I’ve been awol lately, mostly because of work commitments, and I just find myself tired and uninspired at the end of the day – too tired to even ponder the S-word; I haven’t been writing much poetry lately, because I leave too much of my soul out there on the page, my past, my loves; it isn’t that I wan’t to hide, but I find that sometimes rather than being cathartic, it plunges me into the depths; I’m not bipolar, but I can really whip myself up into a frenzy, sometimes sexual, other times I just wallow in the misfortunes of my life, and that isn’t considerate to my friends;
it’s better to stick with sex, that’s where I can let myself go, the warm gurgle of an orgasm, the touch, real or imagined of a lover as well as his scent, his taste, his sounds, his warmth – it’s infectious – and I feel almost as if I’m flying as I touch on a fantasy, perhaps a fantasy of touch, of taste; I’ve told you how physical writing is for me, but it does that to me, starting subtly, perhaps while I’m writing about being too busy to visit you, my friends, but then it seduces me, the soft rustle of leaves, a gentle stream, my stream seductively floating me to the white water, the rapids of my fantasies, I think of it, sensation, my breathing becomes shallow, as if I’m on a run, but more like the first touch of a man, a kiss perhaps, but possibly the exploration of his hands, testing me – a test drive? – It could go that way, and I feel warm, too, breathing deeper, hopelessly taken by my mental wandering, I reach out for more, for him, I’m hungry, I’m insatiable, and I want him, my fantasy man – he’s no hunk, just an ordinary guy, but he has to be intelligent, he’s got to seduce me with his words,
he can be quiet, but I’ve got to see it in his eyes – he knows, he understands, and he wants what I want – and we all know what that is right now – I take a deep breath to slow it down, the slower the better, he must be my Eric Clapton, my slow hand, but no cool hand, I want him hot, hot for me, hot under me – I want him uncomfortable, under my control, in my control, in me, in me in every way, physically and metaphorically, urgent like my lack of punctuation moving faster towards our mutual goal of mutuality of intellectual fulfillment of ecstasy he takes me to orbit past the hydrazine cloud of the destroyed spy satellite but I’m not afraid I’m more dangerous than that he knows he screams it for all to hear while I quietly destroy him there is no other but me and he is mine he … he … satisfies me, sates me with his words, the glint in his hazel eyes that mirror mine, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothes, yet he inhabits me as I possess him, body and soul, his words, my words, inseparable
It’s happening again – I’ve got to let it out, I’m writing too much real fiction, The Wind Whisperer, and no sex, well, not that much in the story at least; people have been saying that I’ve should write more of the real stuff, fiction, essays, I enjoy that part of writing, for me it’s therapy, letting out the frustration, and that usually means sexual frustration, I want it now, I need it now, you, dear readers are going to give it to me, yes, I can feel it already, the heat, the rush, mmmm, I can feel you as if you were sitting here in my lap, well, you are, via computer technology, between my legs where you belong, and I open myself to you, my heart, my body all of me – I can feel your heat – yes, there, oh, you can be so good to me,
I’ve been pondering the seven deadly sins lately, and I keep coming back to lust, I’m finding it difficult to tackle wrath, and although I have a long fuse, it’s a big explosion; sex can be that way, the longer you wait for it, the better it is, if only that were true – I’m expecting an 150 megaton blast, you’d better watch out – that’s the physical wait, but I make up for some of it by writing these words for you, my bedfellow – you keep me warm at night and sometimes during the day, like right now on a Sunday evening while I’m waiting for dinner to cook, I can just smell it, not dinner, sex, I can feel it coming like dinner, and I’m hungry, so hungry for you, and I’m tired of the foreplay, foreplay is good, but I want the main course and you are my dinner tonight, can you smell the semen in my hair, that’s left over from my jacuzzi fantasy, I loved that, but today you get to join me, and in fact, I’m your fantasy today, what am I doing now – holding you while you keep me warm, mmm, your skin is so soft against mine, I assume I’m naked in your fantasy, or about to be, did my cloths come of easily, torn, shredded, wet – I like it wet – water, baby oil, corn oil (hehe), even, yes, you know about that already, but no blood, and no pain, but I suppose if that is your fantasy, you don’t have to tell me, don’t, I don’t want to know, let me have it, and I take you places, where you want to go, need to go, I’m doing it now, do you like it, I do, and I’m feeling it, yes, there, the usual place, the best place, how do I taste, you haven’t tried, do, I like to be tasted, I think I taste like commas tonight, I’ve been using them almost relentlessly, but no periods, it’s not that time of the month, I’m ripe and ready, salted, peppered and comma-ed, what are you waiting for?
