Tag: romance

Tea Set

I can’t believe I was foolhardy enough to invite Harry over when I was right in the middle of de-cluttering the spare room. I had already pulled all the junk out of that room and it was all over the floor in the living room and hall. It was well past the stage where I could just shove the junk back where it came from. The only way out was through. That’s why I’ve been doing housework for 24 hours now and yet I’ve only just arrived at the stage where I can vacuum the floors.

Anyway, he is coming to tea tomorrow and I am looking forward to it. My house will be as clean as it ever gets by then and we will be able to use my Portmeirion tea set, which I have been looking forward to. I do love a nice tea set. This one even has matching spoons. You can get yours here.

Portmeirion is a pottery and also a highly unusual village and resort in North Wales. I remember my grandparents taking me when I was a kid. I’d like to return. Maybe I’ll go with Harry if we keep seeing each other.

portmeirion aerialviewofvillage

(c) http://www.portmeirion-village.com

Starry Skies, Chapter 7: Paint

Not the kind that artists use to make paintings. The kind you put on your face.

OK, first things first. Harry has finished his exams and we had our long-awaited second date. We went to the opera together, in fact we went to see the Charles Court Opera company perform The Magic Flute because I wanted to see it again and I thought he should see it as well. I was so happy that his exams are over and we can finally date like normal people.

I am a little bit self-conscious about my appearance right now because I am getting older and mostly because I weigh a massive 164 pounds due to eating too much ice cream. I am old and I am fat. Just in time for tonight’s date, I watched a YouTube beauty vlogger and realised that I have been doing my make-up all wrong, it is out of date and I use the wrong tools. There were things I hadn’t grasped about to how apply concealer correctly, also modern trends require less eyeliner but more eyebrow. I followed this girl’s tutorial as I was getting ready to go out and the result was very pretty and took 10 years off me, which I needed, due to being so fat. So if you are not 100% sure that you are doing your make-up right, or if you are just old like me, then you should watch this because she shows you the wrong way to do things and then the right way, which is so helpful. Includes contouring and highlighting.

brushes

So I went out with Harry, we both loved the opera. It was the first one he’d been to, he said it was amazing and I agreed. Then we had dinner (tuna steak, wine). Then we went to the tube station and there was kissing, he kissed me this time, slightly assertively.

Things I remember from tonight’s date:

  • The part where he said “You’re beautiful”, and placed his hand on my bare arm to reassure me and emphasise his point. I was grateful, you don’t take beauty or compliments for granted at my age. Also, I felt that Christen’s YouTube tutorial had paid off. Win.
  • The part where he took my hand so we could navigate the crowds in Islington (he did the same thing on our first date, as I recall). The surprise of having him take my hand and pull me through the crowd. The feel of his hand in mine, his slim bones.
  • The part where we were walking together and I put my arm around his narrow waist, the shape of him, slender and firm.
  • The part where we were sitting together at dinner, he was explaining complicated maths to me and his hands were trembling with barely-suppressed excitement or anxiety, not sure which.
  • The part where he didn’t try to have sex with me. The part where we agreed to meet for a third date next week, with no suggestion on either side that it needs to involve sex. Not yet. I think we are getting to know each other.

I have a little thing for him, you can tell. I wasn’t going to follow up with Chockney because I feel safer with Harry and I’m a little afraid of Chockney’s talk about relationships and commitment and not ‘being on your own’, whatever that is supposed to mean, probably something bad. But then I texted him anyway, mainly to make sure that he wasn’t planning to show up at the Magic Flute tonight, and that’s why we now have a date planned for this Saturday.

So that’s the state of my love life. Stay tuned for more dating news, which I bring to you as it happens.

Starry Skies, Chapter 5: Alain

Let us begin with Maxime. He seemed to be holding out a romantic fantasy of a spontaneous marriage. I suspected that I am far more reckless and up for romantic adventure than he is, so I thought it would be fun to start testing. I started picking out wedding packages in the Bahamas (I so want one of those), sent him links to long, dreary pre-marital counselling courses in London and asked him if he’d told his parents he was engaged. Ha ha, it was great. He tried to keep up but became uncomfortable. He said his parents wouldn’t care who he married (I think this unlikely) but he’d sent a message to his best friend to announce that he had found The One. I was just on the point of suggesting that we go ring shopping and consider waiting to have sex until after the wedding, when he cracked under the pressure and started getting to the point, which was that he did want sex after all and in fact had a shopping list of racy activities that he regarded as achievements and wanted to accomplish, this being the actual point of his messages to me. I knew it. I knew it all along. I mocked him and he stopped texting me. Job done. A pity, he was really good looking.

