…deserts
So this time last week, and once this morning, I was lying in the tanned arms of D&G. We got a cab back to his and spent the evening inspecting the quality of his mattress. He has a stunning home, a little house on the outskirts of Notting Hill which he used to share with his brother **there are more of them** who was in the antiques business. He doesn’t collect action figures ad I had first suspected, but has a totally fascinating collection of clutter. It’s a breath of fresh air, MR is obsessed with cleanliness, he gets a headache if his books aren’t in alphabetical order. His home always smells of cleaning products. I guess I’m mommy bear in this little trio, my mess is solely confined to my bedroom, which is a clutter of travel memorabilia, a big fluffy duvet,clothes mountains, half read books and dusty jewel cases for CDs long since transferred onto my harddrive.
But let’s not talk about his collection of bottle caps, and dusty pile of international boardgames, his wall of hats or the fourteen umbrellas he keeps in a bucket by the door. Let’s talk about sex baby.
D&G is surprisingly nervous in bed, to begin with at least. Not at all as you would think from his assured behaviour at the dinner table. He is uber-conscious about ‘how long’ he can go. He clearly thinks he’s Sting, and ‘has practiced tantric techniques’, and yes I did have multiple orgasms thanks to his technique, and yes it seems he has some impressive stamina. I’m used to more slow and confident and comfortable love-making from MR (and don’t we girls so love to compare!) so his awkward stylings took me back at first. What a strange thing it is to be in the arms of another man, and try and learn his quirks and hot spots; he must be in the place. Further notes to follow.
I woke up and wandered to the bathroom, being nosy I pried through the cupboards. The closet klepto in me loves to poke through other people’s shit. I want to know what drugs he is on, is he loosing his hair, what sex toys he keeps hidden behind the toiletpaper. Nothing odd apart from a porn mag in the pile of readibles by the toilet seat. So I step into the shower and wash myself in his showergel. i love doing that, smelling of the man I just had all over me.
Breakfast is OJ and English Crumpets. He whipped up a cup of coffee wearing nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt with last year’s festival line up on the back, sat opposite me at the breakfast bar and watched me as I eat. Normally I find that a bit unnerving, but his eyes on me were great. I was wearing one of his towels with my hair scooped up in one of the clips I had the night before. I could see him stripping me down with his smile, it was WOBBLEMAKING.
“Come sailing.” He said. And it was really out of the blue. He had been talking about it the night before, how much he liked to be on the sea, or just drifting up a river with a bottle of wine. I never really registered it. “Just you and me in the boat for a weekend. You just need to be able to pull on the ropes,” I’ve not DONE water you know, flying I can handle, but I’ve never had the inspiration to get on the water. He said he’d drive. I pointed out only have four inch high heals and eveningwear. He said I’d look good in a black bin liner and I blushed. He said I could take some of his sister’s clothes from his room **and another sibling**, that we were about the right size.
I think about it as I munch my crumpet and sip at my coffee, he rounds my back and started to distract me by running his fingers down my back and over my neck. SERIOUSLY Men, don’t they appreciate that boiling hot drinks and flirtation are dangerous? If he had tickled me right then he would have been in trouble, but he didn’t and I said okay. Don’t know what came over me. I just said yes.
