photo by Brooke Lark @ unsplash
I don’t fall in love easily. I don’t even fall in like easily. I’m unwillingly reserved, no social anxiety but still never quite feeling like an active participant in my own social life. Dating is even worse; I secretly fantasise about some pink-hued, 30s screwball idea of love but most of the time I fall in and out of ill-defined ‘things’, partly because I don’t actually know what I want – do I want to date multiple people? Sex With No Strings? One night stands? Romance, with a long, rolled r?
The internet changes that, a little bit. Tinder makes me feel vaguely queasy – swipe left, swipe right, everyone’s a gym lad or a self-proclaimed bad bitch or an art hoe or unable to shut up about their unfortunate facial hair, nightmare – but other places are okay. OkC rings like a catalogue of personals, which I like. There’s a wider range. It’s quieter. That’s where I met them both.
/ / /
After weeks of messaging each other on and off, I’m sitting in his flat on an awkwardly high, hugely expensive cream sofa. Why is it so high? Who designs this stuff? He says he works in the city sometimes but he doesn’t live here, not really; this is “just” his London place, spending most of his time in Toronto. I desperately want to roll my eyes at this and he must see it in my face because he smiles with all his teeth on display, eyes gleaming – “I know, I know”. He gets up to make another coffee and when he sits back down, he reaches out one long arm and pulls my legs onto his lap. I curl up under his shoulder and he continues talking, his thumb making slow circles on my thigh.
Eventually, we go quiet. He strokes my hair, rolls a lock around a long finger, dips his head to kiss my forehead and eases his thumb into my barely open mouth, pressing it against my teeth. Stands me up and unzips my dress slowly, carefully. Pushes his tongue flat against my cunt through my underwear, teases me until I’m glassy-eyed and pleading, carries me to a vast white bed and fucks me with my legs bent back against my shoulders, pinned under him. I almost don’t come – I pretend, twice – but after he comes messily half-in and half-out of my mouth, he sits me on his face and wraps his arms around my thighs. I couldn’t move away even if I wanted to, which I don’t.
The insides of my thighs are prickly and raw from his stubble the next morning, and he soothes them after we shower with a cold, damp towel. We look good together. He goes back to Toronto the next day, asking me for my address via text. He likes writing letters, he says. If anyone else had asked me this I would’ve said no, but by this point I’m so thoroughly charmed, I give it to him. I expect nothing.
Two or three days later, I arrive home from work and am promptly dragged into the kitchen by my housemate – “something arrived for you!” she crows. An enormous bouquet, an envelope with scalloped edges. White ribbon. Roses. Peach streaked with pink, creamy eggshell, sunshine yellow, petals slightly bruised from being fondled, the whole thing barely fitting on the countertop. A letter in the envelope, full of filthy words and a long row of kisses blurring into each other.
We see each other every time he’s in the city. One week he bails from work two days early in order to get an earlier flight – he wants to spend more time with me. Work can wait, apparently. He’s clever, handsome, doesn’t expect me to laugh at his terrible jokes, and I am dizzy with lust. It’s unsustainable, of course it is; we are escapism for each other. There are no expectations, and ultimately, there’s no future. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t want it to ever become boring, tarnished by real-life responsibilities, all the ugly, dull things that make us three-dimensional and human. I want something perfect and gleaming. Indulgent. Selfish.
/ / /
She messages me first. She compliments me on my taste in films and it takes me a day to reply – I’m embarrassingly intimidated by her perfectly worded profile – but as soon as I do it snowballs, rapidly. We gel immediately, exchanging numbers and texting non-stop. That weekend, we meet in a tiny, quiet bar for drinks and nachos. I’m nervous but she’s all smiles, smelling like grapefruit and ginger, and the bracelets on her arms clatter together as she reaches out her hands to cup my face, planting a neon kiss on my cheek. She’s warm and pretty and sparkly and magic, her nails long and navy blue. They tap on the side of her glass and I wonder what they’d feel like grazing down the curve of my spine.
We go back to hers, as it’s closer and her housemates are out. I’m wearing ridiculous shoes and try to take them off and fail repeatedly, almost upending myself, rolling back on the sofa with one leg in the air, hysterical. She collapses into laughter and takes pity on me, kneeling with her head resting on my thigh. Carefully untying them, putting them away in a pair. Women seem more aware of enforced femininity’s trappings in a way men just don’t think about – giving you time to redo your makeup in the morning, not treading all over your clothes. If you rip her tights, offer to replace them. Little, basic, boring things.
She fucks me on her bed, first under the covers and then on top of them. Lights on, lights off. Beckons me into the bathroom and runs a bath – it’s a clawfoot, which I’m enchanted by – and lights a candle, opens the window, lets the jasmine scented water drain out of the tub as I lick her cunt lazily, her left leg hooked around the tap. She shows me how she uses the detachable showerhead and we stumble back to bed, almost sated. Just one more time with her doxy.
She texts me the next day. I’m in my own significantly less spacious bathtub, covered in bubbles, and I hear my phone vibrate and scramble for it, nearly dropping it into the water. She says she had fun, she likes me, would like to see me again if I’m free next week or whenever? No rush, totally fine if I’m busy. Yellow flower emoji. I reread it over and over again. She likes me. She likes me. She likes me.
We go places together, joined at the hip, arms linked, mirroring each other unconsciously. Split a banh mi in the sunshine, go to the £3 cinema, people watch, pet every cat we come across. Mutual respect for each other’s schedules proves to be important – I work long night shifts and don’t have the relative freedom that she does, and she’ll be free for weeks on end, later knuckling down for days spent working on a project. I begin spending more time at hers, partly out of convenience, partly out of want. I want to be near her, wake up with her hair in my face. Make meals together. Make plans.
It tarnishes, eventually, lasting just into autumn. I think of her often.
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Many thanks to sexwithnostrings.com, the no.1 UK dating site, for sponsoring this post.
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