And now, a few more photos of Paris, and we will come to news of Alain in due course.

Paris was great. I was only there for three nights but several exciting things happened. I did some excellent business in Paris, finished one work project and secured a new contract for another. I took up drinking. I no longer drink, in my everyday life in London. I am more sensitive to alcohol than I used to be and only a small amount can give me an appalling hangover. To my surprise, I find that this doesn’t apply in other countries. I don’t know why. I can go to France or Chile or somewhere and sit in the blazing sun in the middle of the day, drink half a bottle of wine with lunch and think nothing of it. It was great. While in Paris, I drank a lot of Bordeaux. When I wasn’t eating out, I lived on Camembert, white peaches and strawberries. I did very little sight-seeing. I spent a lot of time in this utterly charming little room that I rented and this was because, unlike Chile, you can’t make love in the park. You have to stay indoors for that.

french window

You will notice that so far, in the epic romance known as Starry Skies, I have had absolutely no sex. There was one kiss at the tube station after I had dinner with Harry and that was it. It was time to remedy that. I received a visit from Alain, in fact he came every day, for three days.

Alain fell in love with me in London in 2015 and we had not seen each other since then. We kept in touch in between for business reasons and because I cannot fail to be interested in a man who is in love with me. I told him I was coming to Paris. He said he would like to have dinner with me. Plans evolved from there. Eventually the result was that he appeared in my tiny French room, in the evening. We sat at the table, in front of that window, and talked about business and generally caught up. Then we stood up, to go out for some reason, probably to get coffee or wine. We stood facing each other. He’s young. He’s slim. He’s wearing his bag over his shoulder, ready to go out. He’s staring at me very intently and we are exactly the same height, so we are eye to eye. Time stops. Both of us lean in, about one millimetre each. Then we kiss. Then, without saying anything, we take off our clothes and lie down on the bed, where we spend much of the next couple of days.

We came to know each other very well over that weekend. He just wanted to make love, it was really that simple. People in London are a bit obsessed with sex. Like Maxime, they often have a list of achievements that they are trying to fulfil, or they’re tamely experimenting with some kind of kink, or they’re building up the world’s largest collection of sex toys. Alain could not have been more removed from this culture. It was not his opinion that sex with someone who you’ve loved for two years needs to be equivalent to sport. He just wanted to make love, in a completely straightforward, unspoiled way that focuses on engaging with your partner and not on some irrelevant checklist with accompanying hardware. It was amazing, he did me a lot of good, I felt like I’d been to a spa. It was very cleansing and refreshing. We did a lot of gazing into each other’s eyes, kissing, saying each other’s names, giving massages. I felt renewed.

Not surprisingly, after three days of that, we’d formed quite a bond and saying goodbye was  hard. I cried and we spoke a mixture of English and French (I know more French than I think I do, when the occasion demands). He said “I will remember this weekend for the rest of my life.” Then he went back to his life in France, as we planned, and I had one morning left in Paris and then I needed to go back to London to see Harry and get on with some work.

After I arrived home in London, Alain emailed me to say thank you. He said he’d found a new confidence because of being with me. I was touched.

Starry Skies, Chapter 4: Maxime

Maxime is a mature man of 30. He is one of London’s 20,000 French ex-pats. He looks very French and is really unusually handsome. I did not burst into tears or feel as though I were going blind but there was certainly a sharp intake of breath. His message to me said this:

Dear Madame, I have read your whole profile and I feel as though I will never recover. You are The One. I am totally and completely in love with you. Please have pity on me. You have torn my heart from my chest.

I was rather taken aback, as you might imagine, but of course I replied, because who’s not going to reply to a message like that, especially when it comes from someone with the face of a romantic hero who is in London and not in Russia. We moved the conversation to Whatsapp, as one does, and I logged out of the dating app. I assumed he just wanted sex, which would not be very difficult to get, with his unusually handsome appearance, especially in a city like London, with a population of 8 million people. As such, the conversation might predictably have focused on simple, practical matters such as getting me to come out to meet him. Instead, there was a long conversation, lasting all evening and again the next morning, in which he continued in a similar vein and said things like this:

I love you already.

