Everything was set up perfectly for tonight to be our first night, he'd even been on my wavelength earlier, when a flower seller had come hawking roses by the table, seen my glance at them and correctly interpreted it, laughing that we would have another carafe of the juicy wine instead.
He had put his arm around my shoulder as we walked back through the cobbled pedestrian zone, and I didn't shrug it off although I didn't like the possessive tone it imparted.
Walking back he'd paused us under a streetlight, by the pond and the stone walls of the old city boundary and he'd bent his head across to kiss me and I acquiesced.
I'd thought of the cover of that Stereophonics CD and the bored eyes of the woman being kissed there, and I'd wondered if my eyes were just as bored, and I'd noticed that his eyes were closed, and wondered if he too had needed that to believe that this would go somewhere, or perhaps he knew his eyes would be just as ennui filled.
We'd gone to my flat, not so much caught up in the moment, but moving along inevitably with the slow seep of honey running down a knife blade.
We'd tried not to allow the sense of loss to enter our conscious thoughts but, the chase was over, it would never be the same again
...part 2
My hair still smelt of the burnt meat from the restaurant he'd taken me to; stank not from the innocuous looking grey salted stones, heated to flesh searing temperatures, but from the scents emanating after we had dumped our raw steaks, prawns, chicken breasts upon them.
Carafe after carafe of house red, pinkly echoing the blooded centres when I'd cut through the meat again.
I guessed that to others in the place, to observers, we looked warm and cozy in the snug by the bar, happily hazed by the smoky fat in the atmosphere as much as the wine.
A pretty, convivial picture and I wished I could feel that we were a pretty convivial couple but if the truth be told, I didn't really like him all that much when I started to contemplate what would happen after the meal.
I was waiting, not because I wanted to be sure it was right, I was pretty sure it wasn't right, or I'd have jumped him at the end of the first date, but he kept paying me attention despite my ambiguous goodbyes.
He kept on casting his attention my way, shovelling it into the aching hole that he didn't even know was there, and I know I am coming to depend on his attendance, his willingness to be with me.
...part 3
In my flat, I guess I did just go along with him coming back here, his willpower for that must have been stronger than my sulky resistance.
It wasn't that I didn't want to be possessed, but with him it is not the all consuming need to be possessed that I feel; more the sullen recognition that he is the only chance, the only option I have right now.
I wonder if he too somehow senses the mismatch, and if he does is he just going along with me because it half fits what he wants too?
From the pressure of his hand behind my head when we break mouths apart from some robust to rough kissing, what he wants seems to be my face in his lap, and I don't really want to suck him, to feel a new penis against my lips, have a jet of his semen into my mouth, like white silly string, wormily writhing on my tongue.
I think I will spit if he makes me do it, but although I don't conciously go through the options, somehow I guess that a gracious enough attempt at sucking him off now will keep me from having to go to final base tonight, I can keep something back in reserve so he will spend time with me again.
I will gag, and then spit, he will like that, it will make him feel the big man and I will rinse my mouth and my mind out with the next slug of wine.
