Did Cinderella write erotic stories?
Fantasize about the stable boy?
Leave juicy messages in the armour of her favourite knight?
Did the maiden fancy phone sex?
Because if she was anything like me, she didn’t waste those 100 years sleeping.

It’s been a year now since I had sex. A year sizzling with potential that ultimately died out before anything caught fire.

Schoonschrijven, the young writer. When even his sarcasm started to sound like poetry, Cinderella must have known she was in trouble. And that she was about to be turned down of course.

The Jock, a professional sportsman. She liked him on video and loved his voice. He would always call when she was in bed. And she would always cry after she came. Maybe because there was a Mrs.Jock.

The disarming McDreamy. She offered herself hoping he would do everything men and doctors do to naked women. But like all doctors he was emotionally unavailable. Cinderella picked up her red string, and left for home.

Three times in love, all to be turned down.

“Wasn’t three once a magic number?” she must have sighed when arriving at her castle.

It was conveniently located behind the station, the lucious garden free of thorns. The bushes were trimmed and there was central heating in every room.
Yet instead of princes riding out to meet her, she met a stampede of sharp tongued frogs.

“Your demands are too high.”
“You’re too easy.”
“You shouldn’t Twitter that it’s been a year!”
“SO not charming you behave!”

It was clearly all her fault.

One year down, 99 to go.

She slid into her nighty, between the fresh sheets of the white double bed and thought about the last time.
He was only a little taller then her. Only a little stronger.
She remembered his raisin brown eyes, the raven black hair.
“You must be Snowwhite’s secret brother,” she tapped his shy nose. “The fairest of them all.”

She never renamed him for her stories.
And she wished she could have bled.