divorcedlondon

I confronted my wife last week.

I didn't mean to; it wasn't planned, it just happened.

That's a big part of the reason this post is so late; I knew when I sat down to work on this entry, I was going to have to write about what happened.

How could I not?

I guess I just wanted to put it off as long as I can.

I recently did a secret DNA test on my wife’s daughter, because I had some lingering doubts that I wasn’t her father.

I was right; my worst fears were confirmed.

My wife wasn’t aware that I had the test done; I just had to know the truth. Until last week, I hadn’t mentioned this vital fact to my now, very soon to be, ex-wife.

It didn’t start out like this. When she first discovered she was pregnant, I was over the moon. That didn’t last long.

Then, when I discovered she was cheating on me, she told me the child was probably her (now former) partner’s.

After that, she left me for him.

Then when the child was born, not looking like him, as he’s Asian, she told me, again, that the child was mine.

All along, she must have known that paternity actually belonged to a third, mystery man, but she let me believe I was the father!

If that’s not just down right spiteful and vindictive, I don’t know what is!

My wife wanted me to take her daughter the weekend before last, as she had some sort of social plans. I’ve had her little girl for weekends before, but that was when I thought she was my daughter too.

Now that I know the truth, well, there was no way in hell I was going to do it!

When my wife phoned me last week, she was very insistent that I baby-sit and the more I refused, the more persistent she became.

She kept badgering me about why I wouldn’t do it. She wanted to know if I had other plans. She wanted to know why I was being difficult.

I stayed quiet.

Then on Friday evening, my wife appeared at my flat, unannounced and unexpectedly, with the baby in tow. This really caught me by surprise.

I had a relatively quiet night planned that Friday. I had quite a busy week already; I’d been out a couple of times during the week as well as doing a bit of discreet entertaining at home. I just wanted to take it easy; have a couple of whiskeys, a couple of lines and maybe a film on TV, nothing more than that. I just needed to relax a bit.

I had to let them inside; I didn’t really have a choice. Once she was in my flat, my wife started laying into me straight away.

She talked about how much she needed a break, how she wanted to “go out with the girls” on Saturday night and just a general whinge on the demands of motherhood.

I kept my cool.

Then, my wife said something that set me off; she pushed the wrong button.

What she said was this: “Can’t you see how much your daughter misses you?”

That was all it took. I blew and blew big; I totally lost it.

This wasn’t the way I wanted to deal with it.

That’s a partial lie; I didn’t want to be dealing with it at all. I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t fully thought through what I wanted to say or even the outcome I was aiming for.

Well, it’s too late now. I just spit it out.

I shouted, “Ha, ‘my daughter’, that’s a fucking joke. You know damn well she’s not mine, don’t you? You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

She denied it, of course, which was to be expected, especially since she wasn’t aware of the paternity test.

She asked me where this was coming from and then put on her wounded, “how could you even think this” face as she piled one lie on top of another.

She said I was being irrational. She said I was crazy.

She was right; I was crazy. I was crazy with rage, pain and bitter disappointment.

My wife knew how much I’ve always wanted to be a father. She also knew how much it meant to me when she changed her story and said I was the child’s father after all.

And all along, she knew it was just lies and deceit!

I told her, I knew the truth. I told her I had no doubts that she wasn’t mine. I told her in no uncertain terms that her evil little game was over.

At about this point, because our voices were raised, the baby started crying, really bawling like only a seven-month-old could.

My wife continued to lie; she insisted that I was the little girl’s father and no amount of certainty from me would get her to admit the truth.

Until, I dropped the bomb.

I told her that I had a DNA test done.

She wasn’t expecting that.

I told her the test proved, with 99.9% accuracy that there’s no chance I could be that little girl’s father.

That shut the bitch up, for moment anyway.

She asked me in hushed tones, if I really did this.

I told her again, that I did.

I quickly found the letter from the lab with the results and thrust it into her hands. I watched as her eyes darted across the page, once, twice, three times. I saw the expression on her face change.

Now it was her turn to get angry.

“How could you?” she asked.

“How could you?” I replied. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer; she couldn’t answer.

We argued a bit more; I told her I was cancelling the standing order with my bank that covered the child support. That didn’t impress her.

I also demanded that she finally file for the “decree absolute” and once that was issued, we were finished.

Done. Over. Forever.

Then I asked her to leave. I told her not to come back.

As she was leaving and the baby was in my ex-wife’s arms, I took one last look at the little girl who was very nearly my daughter.

Our eyes met and I swear I caught a look of recognition. Maybe I just imagined it.

