I’ve just got home from a somewhat hazy day, in both the sleepy and hungover sense of the word. This weekend has been an eventful one, but I’ve decided to put the somewhat sordid happenings of Saturday night behind me and focus on the slightly less debaucherous and incomparably more satisfying events of last night. After waking up with an unfamiliar man in my bed yesterday morning, I had one of those ‘reevaluating your life’ moments. I didn’t know this man’s name, or the name of the man who was asleep on the floor. I couldn’t remember entirely what had happened in the hours leading up to this moment, but we were all naked. These kind of situations make for amusing anecdotes, but not necessarily a spiritually fulfilling existence. I felt awful. I’d slept with five men that week and I actually wasn’t that sort of girl. I mean clearly I was on a surface level, but I knew inside myself that I wasn’t. I grabbed a shower and made a pot of tea, it wasn’t this pair’s fault that I was having a crisis. I took their numbers instead of giving them my own and after an awkward ‘we all had sex didn’t we’ conversation in a mixture of Turkish and French, I showed them out.
Once they’d left I was horribly sick. Aside from dealing with a half a litre of vodka hangover, I was also experiencing a pretty horrific comedown. Don’t do drugs Claudia. Do you never learn? Once the waves of sickness had subsided enough for me to leave the safety of the bathroom, I sat on the sofa and started replying to various messages, texts, emails, tinder and facebook. I counted up how many people I had arranged dates with. Nine. Nine first dates that is, if I include those I had already met, I was supposed to be meeting up with twelve people that week. It doesn’t take a genius to see that the maths doesn’t quite work out. I cancelled all but two, Antonio on Tuesday as that had become something of a regular fixture and Tom in approximately four hours time; cancelling on the day of a date is not cool. So I managed to eat a slice of that claggy, fake, white bread that my housemates seem to live on and after keeping it down for half an hour made my way upstairs for the second shower of the day. A warm shower has the ability to make almost everything feel at least a bit better. I’d got a text from Tom when I got out, he wanted to go somewhere in the laines, I was starting to warm to him. I guess I’m always a little more intrigued by musicians than I am by other people. I’d had a cheeky listen to a couple of his songs and I actually rather liked them; praise indeed. In my mission to shake the hangover and the comedown, make myself look more like a human being and prepare myself for another night of drinking, I settled on another slice of white bread, natural makeup with a little flick of black eyeliner, loose curls and some serious heels.
I was so pleased I’d chosen heels. Tom can’t have been less than six foot five and despite my skyscraper shoes he was still a good seven or eight inches taller than me. I have a weakness for tall men, so this boded well. We both said hi at the same time, then laughed and proceeded to do exactly the same thing again. I liked that clumsiness and I think he did too. I hesitated too long to kiss his cheek, so after an awkward pause and weird moment of eye contact he slightly gawkishly gestured for me to lead the way. My flat is a little way from the laines so the walk had the potential to be a little cringeworthy if we didn’t really hit it off. Thankfully he was fairly good at keeping conversation going. Usually I’m pretty talkative, I don’t have to consciously think about making conversation, but at that moment in time I was feeling thoroughly shit and admittedly was probably being quite hard work. We chatted about the kind of things normal people talk about, the pubs we had and hadn’t been to along this road, what the new coffee shop was like, the flat above Gamestar that always catches both of our eyes when we walk past. It sounds ridiculous, but the fact he had mentioned it instilled a sense of hope in me, like this really might work because we both agree that an unusually lit crack-den, crawling with plants and lanterns would be a cool place to check out. It struck me like that I think because nobody else had ever noticed it before, I always point it out on the way down this road to people and they always look at me a bit gone out. It was nice to meet somebody who got it.
