Part One
A Dream of White Horses
I sit on the dune, staring out to sea where, under a stiff breeze the surf rolls in, tossing its white horses
onto the beach.
The surf fascinates me, frothing and boiling as it dances over the sand, holding me in its spell in the
way a flame will hypnotise, enrapturing the eye. A million white foaming bubbles race and toss and die,
only to be reborn on the next wave.
The dogs frolic in the waves; at least Emma, Meg and Archie do. Mac is far too dignified to get wet, and
he settles for exploring the strand line, poking through seaweed, dead crabs and driftwood. Sometimes,
he finds a plastic bottle or other floater that he identifies as entertainment, bringing over his offering and
inviting me to do something interesting with this enticing object, like play tag or fetch, or make it go….
If I’m really lucky, he’ll find a dead seagull and roll. As it is, the car is going to be full of salt and sand,
but everyone, me included, will have had a good day’s exercise.
The sky is blue and bright, white clouds scudding high above, speeding across an azure dome, silvered
at the edges by brilliant sunshine.
It is a perfect day.
I’m dragged from my thoughts by excited yapping. Meg has something in her mouth and is making
threats to another dog; a stranger,
What has she found?
It’s a dog toy, one of the rope tuggers, and it’s not hers. Its owner, some sort of terrier, ears askew and
fur sticking out at odd angles, is not cowed by her threats, the two squaring-up for combat.
From off-stage a man comes jogging in, calling. I close in on the pair as well. Meg can be a snappy
little madam when she wants to be.
“Meg….” I call. “Come on, Meg. Give it to me.”
Reaching carefully, I take the toy from her. She grumbles but doesn’t snap. Once of a day, I couldn’t
have done this with Meg, but she’s improved a lot in the couple of years since I brought her home from
the shelter.
Offering the tugger back to the stranger. “Sorry about that. Meg thinks she owns all the toys in the
world.”
He laughs. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it. They can be like that, can’t they?”
I don’t recognise the man. Letting my gaze wander over him, I try not to be too obvious about it. He’s
nice looking; not spectacular, but…. nice…. Taller than me, he is dark-haired, with steel grey eyes set
into a serious, almost stern face. He is casually dressed in trainers and sweats…. of course he is, out
jogging on the beach.
He glances around. “Are all this lot yours? Four of them?
“Yes, all mine. Everyone has a vice. Mine’s that I’m a serial dog rescuer.”
“You’re not kidding.… four?”
“I never intended to have so many, but when they turn up, well… what do you do?”
He nods. “I bet you never have any trouble when you’re out, walking with your wolf pack.”
It sounds like a joke, but he doesn’t smile.
“You’re not wrong there,” I reply.
“Oh, I’m Ben, by the way.” He holds out his hand to shake, and I take it.
“Kirstie.”
“Nice to meet you Kirstie. You come here often?”
“Yes, most weekends. It gives the dogs a good run, me a good walk and I love to sit and watch the
sea.”
“Yeah, me too. It’s a good place…” He hesitates, as though he wants to say something else, then,
“Anyway, I’d better go finish my run. Scruffy there wants to be off….”
“Scruffy?” I call after him, as he trots away. “What kind of name is that?”
Still jogging, he turns, running backwards for a few steps. “Well, look at him. What would you call him?”
Then he turns again, continuing on his way.
*****
Back at home, I open up my laptop, checking e-mails and the ‘dating’ site I use.
Mmmm….
I trawl through what’s come in. It’s the usual stuff. I never make the first approach, always letting ‘them’
to come to me, and the responses to my profile, as ever, run the full range from the sublime to the
ridiculous.
“I have read your profile and you look very nice. I am looking for a long-term friendship and hopefully
more….”
So.… you haven’t read my profile….
I am very clear that I want casual contacts, a bit of fun a couple of times a week, have a meal,
conversation, throw each other around between the sheets for an hour or so, some pillow talk and then,
a firm “Goodbye.”
I want my bed to myself in the morning. I like to wake up alone.
I will remain in charge of my life….
I scan more of the messages.
Image of genitals…. Delete.
Image of full frontal with blurred out face…. Ugh! Delete.
“Knight in shining armour seeks maiden with can opener……” I chuckle but delete anyway. That
sounds a bit too romantic for me.
“Hi. I can c from your Birthday that u r a Scorpio. The sexyest of the signs. I am a Scorpio too….” Oh,
God. You don’t believe in all that stuff, do you? Can’t spell (or be bothered to try) either.… Delete.
“You just want to fuck? Great. Me too. I’m really well hung….” Picture of genitals…. OMG! Look at the
size of that thing.… Delete
“Hey… you look cool. You’ve tried the Rest now try the Best….” Cheesy, or what? Delete.
“Hi. I don’t want to sound conceited, but I’m pretty good looking. Do you like being eaten out? It’s a deal
breaker for me if you don’t like being eaten out….” Delete
It’s looking like a poor crop for today’s harvest, but then….
“Hi Debbie. I just read your profile and it looks pretty good. I get it that you like to keep things casual,
but you still enjoy good company. If you can’t have a conversation with someone you’re ‘sleeping’’ with,
what’s the point? That’s what I’m looking for too. Why don’t you take a look at my profile and see if it
you are interested? If you like what you see, then get back to me and we can chat. All the Best, Ryan”
This looks a bit more interesting. It’s a good start that he uses my name. Of course, it’s not my real
name, but nobody on-line gets to know who I really am until I’ve met them, and often not then.
His profile reads well. This one’s actually literate. He can string a sentence together and doesn’t sound
cheap or tacky.
On his profile, he doesn’t sound bad physically either…. ‘Attractive’, ‘5 feet eleven, dark-haired, clean
shaven, non-smoker. Physical attraction is always important, but even more so when you’re screwing
for screwing’s sake. I don’t want a husband or a boyfriend. I want a fuck-buddy, someone who’ll not try
to take over my life.
I’ve had too much of control freaks….
Mmmm…. Travels for his work and wants to call by every few weeks….
A wife in every port?
Education…. University level. Interests…. movies, classical and jazz music, politics, science, art, the
outdoors….
Bit of a Renaissance Man….
Marital status…. Separated….
Could mean anything….
I don’t like hanging out with married guys and always avoid it if I can. Despite my own poor experience,
I hold on to the belief that there is something sacred to marriage, trying hard not to get involved with
anyone if I suspect there is a wife in the background.
Age…. A couple of years older than me. That’s the classic male/female mix of course. Personally, I’ve
found that it often leaves me sitting next to a guy who feels like my grandad. I have a definite
preference for younger guys, and I look good enough to pull it off. Still, I can make exceptions.
Photos? No, none uploaded. Fair enough. There are none of me on the site either. No way is my face
going to be plastered over the internet from a site like this.
Here we go then. I tap out a reply….
“Hi, Ryan. Thanks for contacting me. Yes, I do like the look of your profile, and I’d be interested to know
more about you. First of all, can you please send me a current photo. Debbie.”
Time for a coffee….
And as the water boils, I hear the bing of an incoming message.
Yup, it’s a photo….
Whoo Hoo… He’s hot!
Bing! Another message…
Hi, Debbie. I hope you like the photo. Could you send me one of you, please.
I’ll say I can…
*****
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