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Horny
Chaka Khan was sixty on Saturday, and I turned forty-nine.
Trina gave me a bottle of cider and a long-desired book. Kirsty's card was of a photograph of a presumably American place name called Ponce. It came with a badge with an arrow pointing to the left beneath the word "ponce". My brother gave me a horn for my bike. It's very loud and Trina is angling for a similar one for her narrowboat, as there are several blind corners on the canal.
I cocked up the birthday plans. Several weeks ago I said I'd found a Modern Soul All-Dayer happening on my birthday, so after depillation and polishing ourselves, we set off to Accrington. We got to the hotel at about 5pm. We wandered around a garish, tightly-skirted, morning-suited wedding party, the guests' sartorial sophistication matching that of the corporate decor, listening for anything that might sound like Modern Soul music.
Eventually we gave up and asked the receptionist. "It starts at 8.30," she said. Oops. Trina took it well, but said "What the fuck do we do now for three hours in Accrington? Shall we go home?" As we left, we saw a sign indicating that it was Northern and Motown, and I was relieved that she had scrapped the plan, as five hours of Northern Soul is four hours and fifty-five minutes too much.
Back at mine, we put a fire in, opened some wine, then went upstairs for a euphemism. The back of my hand brushed against her silver earrings, which she hadn't taken off, and in the ever unexpected way that sex works, I found the sensation of the small metal pieces against my hand exciting and erotic. I was going to say something to her about it but sometimes sensations are diminished by being described.
Following evening, in the pub, Trina was telling Wilma about how we had been talking about moving in together. Having an argument about it and falling out over it, I'd have phrased it. It's a bit of a fault line between us. I think living together would ruin the relationship, and also make me unhappy.
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