A humorous short story set in England. Arnold is a man struggling to cope with being bald but then he goes to an unusual wig store. Feedback welcome!
“Arnold Hunter? Doctor Maitliss will see you now, Mr Hunter.”
The receptionist was too pretty for Arnold to properly look in the eye but he briefly glanced at her with an appreciative smile, head slightly bowed as he headed to the door of the doctor’s room.
It had been years since he’d seen his doctor. It felt to him like the very air had been disinfected by passing it through a chemical soaked bedsheet. The novelty of this environment meant that he found himself unable to do much besides let his GP lead the conversation and investigation.
“It’s my hair. It’s just gone away. Is there anything you can do?” He asked, conscious of what he heard to be a slight involuntary whimper in his voice.
Doctor Maitliss had him remove his cap, which felt to Arnold like being asked to bare his backside on national TV. He then inspected Arnold’s scalp and whispered to himself like he had an ultra-sensitive dictaphone.
“How long did it take to thin out to this, Mr Hunter?”
“Less than a month, I think. It just came out in clumps. I think it was the strain of the divorce.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Hunter.”
“Is there something we can do? A cream or a hormone or something?”
“I don’t believe it’ll ever come back, I’m afraid. It looks for all the world like Male Pattern Baldness pure and simple, although it seems to have pounced in a rather accelerated fashion in your case. It’s definitely not alopecia, for sure. The balding is too regular and also there’s this bit around the base of the scalp that will never go away.”
Arnold was by no means stunned by this news but it nevertheless felt like a pitchfork in the groin.
“However, unless I’m much mistaken, being completely bald is fashionable at the moment. People losing fights with razors all over the place, as far as I can see. Have a look around and you’ll see you're actually part of the ‘in crowd’, I believe the phrase is.”
Arnold was utterly untouched by his Doctor’s attempt at comforting words. He felt the obvious problem presented by his supposed fashionability was what happens when it isn’t fashionable to be bald?
He sat on the back of the bus and the emotion and brutality of the doctor’s diagnosis, the utter devastation of his divorce in contrast to his apparently happy married life just six months earlier washed over him. He wept silently like an ocean was trying to spill from his eyes and flood the bus.
Upon entering his house, he closed the front door and discovered the decree absolute for his divorce on the mat. He was officially single, officially divorced and, he decided, officially at his lowest ebb.
Staring at the decree, imagining the name of his wife swirling and disintegrating before his eyes, he resolved that he was to bring his life back into shape, he would begin his journey towards, at the very least, he hoped, getting some self respect.
Arnold lived just about 30 minutes’ bus ride from the town centre. So he boarded a bus, a week after getting the divorce paperwork, bound for a location he had noticed a couple of months ago.
He loved opera and, after giving up his car, he had switched from his car’s cassette player to a cassette walkman. He had found that he needed to use it to insulate himself from the buses he now had to ride. It also helped take his mind off feeling the cold air coming through the windows (windows that had been inevitably opened by some young college kid, with jewellery he last saw sported by a Bond villain, who wanted to secretly smoke) and chilling his crown. He just wasn’t used to such sensations up there.
He stared at the spools of tape circling slowly in synch like the space station in 2001: A Space Odyssey and continued to feel a certain pride that he couldn’t bring himself to be anything other than an analogue guy and never felt remotely motivated to start cramming ones and noughts masquerading as music into his ears.
Redmond Wig and Hair-piece Emporium
Arnold saw the sign, rang the bell and got off the bus. He stopped his walkman playing and removed its spongy headphones, unconsciously held his breath and entered the shop.
It was not particularly well lit but to the left was an area like a theatre dressing room with an angled mirror edged with bulbs suspended above a white table with various wig stands placed at either end. To the right were shelves with a vast variety of wigs on grey, faceless wig stands. The ceiling was painted dark red and a single, small chandelier hung from it. The longer Arnold remained, the smell of carpet and pipe smoke started to give way to the aroma of glue, what he believed to be a musty shampoo, and coffee.
Arnold removed his scarf and fingered a nearby wig. It felt like his pet collie's hair; the dog he had run through his local fields with as a child. A tiny smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. But then he realised this was not a dog but was somehow supposed to look like someone's real hair. He stopped smiling.
“I'm throwing that one out, sweetheart.” Said a very dark-haired, petite, 34 year old woman appearing from behind a velvet drape. “It seems to have finally succumbed to the basic fact that it's been there since 1978. Nevermind, plenty more where that came from.”
