responsibilities and ill treatment of the “inmates” broke my mental health in 6 short months, resulting in our return to my parents home. It must, therefore have been there that I turned 21. (See, this has been an elaborate means of trying to put together dates and events in the lead up to this non-momentous event).
The next event in this litany – post 21 – relates to me passing my driving test, and thereby gaining some dangerous independence…
And that’s another story for Wicked Wednesday… To see who else is playing click on the link.