Lancaster sex seduction: pie and peas

Where do you take a new girlfriend for a classy dinner in Lancaster? We had butter pie, peas and gravy in the little pie shop on Penny Street run by chatty overweight women in tabards.

Her clothes were so plain, a black scooped-necked T-shirt and jeans, yet I wanted to be all over her and she knew all afternoon I was after her tits. We went to the Ring O'Bells and its lovely garden of bees and wrens and blackbirds and herbs. I went to get another drink for us, and in the bar, a man said "Are you in the garden?" "Yes." "What are you doing there?" "Courting. I've got a young lady out there." "Oh, oh ,oh," he said, raising his palm apologetically. "It's alright," I said.

Keith arrived and sat down as we were mid-snog. "I'm bet you're glad I turned up," he said, laughing. He talked to her about canal boats for a while and I tried to join in while wishing he'd have the courtesy to fuck off.

We walked round the Castle, past the Priory Church and down onto the sward, me cocking my left foot, for I've a hole in my shoe. We stopped on a path and kissed. "I can't wait till we take each others' clothes off again," she said, which hardened my cock, as I sloped my hands again and again around the tits I wanted to hold and stroke. All the time not wanting to damage one of her most precious traits--the hesitancy of her kissing, which is a gift, a precious resource of sex. The Quay is now lined with flats facing the wrong way, and I felt watched, but I wanted to lift her T-shirt up above her tits to see them pushing out underneath a scrunch of fabric.

We went to the Sun. As we walked into the garden, she said "You're bound to know someone here." And there were Neil and Kev, my Dickens collaborators. Neil was tactlessly obtrusive, introducing me and Trina to the female graphic designer we've employed, but, unlike her and Kev, not picking up on increasingly blunt indications that I wanted to be with Trina. Having eventually extracted ourselves to another table, Trina said "I see what you mean. Poor lass, stuck with them all afternoon."

We were chatting closely, not looking at anyone else, talking about what puddings we both like, since it's been decided that I'm going to make her her tea soon. Sussex Pond Pudding and Steamed Treacle Pudding were mentioned. The pest that was Neil came over, dispelling our intimacy. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," he said fumbling with his mobile phone. "I'd like to show you the picture that Ingrid has done of Dickens. 'Ingrid!'" he shouted, and beckoned her over. "No no no really, it's very good," I said, and gave a thumbs up to Ingrid. "Really. We'll talk about this tomorrow." Kev, more aware, recalled him.

We snogged on the platform and I went off to do my voluntary work at Really Late, which, after a few phone calls, I found had been cancelled. I sent her a text saying how lovely she looked, how she always leaves me feeling half-fucked although soon, I want to be fucked properly, and how much I'm looking forward to seeing her in London on Monday.

It's all so uncomplicated with Trina. No fucking thinking.