She gestured to the wall of wigs. Arnold noted that he could see the top of her bra poking over her dark blue top. He also noticed a stirring in his loins he sort of wished wasn’t there. He smiled and, after deliberately surveying the selection, said: “It's an Aladdin's Cave....of...of wigs.”
“Got something in mind, dear?”
“Oh, I...I'm really just browsing. Just seeing what's on offer. I don't even know if I'd suit any of these things.”
Arnold really wanted to touch his head. He couldn't believe it. He'd never wanted to do that since he emptied his palm of the final fifty or so hairs left on his head — the unnatural feeling then of his fingers skidding effortlessly across his crown like a puck on an ice rink was distressing to the quick. But he resisted the urge and merely sought a reaction from the assistant to his final statement.
“You let me help you, sweetheart. I was hoping you'd come in as soon as I saw you get off the bus. Tabitha's the name.”
“Hello. Arnold.” said Arnold, pointing at his chest. God, he thought, she has nice skin and an air of...smooth sensuality, like a very discreet courtesan.
“Spinkman.” Said Tabitha, holding out her hand to shake.
“Hunter.” Said Arnold as he shook her hand, surprised that the atmosphere had switched tack back to formal, and undid his coat buttons.
“Right,” said Tabitha in a friendly but business-like manner. “What colour were you originally?”
A fantastic way of putting it, thought Arnold, she didn't even pause to choose her words. She knew the way of asking so that it didn't directly address the loss or the sense of degradation felt by those resisting their baldness like him but it did acknowledge some form of change had taken place. To him, her framing of the issue was almost like he had gone grey and she was seeking to get him the right kind of dye.
“Kind of reddy brown. Actually, I have a little bag with some in.”
This was a major move for him. He had mulled this over for weeks. Literally weeks. If he didn't bring this would he be able to accurately choose a colour or guide the assistant to the right shade? But if he did, would this look like the saddest act on God's earth?
“Oh, you're an angel, dear!” Said Tabitha. “That'll save so much time I can't tell you.”
Tabitha held the hair sample and brought it up to her nose.
“Wash and Go.” Said Tabitha, very deadpan.
“How did you know?” Asked Arnold, somewhat unsettled at what he saw as an invasion of privacy.
“It's what I use, love.” Replied Tabitha, her brown eyes glinted like sunlight dancing on hot chocolate. Arnold cleared his throat and decided to sound casual about this unexpected frisson.
“Well, well....can you use it on the wi-...the toup-...the hair pieces?”
“Oh yes, but you have to let them dry on a stand, of course.”
Arnold felt himself beginning to sweat.
“You're looking a bit overheated, darling. Can I take your coat and you can have a good root around?” Tabitha sounded more and more like a barmaid but more sincere than that, like she really did like him. This persuaded him to relinquish the metaphorical armour of his coat and proceed to explore the shop in more detail. All this time he felt her eyes languidly sailing over his entirety like a peregrine falcon analysing a new species of potential prey in its domain. Talk about a motivated salesperson, he thought.
He was still overwhelmed by the sheer volume of wigs in this small concern just outside of the town centre. He was ever so slightly tempted to choose a wig of markedly differing colour to his original pate. Tabitha could see his brain was starting to lock up so she suggested he sit down and she'd bring some suggestions to him. Grateful for the sudden easing of pressure, Arnold plonked himself down on a (probably cheap kitchen) chair with a blue velvet throw covering it.
As she disappeared behind a curtain he briefly heard a laugh and a “mmmm” sound. He assumed it to be a TV Tabitha used to burn the inevitable boredom of presiding over an off-the-beaten-track and, let's face it, niche business.
She was quite some time during which Arnold wondered whether he really wanted to be here after all.
“Arnold, sweetheart?” Came Tabitha's voice from behind the curtain.
“If you want a drink I've got a flask of tea behind the counter. Help yourself, dear.”
Arnold was distinctly surprised by this offer. He'd never encountered such casual hospitality from a female member of shop staff he didn't know from Eve (or, indeed, Keith, Martin, Mandy, Sandra...etc.). Still, he thanked her and, having gone this far, thought, what the hell, and sidled round the counter.
Underneath the counter he saw a copy of Woman's Own, a copy of For Women (an adult magazine for women, for anyone not initiated in such things), an unidentifiable video tape, some mints, a mirror, a tub of Vaseline, three tea lights — one of which was used, a box of Bic pens, a small box of elastic bands, sellotape, a jar of Marmite, a broken watch, a picture of Tabitha in bra and suspenders lying on a bed and the flask she spoke of.
