By way of an apology, I go out and spend a small fortune on a big, fat, juicy, organic steak for him which I can always eat myself if push comes to shove...or shove comes to push... his face in it.
I don’t really know why I get so aggressive about MLP! Everything he’s ever done to upset me has mostly taken place inside my own head. He is a good, decent, caring, genuine, polite, helpful, sweet and honest human being but if he’s not calling or texting me every hour on the hour, I turn into a paranoid schizophrenic. If he was, it would drive me mad anyway, which says more about me than it does about him.
He arrives on time (as always) and my heart melts (as always) when I see his darling face. He looks lovely: clean and scrubbed and shiny, hair very neatly slicked back, and smartly dressed. He’s ready to go straight out to the Comedy Club, but looks mighty relieved when I tell him I’ve binned that idea and we’re staying home.
I cook the dinner which he eats with much gusto and appreciation. He does the washing up and we go into the living-room, then out onto the balcony. It’s a balmy night and he stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. I lean back into him and feel him grow hard as he presses himself towards my buttocks.
A shudder of desire rises swiftly in me and I arch my back and rest my head against his shoulder. He nuzzles my neck and I angle myself into him feeling his erection through the cloth of his jeans. He starts to unbutton them then lowers his hand and unzips mine. The street is quiet below, and we giggle conspiratorially as we both drop our trousers and start to make love al fresco. He thrusts into me, panting in rhythm, enjoying the risky business of not being rumbled by the neighbours.
Apart from being afraid of toppling off the balcony, the position we're in is not very comfortable. Call me old-fashioned, but I like making love in a big white bed. MLP climaxes suddenly but I don’t and he withdraws, puts himself away and we go back inside. My emotions are now all over the place and I suddenly decide I want to have A Talk. What I really need is An Orgasm.
I ask how he would feel if tonight were the last night we were to spend together and he looks at me as if he’s about to burst into tears. I quickly tell him it isn’t, but how would he feel if it was? Without missing a beat, he says he would miss me a helluva lot, that he is very attached to me, that he thinks about me all the time, talks about me all the time, but wishes he was older. How sweet is that? (It never occurs to me to say that I wish I was younger!)
We talk around the issue of his wanting children and I joke about us adopting a Cambodian orphan. The fact is we both know our thing must end at some point. I tell him I would never wish to curtail his freedom nor divert him away from the path of his life. Much...
He says again how much he loves being with me, and when he comes to my flat it’s like ‘coming home’. He adores being looked after and cooked for and I make him feel like a very special man. I suggest, in that case, that we just continue to enjoy the basic fundamentals of life which are food and sex. After all, what more do we need from each other?
He hugs me tightly and asks if I will always be his ‘special friend’. I say ‘Of course, and one day I want you to phone me and say ‘Wendy, I’ve just had a son…’ but I don’t really mean it. I don't see myself as Fairy Godmother to some ex-toyboy's kid but another relationship.
There is a bittersweet sorrow to our being together, feeling strongly for each other yet knowing a future is impossible. I really love him tonight and I know, in his own way, he loves me. And yet I can hear the clock ticking and the sound is growing louder and louder...