It broke my heart into a million tiny pieces.

It doesn’t get any “realer” than that moment. I knew in that instant that I would probably never see that child again.

I didn’t cry, I didn’t even well up. I think I was just numb.

I still am.

When I went to work on the Monday morning, following all of this, I did something I should have done as soon as I received the DNA test results. I removed from my desk, the framed photo of the baby that my wife gave me for Christmas. I just couldn’t bear to sit there all day and stare at it any longer.

So that’s pretty much it; it’s all finally out in the open, dealt with and finished. I don’t think I’ve got anything else to say on the subject.

In other DL news…

I think I’m getting bored with all these pre-orgasmic women already.

Now that I’ve seen five of them, I’m finding it just a bit routine and rehearsed. I haven’t arranged to meet any more of them since last week.

Also, two of the five weren’t particularly pleasant experiences for me and the standard of woman has certainly dropped from the first two I wrote about last time.

Now, I love women, all women, any woman, but at least they should be clean. I won’t go into any more detail than that, just to say that one of the pre-orgasmic women I met could have done with better hygiene and leave it at that.

The other one that I didn’t enjoy meeting had more to do with her attitude and personality than anything else. She was a right demanding, pushy, mouthy bitch!

Plus she really fancied herself, which made it even worse and if I’m honest, she wouldn’t have ever fallen into that category I call “second-lookers”. She was barely a first-looker, but she was well dressed, well manicured and coiffured. She looked like she had lots of money.

She did, she told me so. She said she had some shit-hot job in the city as a senior something or other. She also had a Jag with a driver waiting for her outside, or so she claimed. She seemed like she was in a hurry from the moment she arrived.

I started to give her my pre-amble and she cut me off. She told me she just wanted me to make her cum and if I could do it, she’d pay me double. DL doesn’t shy away from a challenge; the extra financial incentive was meaningless.

I instructed her to go into my bedroom and change into the robe I laid out for her. I didn’t buy an extra robe especially for the pre-orgasmic women; it’s for any woman who visits really. I bought it not long after I rented this flat. I tried to find one that would match my charcoal grey robe, but I couldn’t find a woman’s style in that colour, so it’s just a simple white one made of towelling material.

I was giving her a few minutes to make herself comfortable when madam shouted from the bedroom, announcing she was ready and summoning me to join her.

When I walked into the bedroom, I found madam already on the bed, her legs wide open; the robe on but not wrapped around her. She impatiently told me to “get on with it” and that’s precisely what I did.

I gave her the full discreetlondon treatment.

I gave her double the full discreetlondon treatment.

I gave her the full discreetlondon treatment with fucking bells on.

Nothing.

That’s right, I couldn’t make her cum.

No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried; I could not get this woman to have an orgasm!

I think this was a first for me.

Actually, I know it is.

What’s worse is she was trying to instruct me on technique, speed, pressure, you name it! As if I need any coaching! Ha!

This woman couldn’t cum if her life depended on it. She told me she’d never had an orgasm in her life. After spending a little time with her, this didn’t surprise me. Talk about uptight!

I gave her the money back, it was only right, even though she was really hard work. She was way too much effort for way too little in return. I definitely won’t be seeing her again.

Hopefully madam is the first, only and last non-orgasmic woman I’ll ever meet!

The other one I met was much like the very first one, grateful, horny and up for more than just her orgasms. She got a refund too, but for a much more pleasant and spunky reason!

The one that needed a wash, well, I kept her money. It wasn’t enough, not even by half! I think I’ll just consider it hazard pay!

I was supposed to see my mate Bob last week, but he cancelled at the last minute. Why? He went off to Paris again with his woman, the one I thought he was backing away from. Go figure!

Elvis rang me up last week and as promised, offered to send me one of his Bulgarian whores.

I wasn’t so sure about this, but Elvis insisted; he even said the first date would be free. I couldn’t bloody well argue with that, could I?

We arranged for one of his girls to visit me the following night. It was last Wednesday, when Nikolina came to see me.

I was pleasantly surprised when I greeted her at my front door. She was tall, nearly six foot in her stilettos; with long blonde hair, green eyes and a fantastic body. She had a genuine, friendly smile and a naughty glint in her eye as I invited her inside. Under her long coat, she was wearing a tight print dress, which hugged her figure.

I asked her to sit down and offered her a drink. She asked for a neat vodka. I also offered her some charlie, but she declined, saying she never touched the stuff and it was bad for you.

Well, it’s not bad for me! I don’t know what I would do without it! And I don’t know what I would do without the Erectalis! I swallowed two of them before Nikolina arrived and it’s a good thing I did! It was a strenuous workout for both of us!