If you asked Arnold to name any of these items 30 seconds afterwards you'd find he could only come up with the picture of Tabitha and the mints (they were his favourite kind).
Nevertheless, simply in an effort to disguise how affected he was by his counter encounter, he poured himself some tea and returned to his seat.
Tabitha finally reappeared with her bra even more visible and her skirt about four inches shorter. Arnold attempted not to notice but was, in fact, wondering what the hell was going on. She had four wigs, all on their own stands and placed them on the counter.
“Would you like to sit at the dressing table so I can go through these with you, Arnold?”
This use of his first name was suddenly encroaching on his metaphysical personal space like it hadn't before. He sat at the dressing table surrounded by white bulbs and almost jumped out of his seat as she started caressing his crown with her palm.
“What are you doing?” He asked trying not to sound panicky.
“Just checking to see if there are any stray follicles that might catch when I pull the wig tape off, dear.” She replied, gazing at him via the mirror. “I'll just move this lamp as well.”
She carefully placed a lamp close to Arnold's head, brushing her breasts against his shoulder as she leaned, and appeared to be looking up somewhere. Then she adjusted the lamp some more.
“Did your missus not want to come along and help you pick one out, love?” Asked Tabitha.
“I...She...I'm not married."
“Oh, getaway! A hunk like you single!?”
“F-Fraid so.” Said Arnold. He saw her eyes flash with a primal energy that seemed to fill the room. A bead of sweat ambled its way passed his temple. Tabitha picked up a light brown wig and prepared it with her fingers.
“How long have you been fancy free for, then, sweetheart?” She asked. Arnold couldn't help but note the positivity with which she laced the depressing reality of not having a loving partner to share your life with.
“I got promoted a year ago and that basically killed my marriage.”
“Oh?” Said Tabitha, gently placing the wig and carefully manoeuvring it.
“She seemed to want a house-husband or something. Never made any sense to me.”
“But you wanted to be the breadwinner? And you stood up to her?”
“She...she shagged my squash partner and took me for pretty much all my savings.” Said Arnold, realising how wretched it made him sound but also that he had never really lifted this weight off himself before. He'd never let rip and he thought he may as well do it to a complete stranger. Especially when he was convinced that once he'd got this wig sorted he'd get a girlfriend so quickly the divorce will be old news. Fish and chip paper. Spandau Ballet. The Falklands War. John Major.
“What do they call it? You're estranged, then. That right?”
“As far as humanly possible, Tabitha. Well, more than that; we’re divorced with a capital ‘D’.” Only after the words had passed his lips was he conscious that he'd used her name without thinking.
“Well, I think you're well shot of her, darlin'. So what do you think of this one?”
Arnold had hair. Not his hair, but it was hair. It made him look like John Noakes circa 1983.
“Not quite, I don't think."
Tabitha then suggested three more wigs which made him look variously like an electrocuted vicar, a wet Red Setter, and a bald man with a horrible wig on. Tabitha sighed and conceded that she was now reaching the bottom of the barrel. Arnold's eyes visibly began to glaze over in an attempt to force back the tears. Tabitha noticed this and, as her hand rested on his shoulder, she comforted him with a deft forefinger caress of the neck and assured him there was always hope.
"Tell you what, sweetheart," she said. "We also do bespoke pieces."
"They cost a bit more but you get the style and colour you want."
"They take a few fittings, though. Would you have the time to see little old me once a week for the next month?"
Arnold honestly felt like this was some kind of proposition. A question with a much more intimate dimension than, read in black and white, it would seem. Arnold thought about the incident behind the counter and her tenderness.
"Try and stop me." He said.
Some days later, as his dinner was heating in the microwave, he leafed through the mail. It was his birthday and he’d completely forgotten since he typically just got one or two cards and the odd present delivered. Most of his relatives and friends had drifted away to foreign lands or the other end of the country. So it was with some surprise that he found four or five cards and a gift card for a mobile phone store from his niece to get himself a phone. He tsk’d as he was utterly against such things but knew out of courtesy he had to do something about it at some point.
He slid the hot sludge he had just microwaved on to a plate, and cursed the condensation dripping from the film lid onto the floor as he peeled it off and transferred it into the bin. He then plunged a fork into the steaming goo and stirred until it looked more like bear vomit than a meal. He trudged into the lounge where the TV was on with a droning politician, replete with hair plugs, postulating on taxes or something.
