I feel as though I have been unfaithful, to myself, and unfair to the man who shared my bed. Earlier in the day, yesterday, I told Gemma that I was just going to have to get used to the idea that I will never have sex ever again. I did not utter false words, I was sincere and in a place of acceptance so imagine my surprise when I found myself pinned like a butterfly and stroked like a fractious horse at the close of the very same day.
He is older than any man I've ever slept with before, I can not deny that this was something I was thinking about this morning when I made a break for couch. Other factors in the couch move included feeling dire, very dire and like something was going to explode out of my stomach and then my head and also possibly my bowel.
The man, I should call him something. I shall call him Zissou. Zissou was astonishing. Everything was slow and monumental like an ancient calling. Zissou worshiped me like I was a temple. His hands, strong calm hands reminded my skin that it is skin. It was a slow revealing of nerve endings and the connectedness of all my parts. I could not help but think of a dressage master working a temperamental horse in hand. I know this will not make sense to anyone who has not calmed a horse with long slow strokes using their whole being to transfer safety through velvet skin.
I was selfish and he was willing me to be selfish. I regret now running to the couch for solitude but I felt at the time that what had happened was something so astonishing I needed to inflate a bubble of self to hold to me just a little bit longer.
Of course I would not be myself without moments of spaz, it was not all golden light with nerves on fire. At one point I started to ask if he had read any Sartre because I am reading "What is literature" and am keen to hear people's opinions on the book. I am fairly sure that the question was inappropriately asked, needless to say it went unanswered.
