Trina and I at loggerheads again

As usual, the glass of Gueuze alerts those of a nervous disposition to the presence of saucy content in the post which follows.

To Prestatyn.

The hotel immediately wanted payment, and we had to fill in a form ticking boxes saying what we wanted for breakfast and what time we wanted it. "Please arrive at your specified time as we cannot keep food warm due to Health and Safety Regulations", it said.

Our room reeked of smoke and the vicious perfumes that had been used in the unsuccessful attempt to conceal this. An ashtray was provided in the room. The single towel provided for me had four holes in it and the dangling bits of cobwebs were of a 1997 vintage. There was no bath, nor even soap, and the tiny room, behind a sliding door, containing the shower and the toilet, was unheated.

The hotel's lavish provision of toiletries.

We went to have a drink in the bar. Trina, with her usual thoughtfulness, had booked it because it's one of the very few places in Prestatyn where they serve real ale. In the bar, I requested a sample of a beer unknown to me. "Well, we're not allowed to really, but seeing as he's away..." The barmaid and I discussed this policy, and she said, "Well his argument is that you can always buy a half and if you don't like it don't drink any more." Posters in an aggressive sans serif said NO PROOF OF AGE - NO SERVICE - NO ARGUMENT. I started feeling that the place was run by a controlling, suspicious, lazy, insecure man who would be better suited to working in a biscuit factory.

We got our drinks and sat down. Trina said she'd gone back internet dating the same evening when she thought we'd split up. Me too.

Within half an hour of her returning to the site she had been contacted by a black man who likes wildlife photography, but without contacting him she changed her profile to say that she'd got back with her "boyfriend" and was happy about this.

Talking, drinking, and stroking each other, we started talking about how much we like flirting. With disinhibited enthusiam I wanted to tell her the details of my flirtations with Fitbit, but, remembering some recent penalties of honesty, I checked myself.

St Asaph has a local reputation for being posh, but The Plough has canned music and 42-inch TVs switching between black people being murdered on some incomprehensible tribal-religious basis, (a bit like Glasgow) and rehashes of bits of tricky foot movement from the FA Cup.

A to-be-married couple, the fiancée's Dad and his new girlfriend, me and Trina. The fiancée was more attractive than I remembered her, with her hair developing a kink in the lower half of its tit-stroking length. Her V-necked top was dark blue and it had white butterflies of varying sizes of it. Her Dad was wearing a thick creme zip-up top. I was a bit pissed on everyone's generosity. "Garstang is a place where you go to give up," I announced, enjoying the audience. "You get to your mid-fifties and think, 'This is all the sex I'm ever going to have, so I'm going to move to Garstang'." "You can talk for two" said Trina, privately.

In our stinking room, Trina went off into a deep sleep, giving stentorian warnings to shipping in Liverpool Bay. I tried to find a place in the bed in which my ribs weren't stamped with the mattress springs, or just lay awake, eyes open, helpless.

In the middle of the night I started thinking about a frequently repeated fantasy, of laying in bed with an asleep Denise. My cock hardens against her arse, but she doesn't respond, and I silently get out of bed, stand by the side and push my cock against her red-lipsticked lips. After gently wanking my cock against her lips, I push it further into her mouth, but meet her teeth. "Mmmm?" She slowly comes to. "It's alright Denise, just open your mouth a bit." "Nnnn... what?" I push my cock into her mouth, watching her red lips move against it. "It's alright. Just suck it darling, just suck it, it's OK." My cock was rigid and I tried to move Trina's hand onto it but she was snoringly, resolutely asleep.

In the morning, I had one of the wretched breakfasts that cheap British hotels serve. White bread, instant coffee, plastic sachets of brown sauce. A 50something minimum wage female skivvy came round to ask if everything is alright. Of course it's not, this breakfast is shit. But I'm not telling you, because you're being paid 6.20 an hour to insulate the manager from any criticism.

We found a cafe which had proper coffee, then set off on a muddied, picturesque route back. We stopped at a country park for petrol and chocolate. I got out of the car and dashed off for a piss round the back of an enclosure where they keep bits of wood and the bilingual signs.

Back in the car we set the sat nav to find the village where her mother was born. She wanted to stop to look at the sign, and made an unnecessary apology for detaining us with her nostalgia.

The motorway was dangerous, full of rainspray. Like all drivers, she thinks of herself as competent and experienced. As a non-driver, I tense with her recklessness, overtaking into a lorry's foggy wheel mist at 70mph. We got to Lancaster and I kissed and held her with an overtone of apology I'm sure she understood. I'm too tired my love, because of your snoring and that journey. It doesn't mean you don't turn me on.