As he sat waiting for the over-coloured slurry on his plate to become less molten, Arnold's mind swung back to the wig shop. Inevitably, when someone appears to flirt with you, you're going to reflect on it at a safe distance — especially when you didn't do anything about it at the time. Arnold was no different and was acutely aware that he really had no idea when a girl/woman/lady was making any deliberately seductive moves. Sure, he noticed actions that could be construed as come ons but were they intentional? That was what always defeated him.
He rummaged around under his thigh and pulled the paper out of the depths of his chair. He skimmed the TV listings and spotted there was a programme called "The Female Jungle" which, at least in part, was about how to understand women's body language. Arnold reacted outwardly with an interested sniff and 15 minutes later The Female Jungle was duly flashing in front of his fully focused eyes.
Yes, it was the usual wafer-thin, whip edited, easily forgotten piece of "magazine" television but one section hit right where Arnold was hoping. One quote in particular locked in his head: "If you spent 15 minutes in a girl's company and they seem to be flirting throughout, they probably do fancy you." Then they moved on to something about whether your choice of deodorant definitively affects which hair colour your partner is going to have.
This nutrition-free, congealing, irradiated splat on his plate (a perfect embodiment of the TV programme too, as it happened) may as well have been Gordon Ramsey's signature dish. Such can be the power of television.
On approaching the wig emporium for his second visit, Arnold looked up from the paper he was reading (he liked to walk and read) and saw a customer leave the shop. This stranger got past the frontage of the shop then stopped and leant briefly against the wall, head bowed. After a few seconds, he appeared to pull himself together and unsteadily continued down the road.
This intrigued Arnold but he just thought the man might be ill. He put his paper away and went inside.
Arnold was hoping to see something of the wig that he would be walking home with in a few weeks time but, first, Tabitha explained that the cap — the bit that would be in contact with his head — needed to be set and then they could have it sent away for populating with follicles from some poor lady or gentleman who needed money desperately enough to sell their hair.
So stage one was the measuring of his head.
“I have to just take a few dimensions today and then we can get the first draft of the cap done for you,” said Tabitha.
Today, she was wearing a string strap top that appeared to advertise her cleavage and a pair of leggings that from behind were almost translucent at times, like two mangos trying with all their might to escape a navy blue balloon.
“So, how are things, my love?” Asked Tabitha with smooth ease.
“I’ve had a bit of a cough but that’s gone now…” began Arnold but he held off suddenly from talking as she absentmindedly caressed his crown, sending shivers down his spine, whilst she fished for her measuring tape. Her bending over for the tape also pushed out her backside and he was unable not to notice. In a parallel universe existing entirely in Arnold’s head, his hands were working their way around her cheeks and following the ass valley southwards until she stood upright again.
“That’s good,” she replied as she reached over to the back of his head and, since she was in front of him rather than the more expected method of reaching to the front from behind and using the mirror, this served to effectively present her breasts to his disbelieving eyes. For some reason, Arnold thought they were the perfect size to use them like he would plumptious, inflatable travel pillows on a long flight.
“Coughs are a beggar to shift sometimes, aren’t they, Arnold.”
“Yup.” Said Arnold, just trying to figure out what his next move needed to be, if any.
Tabitha moved round the the side after measuring from ear to ear and brushed his shoulder with her breasts in such a way that still seemed to Arnold that it could pass for accidental. She finally measured the circumference of his head and, again, she did this in a seemingly convoluted way by putting her right hand over to the left side of his head so that her breasts subtly brushed his shoulder and neck.
He felt sweat starting to squeeze out of his pores and fill the creases across his brow.
“How’s business for you lately, Tabitha?”
“Oh, it’s chugging along, thanks. I’m not a Bill Gates but the old place is not dead yet.”
“So when do I next come in?”
“Could I have the pleasure of your company late next week, love?” Asked Tabitha as she put the measuring tape away with one more eye-wideningly low bend.
“And that will be that?”
“Well, it’ll be an initial fitting to make sure it’s all sitting well. We may have to trim the hair to a length you want too.”
“Oh, I see, so I’ll be seeing you a few more times?”
“Lucky you, eh?” She said and giggled with a teasing wink. “Here, let me get your coat.”