Whoa … sorry … still out … of breath …. (gulp) …. just got off the treadmill … there, that’s … whoa … a little dizzy …. there, I’m OK now. I hate running on the treadmill, but it was cold and rainy out, and too much flooding around … wouldn’t want to swim home. I’m sure you saw the title of this one and thought I was going to talk about earning a living. I may eventually, but the title has a different significance, which will become apparent shortly.
I took a run to give the boys time to fill the jacuzzi. I’ve decided to indulge myself today; this is all about me and my pleasure. You may watch if you wish, but I’m sure there are several of you that will decide I’ve gone too far this time, so I won’t be offended if you give this a miss.
I normally prefer to shower after I run, but today I’m going to take a bath, a special bath that my boys – acolytes, chosen not for their musculature (except for Seth, a nice lusty farmhand), but rather for their staying power, and believe me, they are going to need it today. The girls are back there ready to lend them a hand if any of them falter in their task. No, they aren’t going to pleasure me today, not directly at least, but I will enjoy the fruits of their labours, their labours for me their goddess. I think they won’t be pleasuring anybody for some considerable time.
As I said, today is about my pleasure. I’m sure you all have a kinky fantasy that you’ve dreamt of, but never had the guts to try or even tell someone about. Today, you get mine. I’m going out of my comfort zone this time, and I’m going to break a few of my taboos – as you see, I’m already using periods, because I want to relax and savour this.
As some of you know, I’m into all things wet and slippery – in fact, I’ve been sitting in a pool of my own damp, anticipating this all day. I was starting to worry that I’d start getting a case of panty rash. Two hours of running means that I’m literally raining sweat. (The girls in the back are giggling at me, but I love it!) One of the advantages of indoor running is that I can wear whatever I wish, so just my white running bra, which is now more or less transparent. You can even see my pink nipples through it. Don’t worry, I’ll have to take it off soon, then you’ll get a better view. I’ve also worn my skimpiest running pants – they’re light blue, a miscalculation when I bought them. If I’m running in public, I need to wear something under them, or I give a free show to all and sundry when they get damp with sweat like they are now. As you will see if you look carefully (yes, do take a closer look), you can see my bush. (Oops, there goes another taboo!) Here, why don’t I just slip them off (my shoes came off as soon as I was off the treadmill). There, I’m all rosy red from my exertion. Be careful as I slip my bra off, or you’ll get showered with my sweat. Perhaps you’d like that, come a little closer then. I really am dripping, as I rub my chest – ah, don’t touch! This is my fantasy, not yours.
Let’s just go in and see if the jacuzzi is ready. Mmmm, don’t you just love it? The smell of sex, or more specifically, cum. (Oh no, another taboo gone!) Gee, the boys look all worn out. Girls, do take care of them. They won’t be needed the rest of the day.
Isn’t that a beautiful sight? A jacuzzi full of pearly white semen. Yes, a very special bath coming for me. (Don’t you just love the double entendre?) Haven’t you just dreamt of swimming in fresh cum?
I breathe deeply and step to the edge – ah, the aroma! I step down onto the ledge. Ooh, how warm it is. I have to be careful not to slip. I’ll sit on the edge first. Ah, warm on my calves. I splash – well, if you can call it that – some on my thighs. It’s so slick, like glycerin. I step into the centre, up to my waist. It feels so heavenly, not quite like jello, more like warm double thick cream. I think about all those little spermies, blindly swimming around trying to find the appropriate orifice. Some will find it, but I’m afraid they will be disappointed if they make it all the way in. Maybe I’ll give them a little help. First, I’ll lower myself in right up to my chin. It’s getting in my hair, but that’s OK. It’s like being in back in my mother’s womb. (Going all the way back to conception!)
Time to give them a little help. Ah … ohhhhhh … yes. It’s a pity I’m too tired to do anything more. I’m just going to relax for a few minutes …
… Mmm … this is nice, you should try it. Not now! You find your own jacuzzi! This is my time; it’s “me” time. There is one thing I haven’t done yet. Full immersion. Yes, I’m going to do it. I’ve gotten this far. Here I go …
Pfpfpfpfffffft! Oooh, that feels weird. I got some in my ears. I think I’m going to smell like cum for weeks, but that’s OK. It’s worth it. It doesn’t quite drip off like water – that’s not unexpected, but it feels … ooh. It’s still nice and warm. Hmm … tastes like, um, oysters, salty … maybe I’ll take a little on my tongue … yes, oysters … swallow them whole, right? Mmm. I love oysters.