I mean me and my cock!

I got the vodka from the deep-freeze plus a couple of shot glasses and joined Nikolina on the sofa. She told me that Elvis had instructed her to be extra nice to me, since I was a good friend of his.

A good friend! Ha! More like just a good customer!

Still, I shouldn’t complain, Nikolina was hotter than hot and very experienced! I had a great time with her.

She stayed for a couple of hours and we did it all, even anal. Nikolina insisted, she said she wanted to make sure I told Elvis that she took very good care of me.

I told him she was perfect and the next time I was in the market for a whore, whenever that may be, I would give him a call for one of his Bulgarians.

What I didn’t tell him is I book a whore around once a week, but I like to find them online, where I can see their photographs and choose them that way.

Perhaps if Elvis had his Bulgarian whores on a website, I would be more tempted to use them. Maybe I should suggest it to him.

Even better, I could get one of the designers at work to knock together a quick website for him, as a way of saying “thanks” for the free session with Nikolina.

That wouldn’t be very discreet, would it?

Imagine if I asked one of the html-monkeys to do me an escort website, for my friend, the coke dealer and pimp who’s running a string of Bulgarian whores here in London.

I wonder if they would even believe me.

“Wheeler” keeps asking me to introduce him to Elvis, but I haven’t really wanted to.

“Wheeler” is just a kid and not a very bright one at that. I’m smart enough to handle a sharp guy like Elvis, I doubt my mate “Wheeler” would be as adapt.

The other side of this is “Wheeler” is a grown man, capable of making his own decisions, so who am I to be deciding what’s right for him and what’s not?

Besides, if nothing else, I know Elvis’s coke is very good; much better than “Wheeler’s” current source. I’d be doing not only “Wheeler” a big favour, but a big favour for all of his punters in my office.

I think I’m leaning towards making the introduction and then staying out of it. That would probably be the most prudent option.

My other mate at work, Hans is still in a funk. I’ve even stopped trying to bring him out of his blue mood. I say hello to him in the morning and goodbye when I go and that’s pretty much it. I still don’t really understand what’s going on with him.

Anyone can be a mystery, if they choose to be.

It was my assistant, Terry’s birthday last week and I took him out to lunch, along with a few of the other girls from the office, including “Ginny” and “Jenny”. We went to an upmarket restaurant of Terry’s choosing; it was actually a bit too posh for my liking.

“Jenny” sat right next to me, with Terry on my other side; “Ginny” tried to be as invisible as ever.

Don’t worry, I put this lunch on my expenses; it was only fair, since there were only company employees dining with us!

It was an OK lunch, the food was acceptable if a little too fancy and the conversation was a bit girly for me. That meant I was a lot quieter than usual.

There was one awkward moment that left me wishing I had kept even quieter.

I was trying to steer the conversation into another direction, any other direction and we started talking about different television programs we liked and I made a joke I wish I’d kept to myself.

I said something about a show I used to watch that was broadcast late at night on Channel Four, called “Oz”.

It was an American prison drama, very gritty, graphic and realistic and I said something about how much I enjoyed it, though there was a “bit too much male rape in it for my tastes”.

Terry touched my arm and said. “ooh, I know what you mean, that show was so much more romantic when the sex was consensual.” All the girls at the table laughed.

They were laughing at me and that wasn’t even what I meant! I was a bit embarrassed, but the moment eventually passed.

A few weeks ago, Terry seemed really impressed that I suggested we find an AIDS charity to donate our services to; last week he made this comment. I’m starting to wonder what he’s thinking.

The other bit of news I’ve got is actually non-news; my trip to Birmingham with “Jenny” has been postponed for a little while. I was really looking forward to this little jaunt to the Midlands and the discreet opportunity I would have with “Jenny”. I’m patient, another week or two won’t matter!

Of all the women I know and have had recently, “Jenny” is probably the one I want the most and haven’t had the pleasure of having.

I’m also still sniffing around on that dating website, though because my mood has been a little low, I haven’t really pushed that hard.

I’ve got my website whores, all those pre-orgasmic women plus my dating website women, so I do indeed have plenty of sources for action right now. I just need to kick it all back into high gear again!

I’m sorry this entry was so long in coming and I’m also sorry it’s not up to my usual discreet standards. I guess with everything that’s happened recently, I’m just not feeling myself.

It won’t last; I’ll be back on form in no time. I’ll be ready to start enjoying life again very soon I’m sure. From this point on, I’m going to make sure that everything in my life is on the up again!