Tabitha picked the coat up and held it up for him to put his arms in. She hoisted it onto his shoulders and slid her arms down from his shoulders on both sides of his torso and down to his rump. It made his spine and hips almost collapse but he mustered the strength to act like none of the fireworks in his core were going off.
Despite what the TV had taught him, he was never going to do much else so soon.
Arnold left for the pub to mull things over. He bumped into Jerry, a former friend from a snooker club he used to go to.
"How goes it, Jez?" Asked Arnold.
"Can't complain, mate. You?"
"Well, the wife's now history and the good lord has decided to bless me with a visit from the balding fairy."
"Really? I really didn't know. Is that a syrup, then?"
"'Tis indeed. With benefits."
"Got it from that Emporium place up the road." Jerry winked and gulped a large mouthful of beer, almost subconsciously.
"Right. I'm having fittings myself. She's a tiger that Tabitha." Said Arnold, believing he understood.
"Tabitha, the girl who serves."
"No, no. Tracy works there. Tracy. Blonde."
"This Tabitha's brunette. Who's Tracy?"
"I thought Tracy was the only one there."
"So, they may charge a bit more but by God it's worth it. Know what I mean?"
"Very friendly." Said Arnold, clearly more innocently than Jerry would have expected if he really knew what he meant.
"United got stuffed then." Said Jerry, changing the subject in reaction to his belief that Arnold wasn't quite on the same page.
Back home, Arnold, replayed the conversation with Jerry and was left with the question repeating in his reeling brain; What have I missed?
He made his usual dinner — that resembled a particularly impenetrable piece of modern art — and watched the news for the billionth time, nursed a mug of tea until the infomercials kicked in. Then he drifted off in his armchair with the feeling of Tabitha’s hands on his shoulders.
On an overcast afternoon and feeling at his most bored, munching on a sausage roll and window shopping, Arnold discovered the mobile phone gift card in his coat pocket.
Arnold had almost deliberately ignored anything he’d encountered floating around the ether concerning digital technology. He had no mobile phone nor did he own a DVR or computer.
So it was with a mixed attitude, shall we say, that he decided to check out the pay-as-you-go phone options. He chose a fairly random phone store and meandered in, perusing every poster and shelf until a young, brash man sidled up and started his patter.
“Smooth as a baby’s bum,” said the man.
“I beg your pardon?” Arnold almost threw his hand up to his head but just caught himself.
“The hardware on that one makes the OS purr, sir. Runs smooth as silk, it does.”
“Oh, I see, I mean. ‘Hardw’…? ‘OS’…? I…”
“Sorry, my friend, I shouldn’t be talking gobbledigook. Basically, when you want it to do something, you press the button and robert’s your father’s brother. No hanging ‘round waiting, sir. No messing about."
“Right. Which sounds good, then.”
“Really good and free with one of the special plans we’ve got now.”
“Oh yes, it’s a great deal, isn’t it.”
“Well, only if I know how to use it.”
“Easy, my old cock sparra. ‘Ere, hold this, it’s light, innit?” Arnold nodded and peered at the screen through his glasses, head tipped back and looking down his nose with a squint, as if investigating a holy relic.“Now, with this beauty you can use a calendar, send email and search the Internet.”
Arnold had never used the Internet and so it really didn’t exactly tickle him in the buying region to hear this.
“I’ve heard terrible things about this Internet thing. Why’s it supposed to be so good, again?”
“Wow, okay.” Said the salesman, trying to prevent a smug snigger bursting out of his throat. “Sir, it’s the next industrial revolution. It’s only the best thing to happen to the world since lager!”
“Have a go, sir. Use Google, for a start. Google is a search engine, which is how you find stuff on the Internet. Go on, press that button. That’s it. Now what do you wanna find?”
Arnold’s mind went blanker than when he was asked what kind of sausage he wanted at the butchers.
“I guess...Oh, I know!”
He typed, “tabitha wig shop” since she’d been on his mind so much. The first result was “Tabitha gets hot and heavy with bald bitch”. The centre of his torso felt like it had been sucked out. He tentatively clicked the link and there, for all to see, was a gallery of stills showing a buxom pair of breasts rubbing on a bald head. The face of the owner of the bald head was obscured but Arnold knew himself well enough to recognise his own likeness.
It was impossible even to propose that Tabitha was unaware of being filmed since she was staring straight at the camera on most of the images. There was a link to play the actual videos but that was accessible only to members of the site. It was even more surprising to Arnold than finding the page in the first place that the site in question appeared to be aimed at ladies with a fetish for bald men.
