My lunch date with Home Boy was delightful so I invite him to my home for dinner, and he can stay over in my spare room if he would like to drink. That keeps the pressure off, but I hope for more. Knowing my track record at looking stand-offish, I doubt I’ll get so much as a kiss.
I go for a pretty, vintage lace skirt to show off brown legs and to ape the successful girly girls on the dating sites. I make the invitation to stay in the spare room very clear as we open the wine.
He is non-committal, which I guess is encouraging. I am finding him attractive, but have no idea if he feels the same. He seems to be holding back on the wine so my spirits sink a bit.
Coffee in the drawing room and we are sitting side by side on the Chesterfield. I try to do the whole open body language thing, lots of eye contact, everything they tell you about flirting on reality TV shows. I am doing my very best to be stand-onnish.
After a small lull, he says, “I wonder if I might possibly kiss you”. Slightly awkward, charmingly Hugh Grantish. After all the body language malarkey, of course I say yes.
The kiss is sexy and I am getting turned on. But after 15 minutes of this, it really is time to step it up a notch. Or stop. But he goes on and on. Just kissing and kissing. It’s like we are ruddy teenagers.
I am starting to get irritated. And extremely aroused. A fairly invidious combination that results in me blurting out: “Shall we go to bed?”
As Hugh Grant would say… ‘bugger’. I have blown the moment again. He asks me if I am sure. What the hell does he expect me to say? No, I was joking! Actually it’s my code for “time to go home”? And in all honesty, I would like to have sex after all that tongue action. So I say that I am quite sure and we go upstairs.
After six months of a great sex life with The Muddy Farmer, I am not particularly nervous, apart from being with someone new. He is another matter entirely. I can’t see any matters arising in his pants. He is lovely, touchy and passionate and I am enjoying the foreplay.
We get fully undressed and I like his body, lean, toned and muscular. I watch him as he takes his pants down. “What are you staring at?” he asks. “Do you expect me to be a girl or something?” Taken aback, I reply that I just like looking at his body.
Then I notice he has a big scar below his navel and ask him whether he has had a shark bite. He says he will tell me in the morning. He is wonderful in bed with his tongue and fingers. In other respects there is very little going on. Well, not a dickie-bird, in actual fact. But there is an emotional bond there. I can feel it.
Over coffee the next morning, he tells me the story of the scar. He had had an operation for cancer and had been very sick for two years. Now in the clear and one year on, his dick can have a mind of its own.
He has had sex since with several other women and a largely good sex life in a recent six-month relationship. He adds that this is a massive adjustment as he was quite a stud until his op. I am massively impressed at his calm, openness and lack of self-pity.
On departure he says he will understand if I don’t want to take him on and to give it serious thought. I decide to see how I feel in 24 hours. I send him a text the next day that the food for thought he gave me is very digestible as far as I am concerned.
I might be crazy as having a full-on physical relationship is a top priority. But he is the first guy I have met who I feel something for in my heart. And that strange and unexpected emotion is not especially welcome so soon after my split with my husband.
I rename him The Delightful Dick, as his real name is Richard. I hope it becomes a valid nickname soon, but for now I can enjoy the irony.
Real life. Just as complex as the internet. Bugger.