Please, don’t text anyone. Say you will be only for me.

I’m totally in love with you. I’m really serious.

I can’t look at any other woman now I’ve seen you. Please come and be with me.

I hardly knew what to say. He wasn’t asking for sex. I wasn’t even in London – as most of this was unfolding, I was in Spain. I avoided saying anything that directly referred to this imaginary relationship between us, because what could I say, so I made general remarks about love. I thought he would become bored and quit. I was wrong. At the end of Day 3, he proposed.

Marry me. Be my wife. I cannot live without you and I cannot love you any more than I do.

‘Why do you love me?’ I asked. ‘Because I was born to love you’, he confidently replied. ‘When I saw your face and read all your beautiful words, it was like being struck by lightning, I was shocked. I knew that you were the one I was made for. You are tender. You are passionate. You are beautiful. You think like me. You talk like me. You were made to love and be loved. I am here now. Let me love you. I am your husband.’

He would not give up. He insisted that he was serious. He proposed again and again. He begged me to come home to London. I let him think that I continued to stay in Spain. In fact, sceptical of his extravagant claims and in no mood to be diverted from a path I had already set for myself, I returned to London for a matter of 48 hours, just long enough to take care of some business and pack my suitcase afresh, and then I went to Paris, where another French man was awaiting me, whom we shall call Alain, after Alain Delon.

Starry Skies, Chapter 3: Dinner With Harry

While all this was going on, I continued to exchange messages with Harry, who little realised that while I was conscientiously and respectfully staying out of his room, I was attending church in the room of his Russian competitor and business rival, and being educated in the life and psychology of the camwhore. Consequently, I was not very surprised when he expressed an interest in having dinner with me, with a view to dating each other, yet found himself too terrified to talk to me beforehand by picking up the phone. 

Despite my new knowledge, it nonetheless struck me as slightly remarkable when he confessed, a couple of hours before our date, that he was very afraid to see me in case there was a repulsive and horrifying discrepancy between his ‘carefully curated photos’, as he put it, and his real, three-dimensional self. I was kind and gentle. I explained to him that I was talking to him despite his good looks and not because of them. I explained that he was holding my attention because of his obvious intelligence, academic ability, courtesy and self-effacing manner. He was very touched by this and said “thank you for your kind words”. I did not mention that the reason I was not attaching a lot of value to his physical appearance was because I had been blinded by his Russian counterpart, and everything that was not this holy Russian saint was cut from the same, everyday cloth.

Thus reassured, the shy, retiring little British porn star came out to meet me at a very nice Swiss restaurant in Soho. I was already seated when he arrived, five minutes late and full of apologies. He was a polite, sensitive little sweetheart, just as he was in his text messages. I quickly complimented him on his appearance, told him “you are much more attractive in real life than in your photos”, which was true, and he visibly heaved a sigh of relief. This, from a boy who has been taking his clothes off, for hundreds of gay men, almost daily, for two or three years.

We ate dinner and talked. We talked about my work and about his, using coded language so as not to upset the other diners. He was clever, sweet, funny, engaging. At one point he broke eye contact and turned his face away, looking at the ground. “You saw my photos”, he said, small pink roses of shame blooming in his cheeks. I did see his photos, because he gave me the link to his Tumblr, and what’s more, I Google Image searched him. Doing this caused me to see certain things that I wish I could unsee, because no nice, precious, valuable young boy or girl should be on the internet doing the things I saw in those pictures. His poor mother would have died. I don’t think he can have Google Image searched himself, otherwise those pink roses of shame would have been scarlet.

Anyway, despite all this anxiety and blushing, he managed to have a lovely time in my company, as one would hope. He very much enjoyed himself and we struck up quite a rapport. By the end of the evening he was almost jubilant and we had made plans to go to the opera and even go on holiday together in due course. We kissed at the tube station – as a 24-year-old sex worker who sells himself to his most loyal fans in a range of ways that I am not going to ask about, he proved quite capable of being kissed – and it seemed that a Dating Relationship had been formed. And so it came to pass that I found myself on my favourite dating app, suspending my account. In that small window of time, in a space of perhaps two minutes, between coming online and disappearing from public view, I received a message. A message from a French man who was about to say shocking things to me, henceforth known as Maxime.

**To Be Continued**

Romance

Work is very full-on, as I knew it would be. I am trying to satisfy my commercial clients and pay some bills in time to resume working at the world’s most horrible company next week.

