"Are you feeling alright Dad? You look a bit vacant." I am in Kirsty's living room, standing around, waiting to get the bus to see Daniella. "No, I feel fine. I just feel a bit overdressed." I'd told them I was going out for a bit of a knees-up at Really Late. Jenny perspicaciously said "Will you be the only man?" "Yes, it's all women apart from me." She does a headmisstressy finger-wagging. Well...remember Dad, you've got Trina."
On my dating profile, I include the information in the righthand column of this blog. She texted a couple of days ago saying that if I had anything, she'd be happy to take me into the shed, as long as I shared it about. I was very glad to hear her ask, even though I had to reply that the cupboard is bare at the moment.
She meets me off the bus, takes me to her house. Immediately the front door is closed, we are snogging. "Right," she said. "I'll just go and slip into something less comfortable. The blue dress, by request."
We go outside, into her garden. "Put on some music if you like." Must we? I choose Miles Davis's noodling Sketches of Spain, on the basis that it's the easiest of her CD collection to ignore, especially if a guest craftily turns the volume down a few notches. Neither of us are interested in it and we get back to snogging. "Shall we have a lay down?" she says.
It's all white, the sort of bedroom where my gums will start bleeding or I will wake up to find I've left some sort of mysterious mouth-blob on the pillow. We lay down on the bed. My legs are sticking off the edge and I wish we could move up a bit, but am afraid to dispel any spell that might be developing. I'm too conscious of everything, regretting only having had one pint beforehand; sobriety is a curse. She gets up and goes to unzip the dress, but I want to do that. She is wearing lovely black underwear. I hold her tits whilst standing behind her. She says "fuck, fuck, fuck," over and over again. That might be a bit difficult at the moment.
Back on the bed, my cock refuses to play. I wonder whether it is despite, or because, she's so good-looking. I start feeling that I am with someone who is out of my league; a worry about her seeing my cock, which I am trying to hide, which is mixed up in my head with a sense of class inferiority, what with her spangly bathroom and 300K house. I try for as long as I can not to mention my useless lack of an erection, but eventually I mutter, "Sorry--nerves. First time."
She's made six different dishes, on a Middle Eastern theme. We share a bottle of Prosecco and I am increasingly anxious to drink more. For a few moments, immediately we've signalled we've finished, I think the evening is finally going to take off. I put my hand under the table and start stroking her skirt hem, where it tightens along her thighs. Reaching under her skirt, I grasp her knickers in my fist and pull them tightly up her cunt. She scrapes the chair backwards and I stand in front of her; she takes my cock and puts it in her mouth; the sight and feel of my unhard cock. We somehow slide onto the kitchen floor, on our knees. I hope we'll just invent something. "Let's go onto the carpet instead," she says.
We move the couple of feet into the living room. She bends over the dresser and takes it with both hands. She tries sucking my cock again, but it doesn't work, so I gently ease her down onto the floor and start licking her cunt, the time-honoured erection failure avoidance tactic.
We settle back on the settee and talk easily enough. "Everyone," she says disparagingly about the G---'s dating website, "is looking for the one," which made me hope that she was implying that she wasn't interested in sexual fidelity. For some reason, and despite the relative lack of drink, I start feeling very tired, at only something past eleven. She suggests I go to bed while she tidies round, and I'm again aware that I'm not acquitting myself very well. I do so, forgetting to brush my teeth, a fact about which I am embarrassed when, too late, I realise my error. She comes to bed in a slinky red slip; still the same. She is playing all the cards she knows, and they are stacking up to a pack of let-downs. All this crap about there being lots of equally satisfying ways to have sex. All women I have ever been with want, at some point, a good rodding.
The following morning, we are standing together in her kitchen. I am aware of the tooth-brushing error and ask for a different knife with which to spread my marmalade from that which I used for the butter as a way of compensating, with an excess of fastidiousness, for forgetting to brush my teeth. She makes a mocking joke about me being posh and I am making an effort with the conversation, and another effort in making it look like it's effortless. "You can sit down if you like," she says. "You don't have to hover." I do as I'm told, trying to amble to the chair as though I had just had the same idea. I can't even eat toast correctly.
She drives me back into town. In Sainsbury's car park, we have another snog. My catalogue of errors still doesn't seem to have introduced the slightest physical froideur. It's only half past ten but I go to a pub and compose a long text to Kim.
"[...] I'd like to pursue this one. She's quite an A-list girl. Clever, sharp, fit, takes the piss, good cook, but basically sees dinner as an excuse to spend the evening fucking. Not sure, but might not be into monogamy."
Kim's reply is sympathetic but urges me to recover the situation. Next time, I'm going to go equipped with more drink, and perhaps contact Mr Patel, who runs the most reputable online pharmacy in all of Rawalpindi. I have to clear this hurdle in my mind of being inferior, and then we're away.