Hey, I’ve got an idea. Turn the jets on. The switch is just behind you. Weeeeeee! That’ll confuse the buggers, not to mention what it’ll do to the pumps. Well, it’s due for a maintenance tomorrow. Look at it foam up! Fantastic.
I stand up and it dribbles off me like honey, it feels amazing as I rub my breasts. Have I told you I like it when you watch me? A massage sounds fantastic right now. Too bad I sent the staff home. Oh. You will? Well, OK, but don’t get any ideas, and you can’t get in with me. This is my bath.
Hey, that’s not my back! OK, it feels nice. Don’t they just fit perfectly into your hand. Careful, no pinching; I’m not into pain. Mmmm. You know, if you don’t mind getting it all up your arm, there is something else you can do for me. Yes, you guessed. Cumming in cum. What a novelty. OK, be gentle now. I’m very fragile after a run and it’s going to take a long time, I wouldn’t want to go numb, and I want you to milk me for all it’s worth. So roll up your sleeve and reach down. I know you can’t see anything. Feel free to rest your head on my shoulder. Oooh, there, that’s the spot … gentle, even more gentle, two fingers are enough for now, slowly. I’m afraid you won’t get the …. ooooh …. satisfaction of me screaming with delight. I’m quiet when I have sex, until I climax, and I’m told that’s a sound that can’t be described.
If you are careful … mmm … you may hear it se … ssss …. several …. t-t-t-t times. Sorry …. can’t t-t-t-t-t-talk anymore.
I’ve been rabid the last couple of days, obsessed with sex even more than usual, sex in dreams, wet dreams, I dream a lot, even when I’m awake, just sitting here working, now writing, tap, tap, tap, on my keyboard, doing one thing while thinking about the other,
today it’s dreams, dreams and aspirations, but mostly dreams, I’ve been thinking about publishing, that’s an aspiration obviously, and although I’m an editor, I don’t really have the right connections in publishing, and I don’t have anything substantial to submit, a nice long serious short story or novel, Hahn has stalled, while I re-consider where it is going, I’ve got a general plan, but I started the next chapter and it just felt so stale, what to do with Alleyn’s cousin, and Hahn’s three other consorts, bringing them in, but I feel like Liz needs to get back to the real world, to get her back in touch with her real feelings, to become mortal again – I know how it is going to happen, but it seems so far away in the story, so much to write between now and then, and what I’ve written doesn’t connect with my dreams, the topic of this rant, and I feel that my best writing comes when it exists in my dreams (waking or sleeping) first, before I try to commit it to paper (or hard disk),
now that was a Freudian slip (that I’ve fixed), a hard dick, see, I’m still thinking of sex way too much, too much for my own sanity, and of him, always of him, I blame him, too, and myself for letting it happen this way, of course, I still love him, and without him I’d be writing nothing at all, not about Alleyn, not about Hora, not fantasy, not my fantasies, nothing, so I guess I have him to thank as well as blame – you may blame him for what I inflict on you, for what you dream, because that’s what I do to you, help you (make you?) dream, to help you fly, to let go of the ground to fly into that land of dreams where we become immortal
powerful, and every story has a happy ending, if we want it to, do you want a happy ending or an ending at all, just the promise of a future, like sex, not a one-nighter, the kind that you know you will have again with your lover, who is always the best, the best for you, that gives you the most complete satisfaction, who completes you, not incomplete like me, except that I need you, my reader, to give me the semblance of completion, that’s the next best thing, dear reader, love me, love my work, and we’ll get along just fine (doesn’t this sound so depressing and shallow?), but we keep going, keep dreaming – do you want to know what I’m dreaming now, he’s at my door, waiting for me to finish this, stepping behind me, hands on my shoulders, massaging my neck, he knows what I want and how to give it to me, kisses the top of my head … excuse me, but my muse wants to inspire me now, so I’ll just slip into something more comfortable, or maybe nothing at all, my rentboy is here, yes, my muse is a … okay, I’ve got to stop writing now, he’s (stop that!) … I’ve got to go …
YOU dreamt of me last night. I can tell. I can smell the sex on you. It never quite goes away in the shower. Don’t be embarrassed. I dreamt of you, too. I like that kind of dreams.
