The Little Black Book

I do not know if all men keep that Hollywood legend, a little black book of female contacts, each graded according to whatever sick standards the owner values.

Mark certainly did. I found it not long after we were married; I was not looking for it, he was just careless. It was an address book, navy blue, about A5 in Size. I was in it, like all the other entries; my then home address and phone number were inked in rather illiterate-looking block capitals. No grading system, though, oh no, Mark was more your visually orientated sort of person, stapled to the pages were photographs with the girl’s name on the back to match each entry in the address sections.

What enraged me more than anything was that I was under B, for Barnsley, not A, for Angela. It made me feel like a convenience store, “I am going to Barnsley this weekend to visit my parents, let’s see, which handy tart shall I slip one while there? Ah, B, well, there is Trudi, flashing her tits in the woods, or Brenda, kneeling on the bed in just a smile, or… Oh, Angela, she is always grateful for a length of sailor’s rod. Angela is the lucky winner!”