Modern soul

I booked in to the little B&B in Blackpool, feeling like a child on my best Sunday School behaviour with the landlady.

I had got a good deal with one of the DJs for mine and Trina's wristbands. He said to meet him when he was DJing. I was politely stopped at the entrance to the Hilton by a tall black man with dreadlocks (the hope is, that suggests "fear") who after my explanation, escorted me to the DJ booth. I paid for two wristbands, then ran out of the hotel to meet John who was staying at the Imperial next door, for our evening meal. At some point outside the entrance I lost Trina's wristband. I retraced my steps, I asked everyone, and eventually gave up and went to meet John.

I didn't know it would work just with John, as we normally go out with Ian as well, but we got on very well, partly because, I suspect, I am the more dominant personality, so benefit more from apparently shared decisions. A beautiful thirtysomething woman with brown hair curved in an angled bob was dancing in front of me in a tight red dress which stopped just above her knees.

Apart from at the British Sociological Association conference at Glasgow in 2010, I don't think I've ever seen such a good-looking collection of women in one room. There's a time to dance and a time to talk intelligently about global localities in postcolonialist discourse. The two aren't incompatible in theory, except that it is a reliable general rule that academics can't dance; their class background and devotion to a disinterested life inhibit it.

Trina was to arrive the next day around lunchtime. From waking up, I was cock-stiff with expecting her, and my attempts not to wank thinking about her failed at about 10am. I regretted it, a selfish waste of desire.

She arrived at midday just as John was wondering where I was. She was wearing a black wrap-around top showing her tits off, black trousers, and this lovely pink scarf tied around her neck. She looked pretty; her beautiful Polish-Welsh black hair. She made herself a cup of coffee and I tried not to hover too much. Please don't say you want a shower or spend fucking ages on your clothes and your hair and your make-up. "We could have a little lay down for a minute, couldn't we?" I said. We had a lovely slow sex. I was quite relieved I could still come despite my actions earlier.

We spent hours and hours on the dancefloor. She flagged at about half past two, saying she wanted to go back. I said I wanted to stay and so I walked her to the hotel then went back to the Hilton. I got back at 6am, was very quiet as I got in, had a shower and crept into bed next to her.

At 8.30 she was stomping around the room, and went to pull the covers off me. I was confused and tired. I got up, only for an unwanted breakfast. "Are you pissed off with me?" I said. "Yes," she said. "You're only staying out that late because of your reputation. You said it would end at 5am and I was really worried. I woke up at 5.30 and you weren't here so I got up and thought you had been attacked and I looked out the window and you weren't there. Why do you have to stay out so late?"

This is where it ends.

"Trina, darling, I didn't realise it was so important to you. Of course if I'd have known it was so important to you I'd have got back at 5. I'd never ever do anything to hurt you deliberately. I'm sorry, I really am. I don't want to upset you."

There was a lot of stroking and kissing and she apologised and said it was because she hadn't had enough sleep. "You bastard, you're charming me out of it now."

OK it's forgotten. But you ever start setting me a schedule and I'll walk away from you. Frozen out, deleted.

We went downstairs for our polite breakfast where we talked amicably about our spat with the landlady. "He only got in at 6," Trina said. "I know," said the landlady, "I saw him when I went to get the papers." "That's the disadvantage of going out with an older bird," I said.

Back on the boat on Monday the candles were glowing and we'd had a bottle of champagne and one of wine each. "So, when are you going to tell me about your drug habit?"

I stopped. "I knew you'd had something. You changed. You came out of the loo and you were like you'd had four, five pints, but you'd only had one. It's just... I'm disappointed that you think I'm so headmistressy that you can't tell me. Why didn't you say 'I'm just going to nip in here for a bit of speed'?"

"But I can't tell you straight away," I said. "I was leading up to it. I've told you some of my friends are into drugs--that was an implication that I am as well--but you can't say things immediately." "It's just the lack of trust. It's that little half-second before you say anything."

The account of the next hour would be tediously repetitious, but honesty turned into lust. "I'd have been OK," she said. "I just wish you could have said at the time." "Do you know what I want to say at this particular time?" as we stood up kissing, with her hand on my cock. "I want to give you a fuck."

We started taking each others' clothes off, bottom half first. I scraped her trousers off with my foot. As she walked in the narrow corridor between the living room and the bedroom, my foot was on the trailing leg of her trousers and she went crashing into the door of the loo. I picked her up, laughing, and dragged her onto the bed. Nearly helpless, she laid laterally on the bed with her bum on its edge. I lay on her and reached back and grasped her heels with my hands.

As she drove us back to Lancaster, she put her hand on my thigh. "We've got through a few things this weekend haven't we?" I put all my washing in the machine and she was laughing at the way I was hanging it out, shaking her head, and rearranging the pegs on my trousers.

---

Edit: because no-one ever knows what Modern Soul is (it is not Northern or Motown), here's a contender for my Track of the Weekender. Dancing to this with a woman I fancy is one of the sexiest things I can imagine doing.