Did you get up and change your pants? Or did you sleep in your own mess? I kept mine on, but of course I wouldn’t make as much of a mess as you. I love that smell. I love love love that smell. I like my smell, too, but it’s not as prolific as yours, all over you, the sheets, the image of me that you dreamt about. Mmmmm.
Oh, you DREAMt of me last night. Was I role playing or fancy dress? Maid, nurse, dominatrix, I can do them all in dreams. I can even do men (if that is what you prefer) – that’s the power of dreams. They can do anything. You can’t control them. I can. Your dreams, that is.
You dreamt OF ME last night. Imagine the real thing. It’s even better. Do you dream in color? I do. Last night’s was red. Do you hear? Do you feel? Do you touch? I do. Especially in that kind of dream. Do you taste? Taste is my favorite sense; it’s related to smell. You can tell a lot about a person by how they smell, but taste does it for me. What did I taste like last night? Remember? I do. The bottom of your feet. Did you like that? Loved it. Remember? Well, pay better attention, because …
You WILL dream of me TONIGHT. I hope your partner doesn’t mind.
@ClanGoddess87: I met a great new man today!
Soon, the flood of questions came back. Who was he? How did I meet him? I sometimes wondered if I had more online friends on Twitter and Facebook than real, flesh and blood companions.
Growing up in a wee Scottish castle didn’t engender closeness with the neighbours, and that wasn’t helped by being the heiress of an outcast line in the Johnstone clan. We weren’t rich either. The income from tours of the public areas of the castle barely covered the cost of upkeep and the estate staff. The bulk of the work was provided by the many volunteers from the surrounding village. “Surrounding” meaning a mile and a half away. The paid staff were twice my age, while the average of the volunteers was around 75.
My mother, who died just as I began at the University of Glasgow, had married young to a distant clan cousin. My father was sixty when I was born. Ordinarily, I would have been expected to marry within the clan, but there were few left around my age, and I couldn’t bear them. In my lineage, that wouldn’t have been a problem, since the women invariably married much older men. Now, all the elders cared about was an heir, which I was happy to provide if I found the right man. I wasn’t even required to marry him.
Since my mother’s death, I have spent only the weekends at the castle, preferring to spend my week in my digs at Uni. I found a few friends there, but the men either were too keen to attach themselves to the owner of a castle or dismissive of me as clan heiress, a fact that leaked out in my first days of university. Sheila Johnstone of the main branch outed me, successfully quashing the competition.
After graduation, I continued at Glasgow, hoping for a Ph.D in music, while remaining within driving distance of Dunrig Castle, overlooking the Clyde. My few gigs in the city paid for the flat, where I was close enough to practise on the pianos at Uni.
For some extra cash, I agreed to help at a small music analysis conference in the department. Most of the papers were flat and uninteresting, so I amused myself with my iPhone at the registration desk, tweeting to my ever-growing following, mostly in America. Completely ignored by my colleagues, I received weekly marriage proposals from heritage-mad Americans. If I was going to marry, I wanted to fall deeply, head-over-heels in love, something which by the age of 24, I despaired would never happen.
I wasn’t exactly ugly, but I would never claim to be pretty, just thin with a little more on my hips than I would like, and a little less on my chest. With mahogany hair and brown eyes, I didn’t project as the typical Scot, and I usually hid my tartan as underwear. As heiress, I was expected to wear it in public at all times.
“Do you think you could point me to the café?” he had asked. I couldn’t identify his accent – possibly English, or more likely American or Canadian. Whatever it was, he had an English intonation, probably from having lived in England for a long time. He reminded me of my father when I was quite young. He didn’t make it past my tenth birthday, but he was tall and proud, yet shy, perhaps too shy. My mother had explained that he had married late because of that shyness, but like her mother, she had always had her eye on older men. Hence, our branch of the family was severely matriarchal.
“It’s out that door, bear to the right, and look for the sign for the Brasserie near the archway,” I replied, sounding as cheery and Scottish as I could. Like many of the “upper-class” Scots, I was raised with an English accent, but in public I tried my best to sound Scots. An Edinburgh accent was easier than Glaswegian, so I opted for that, but it telegraphed my otherness.
Ten minutes later, he was back. “I’m afraid I couldn’t find it.”
Bored and underutilized, I answered, “I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you so much,” he replied.