Despite my packed schedule, I’ve managed to form a relationship with someone who isn’t the Person Who I Am Illicitly In Love With, so I thought I should quickly come online and share the good news while there is some.

I have a new companion. We have had three dates and are enjoying each other. He is a tall Scandinavian scientist. He is actually 33, I knew this before I met him. Then I immediately forgot and for some reason in my head he became 28. Then I started talking to him like a 28 year old and saying things like ‘don’t trust anyone over 30’ and ‘try not to grow up’. He didn’t correct me, which I find very amusing. I only realised my mistake yesterday. LOL.

Anyway so there we go, there is a new romance. So far so good. He’s now out of the country for about 3 weeks so I will report more news when I have it. This is just what I needed and I bought a new ultra-boosting bra to celebrate.

Tippa Irie: Hello Darling (1985)

Sleep.

We have just reached the end of Week 2 of the new super-strength happy pills. Going from 20mg to 30mg is quite a big jump. I asked my GP if I could expect a return of interesting side effects and she said ‘probably not’ but it turns out otherwise. I am basically OK and it isn’t like the first time around when I had every side effect in the book but I have been mostly asleep for about a week. I am hanging on in there because I overcame it pretty well before and therefore I think I will do so again when my body has adjusted to this new dose. I am also gaining weight quite rapidly because I am burning up approximately zero calories each day, but I am trying not to worry about it, I will lose it again when I am not so knocked out all the time.

Let me see what news there is. My period is back, so I guess that’s good. It was nice not having one but not so nice having to constantly wonder if it was going to show up at any minute on any given day. Now, not having had a period for two months, I’m bleeding quite hard, so that might also help to explain why I am so wiped out this week, I guess.

I went out last Thursday and had dinner with my friend D, scoring 1 Friends point.

The main news, I guess, is dating news. Do you remember back on 12 August when I blogged about two guys, William and Charlie? Well, William didn’t make it to a third date and has now gone to Canada, but Charlie … we are getting along beautifully. So nicely. He would be here now except I didn’t have the strength today to wash the dishes and change the sheets so I told him to wait until the weekend.

Charlie has spent the whole of the last two weekends with me, and one of them was an extra-long bank holiday weekend so we had a few days together. He is lovely. He is so easy to get along with. He is as pretty as a picture. Kind. Helpful – I never have to go out to the shops any more, he knows where all the local supermarkets, corner shops and restaurants are and is quite keen to do errands. He likes everything that I like – films, food, etc. He constantly tells me how beautiful I am. He doesn’t care if I’m a bit fat. The sex is great. He has a great work ethic and is pouring energy into his career, which is something I respect. Plus he is young and sharp so he dresses well, is fashionably groomed and knows all the sorts of Young Person things which are very important to know, like which are the hot new bands and what’s funny on the internet this week. 

Apparently he has spent TWO YEARS trying to get my attention on that dating website, and I was blind to his existence, mostly because of being in love with the Head Honcho and therefore uninterested in dating anyone else who wasn’t a supermodel.

When he was saying goodbye to me on Tuesday morning he said “I hate this part”. “I know”, I said, sympathetically, “we’ve been all warm and cosy indoors all weekend and now you have to go out in the cold and rain (for autumn has arrived early in London) and go on public transport for an hour”. “Oh, it’s not that”, he replied, “I’m a Northerner, I don’t mind a bit of rain,” (lol, so true), “I meant I hate this part of the weekend because it means I’m not sleeping next to you tonight.”

AWWWW.

He is even learning to knit. I am dying of the cuteness. He made a couple of ‘jokes’ about it, enough to indicate an interest (I knit all the time and have yarn all over the house so it’s hard to avoid noticing). “OMG”, I said, “if you took up knitting I would love you so much”. He didn’t need any further encouragement. I found him some wool and a pair of needles and he has been knitting so diligently! He has started making a scarf and is doing really, really beautifully with it. “Knitting is so addictive!” he said, and he is right. I spoke to him on the phone last night and he said he is really missing his knitting, having left it here at my flat, and keeps thinking about it.

AWWWW.

So that’s me. Charlie and me. We are as happy as kittens in a basket. I am the one that keeps falling asleep.

Let’s have a tune. I was going to save this for Church one Sunday, but it is too good to wait.

The Ikettes: I’m Blue (The Gong Gong Song) (1962)