Arnold’s lip trembled and his feet clenched in a swirl of mortification, outrage and confusion. He thrust the phone back into the salesman’s hands and bolted out of the shop.
He tried the front door of the wig shop first but to no avail so he went round the back and was amazed to see a sign near the door that said “BBM Fetish Peep Show, Women Only! £5 per entry.”
He darted back to the front of the building. His fist, moistened by the strains of the perambulation and nervous sweat, repeatedly slammed onto the door frame as Arnold discovered the wig shop had its “closed” sign up.
“Hello!” Yelled Arnold, throat tight with fury. “Let me…! Where are you? Tabitha!”
Arnold battered the door but no sign of life betrayed itself in the gloom of the shop and as rain started to fall, Arnold slunk down in the doorway and, still shellshocked, resolved to sit there until someone turned up.
He awoke to see Tabitha gingerly pulling a banana skin off his cheek and an empty beer can off his thigh.
“Crikey, love,” she said, “What the devil's happened here?”
Arnold pulled on the shop door handle to right himself and approach the next stage of getting to his feet. He looked at her, dishevelled and damp, trying to project to her the reason for his being here and in a second or so she understood without words being said. Her eyes widened and sunk a little, and she sighed a “you got me” sigh.
“Let’s get you inside and we can set things to rights.”
Arnold shuffled into the shop and started taking his coat off.
“Before you get yourself comfy, I’ll stick the kettle on and I have a shower in the back so you can take the chill off and get clean.”
“I really don’t want to stay long, I can shower at home. I just want to know what the hell’s happening and why you’re doing this.”
“I love my men so much and BBM guys are so sexy that I wanted to run this shop.”
“You have all the hair round there,” she said, gesturing around the torso, underarms and lower body. “But you’re all clean and smooth and sensitive up here.”
“Then there’s the contours of that lovely dome and…”
“Alright, I’m getting the picture.”
“But then I wanted to keep a record of what we got up to and then…”
“Then this shop wasn’t making any profit and I got talking to someone online and it just snowballed.”
“Beautiful Bald Men. You see we just love you. Bare heads just rock our world! And online there was a demand so I set up the peepshow and it was great but it wasn’t making enough money so I got some cameras and...”
“Jesus!” Yelped Arnold. “I...I…”
As he watched her speak about her sincere desires, Arnold once more suddenly became lucidly conscious of Tabitha as the deeply attractive lady he knew she was and just saw so much behind her eyes and felt this chemical reaction inside he realised was making him stop talking.
Maybe it was the adrenaline of the situation and the revelation combined with the thoughts of what he suspected Tabitha wanted to do to/with him but it was dawning on him that he was incandescently horny. They both rammed into each other, kissing passionately, hands high and low, clothes falling away and blood pressures soaring.
They headed straight for the shower and cavorted until they were exhausted. Tabitha fondled and licked his head in the shower and after it, which provided Arnold with full-face access to her breasts. The sex was easily the best Arnold had ever known.
Lying in the afterglow, Tabitha still slightly stunned at what had occurred, Arnold began ruminating.
“Tabitha, how much do you actually make with your online stuff?”
“Oh, about ten grand a month.”
“Before tax, like.”
“And Tracy is you too?”
She laughed, “Yeah, plenty of wigs to have different looks and names.” She was somewhat proud of this ruse and Arnold also found himself impressed. “Here, I’ll show you the kit.”
Tabitha took him by the hand and showed him through a door behind the main shop. It was a bank of 5 screens on a desk with a PC and a server.
“My cousin helped me set it up. I told him I wanted to do some vlogging.”
“Oh, sorry, video logs, like video diaries.”
Arnold surveyed the room lit by monitor glows and nodded his head, chewing the last few hours over.
They talked more about how the site worked and what it felt like to be watched. Tabitha then asked if they could deliberately film themselves next time and see how it felt.
Two days later, he was at the shop door ready and willing and horny but also nervous. She set the equipment recording and wordlessly walked up to Arnold before softly and passionately kissing him. Several minutes of this drove him rampant and they indulged in each other in a host of positions.
They ensured each other was spent before flopping on chairs and toking on cigarettes. Tabitha then produced a marijuana joint from behind the counter and shared it with Arnold, who had never previously been interested in such intoxicants.
I’ve turned into a bloody bohemian pervert! Thought Arnold. He felt pure glee wash over him and, finally, he wanted the future to happen.