Halfway there, I broke an awkward silence, asking, “Are you giving a paper?”
“No. My wife wanted to visit Glasgow, and when she heard about this conference, she found a reason to drag me along. I’m not really an analyst.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a composer. Are you in the Music Department here?” he asked, finally showing some initiative.
In that brief exchange, I had decided I liked him. I liked him a lot. I fancied him, in fact. “I’m a post-grad pianist,” I replied. “What kind of music do you write?”
“Instrumental, mostly. I’m very slow, however, so I don’t have a huge works list.”
“Anything for piano? I play a lot of contemporary stuff when I can, and I’m putting a recital programme together now.”
“A few pieces.”
At that point, we arrived at the Brasserie. “This is the place,” I announced.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I’ll see you later.”
I didn’t want to leave him, but it would seem awkward, and I needed to return to my post.
I met a great new man today!
What was it about him? He was shy, quiet, and had come contrary to his own volition. He was also married. Like my father, he was blond with a little grey on his severely balding head, tall and awkward, not physically awkward, just socially. We had that in common.
“He’s a composer,” I tweeted.
“Is he famous?” my following asked. I hadn’t even read his name tag.
“No. Probably not,” I tweeted. I didn’t want to divulge how little I knew him, nor that in a quarter of an hour, he had become my obsession. I looked through the list of delegates, ticking the names of those who were giving papers, narrowing the field to six who weren’t. Two of those, I knew by sight, so he was one of four that remained, all from English universities.
When he returned a half hour later, his coat obscured my view of his name tag. He waved as he passed, slipping quietly into the back row of a session, discussing some arcane theoretical analysis. At one particularly mind-numbing proposition by the speaker, he glanced at me and rolled his eyes. I fought the urge to go and sit next to him as had the other volunteer who had joined the audience. Someone had to sit at the desk, and it allowed me to discreetly thumb my iPhone.
“What’s he like? Is he a hunky Scot?” asked USclanHunter.
“He’s a kind and thoughtful man,” I tweeted, “Not a Scot, but tall and wiry. Could have some Scots blood, though.”
After the paper, he disappeared into the toilets. Again, I was tempted to plant myself near his place in the back row, but the next paper promised to be worse: Row formation and ascendancy in the works of Babbitt.
Ugh! Too much mathematics.
Minutes later he was back in his seat, thumbing a pencil and doodling on a pad of manuscript paper. He glanced towards me, smiled and redirected his gaze towards Sinead, an Irish third-year undergraduate, staring at her for several minutes as if mesmerized. Like me, she was tall and thin, with long straight chestnut hair and hazel eyes. She had long elegant fingers, perfect for strumming languid glissandi on her harp.
Prettier than me. I was out of luck.
Again, he looked back at me and smiled. Was he embarrassed? I’d caught him eyeing a pretty young woman. Impetuously, I snapped a picture of him with my phone. He chuckled, feigning disapproval.
“Eirica?” Oops! I’d been caught by Hamish McCreedy, the director of the conference.
“Yes?” I replied, turning innocently towards him on the other side of the desk.
“I’ve got to chair the next session. Would you mind taking some more pictures?”
“Sure, why not?” I answered, taking his fancy camera from him.
“Maybe you can upload them onto my laptop later. I’m not that great with technology, and I have to make sure the delegates can find the restaurant for dinner.” I hadn’t been invited to the formal dinner, unfortunately. Only the students in the analysis seminar had, but none had bothered to come to the conference.
I decided that I could take some photos for myself, too. After asking Sinead to look after the desk, I slipped up the aisle towards the front of the hall. I shot a few obligatory photos of the speaker, the audience, and then my man, deep in thought, ignoring the speaker altogether. He wrote something down and glanced back at Sinead.
At the break, he sipped a cup of tea while another delegate rattled on about something inane. Not on tea duty, I milled around and snapped a few more pictures. The other delegate said something to Sinead as he caught her walking past. While she explained something to him, my friend watched on, more interested in her, perhaps than the other delegate, a loud American who had delivered a paper earlier in the day. My friend asked her something, to which she nodded in my direction.
Instead of my friend, the American made his way towards me. “I hear you have played the Boulez Second Sonata,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. My friend had taken the opportunity to disappear back into the lecture hall.
“Yes,” I replied, “last year.”
“I wonder if you would be interested in looking at this piece of mine?” he asked, producing a score from his briefcase.
I looked at his name tag: George Coulter, Yale University. “Sure,” I replied taking the score. “I’m not sure when I’ll have time. I’ve got a recital coming up.”
“Maybe you’ll consider performing it.”
“I’ve already picked the programme,” I lied. “It’s an all British affair, I’m afraid.”
“Take your time,” he said. “It’s very difficult, and I’m told you are the only person around here that could even consider it.”
“Perhaps,” I shrugged. There were others who could play it, but they were consumed by romantic composers, like Chopin, Liszt or Alkan. He was trying to butter me up.
“Let me know if you decide to play it. I’ll come out for the performance. I was hoping to visit again next summer, if you find anything appropriate.”
“I’ll have a look at it, but I won’t guarantee anything.”
A captive, I listened to him prattle on and on about the theory of his music, asking what composers I liked, and if I had played so-and-so’s music – I hadn’t heard of him. Soon, I was rescued by a greying American woman, who asked him something about the dinner. I stood by politely as they spoke for a few moments, then indicated that I was obliged to take a few more pictures. I took one of the pair of them, and then fled back to the hall.
My friend was back in his seat, texting a message to someone before slipping his phone into his pocket. I took the opportunity to snap another picture of him. He moved like a ballet dancer, every motion finished to the tips of his fingers, even as his eyes followed Sinead back into the hall.
Sitting at the registration desk, I looked back through Hamish’s pictures, finding one of me giving directions to my friend. I would save that one for myself. In the meantime, I took a look at the one on my iPhone. Perfect! It caught his relaxed grace with a hint of a smile. I posted it to my Facebook page, so my friends could see him.
“I think I’m in love,” I twittered. I don’t know why I posted that. I wasn’t in love. This was an infatuation, and since he was married, he could only ever be a sperm donor for me. I didn’t want to marry anyway, but I would gladly take him as a lover.
About halfway through the next session, he received a text, packed up and left. The next morning, he arrived after the first session, waving a subtle hello to me before taking his seat. I had downloaded eleven pictures of him from Hamish’s camera and posted them all. I limited my personal comments about him to Twitter, where I could remain anonymous.
Although Sinead sat two seats away from my friend, there was no interaction between them. She was too close for all but the odd glance. At the lunch break, however, he walked straight over to me and handed me his business card. “I don’t ordinarily push my music on people, but you can listen to a couple of excerpts on my website, and if you are interested, I’ll send you a score. I’ve got a long set of piano pieces and a piano concerto that has never been played. I hope you don’t mind. You expressed interest yesterday, and I … well … that set me thinking …” he trailed off, looking embarrassed.
Arlen Stewart from Leeds University. Now I had a name for him. “That’s okay,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Eirica Johnstone, by the way.”
“I know,” he smiled. “I read your name tag,” he chuckled.
“Are you from around here?” he asked, clumsily making conversation.
“My family is from Dunrig, down on the Clyde, not far away. I live on campus during the week, though.” That wasn’t what he was asking. “Do you live in Leeds?”
“York, actually. I’m only at the university one day a week.”
“Are you … American?” I asked, not wanting to let him go so quickly.
“Yes, I grew up in Chicago, but I’ve lived here for a long time.”
“If you’ll forgive me, I’m sorry I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you.”
“I’m not surprised,” he shrugged. “I’m better known in the States, but not particularly well known anywhere. I teach, mostly.”
“Here, let me give you my email. That way you can …” Too forward. Damn.
“No,” he interrupted. “If you like my work, contact me, but … you know … professors befriending students … that’s not …”
“I don’t mind …”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he interrupted again. “Check me out, and then we’ll see. You can’t be too careful these days.”
If it was an obsession before, now it had grown to trust … and desire … mostly desire.
“I wouldn’t want to get an irate phone call from your parents.”
“No chance of that. Both are dead,” I replied bluntly.
“Anyway,” he said, trying to divert the conversation. “I have to sneak out during the next session, so I thought I’d speak to you now.”
“Do you fancy some lunch,” I asked, desperate for more time with him.
“I’m meeting my wife. I’m not sure she’d understand.”
“Well if I don’t see you before you go, have a safe trip home.”
I did see him, but his wife had joined him, so all he did was nod when he left. Although he continued to stare at Sinead during the session, he again instigated no contact with her. I’d won.
During the late session, I looked at his website. He had a few well-formed works listed and some excerpts from the piano piece. I loved it. I think.