We ended up in a pub called The White Rabbit, I walk past it often and always think it looks interesting but had never been in. I was right, it was cosy, dark, had a fire, ticked all the right boxes. We waited a while for a drink and got sat on the only free table, it was lit by a candle in a Smirnoff bottle. I leant forward to take off my coat and brushed the flame of the candle with my hair, Tom moved it aside and winked at me. Embarrassing, but comfortably so. The pub is divided into two halves, separated by the bar in the centre and an archway. In the other half of the room there was a woman playing guitar and singing, she was tuneful and had written her own stuff, but if anything she was a little too enthusiastic, we both had to lean in to hear each other. It might have been the darkness of the place, but when we made eye contact I noticed how huge his pupils were. It crossed my mind that he might have taken something, I don’t think he had, either way it seemed to show a vulnerability, a boyishness that drew me to him. After finishing our drinks he suggested somewhere a little quieter, we were both losing our voices trying to compete with the guitarist through the archway. He held the door for me and walked closer than anyone else normally would have. It was cold and I had my hands in the pockets of my coat, I think had I not he would’ve taken one in his.
The Basketmakers Arms is a fairly well hidden place, again I’d not been in myself, neither had Tom. We got in and the walls were covered in old tobacco tins, it was more well lit than the White Rabbit, no candles or fireplace, but the tins made up for it. I sat on a cushioned bench, expecting him to sit on the stool across from me, but he put a glass of wine in front of me and squeezed in next to me, putting an arm along the back of the bench. It wasn’t uncomfortable, he didn’t actually touch me, just kept his arm there and talked like before. He payed attention to me whilst I spoke, the way he listened was quite intense, his eyes rarely moved from mine. He got up to fetch another drink and the child in me decided to open one of the tins, a note was inside. Honestly there isn’t a lot that excites me more than things like this. I opened the note, it was a ‘profound’ life quote, but still a sweet idea. I stood up and reached for another tobacco tin, another note in a child’s handwriting ‘What do you call two hedgehogs? A prickly pear’, cute right? Tom arrived back at the table with another glass of wine, steadily curing the hangover. He was as amazed as me at the notes and we proceeded to sift through most of the tins in the pub, some from couples visiting, a few from children, drawings, more bloody life quotes. We made our own, I still had a ticket from the Casa Batllo in Barcelona and we drew Antoni Gaudi cuddling a dragon on the front and on the back Tom wrote ‘With love from Barcelona, Claudia and Tomas xxx’ apparently missing out the ‘h’ made it sound more legitimately Spanish. I liked him, we were a similar person. He carefully tucked our note into a tobacco tin with six dogs on the front, we’d chosen that one as by far the best tin and we left.
On the way home we stopped for a bottle of wine, I chose a fresh white from New Zealand. We left and he asked why I’d chosen that wine in particular, I explained it was usually pretty drinkable and not extortionate, he said his mum came from there. We stopped outside Eaton Nott, a shop I’m always fascinated by, the window displays are beautiful. He put his arm round me and pointed to a peacock feather cape, it was beautiful, the cape and having his arm around me. We arrived back and I found us a couple of chunky crystal glasses and poured us each a drink. We sat on my bed and drank and talked, he clocked my guitar and asked me to play for him. I explained that it was in Placebo tuning which I thought was a pretty known thing, apparently not? He looked at me incredulously, saying he’d never tuned to that in his life, then he kissed me. He started gently, folding his lips around my bottom lip, taking my glass from my hands and placing it on the side. He took my cheek and chin between his fingers and thumb and held my waist with the other hand, kissing me harder, he was seriously good. We stopped and looked at each other and I had to laugh, why had that just happened. He smiled at me, the kind of smile that’s almost looking for reassurance. I kissed him again, with open mouths, arguably too much tongue, lip sucking and biting. His hands pulled at my dress and I pressed myself against him, his body wasn’t hard, it was slim ‘musician-y’ I guess, strong but long limbed, not terribly toned. It kind of didn’t matter?
We stayed pressed against each other for a long time, kissing, stroking, gradually becoming more and more naked. I always have candles lit in my bedroom, the proper light makes it feel like an interrogation and flesh by candlelight is so much more beautiful. Candles provide a warmth to the body, they smooth out imperfections, give my alabaster skin a healthy glow. He pulled me against him, his chest pressed against my back, stroked up and down my sides from neck to knee, his touch growing firmer around the start of my hips. I leant around and bit his lip. He pulled me hard to him, pressing his cock against me, hands suddenly much firmer, fingers hooked underneath my ribs as he watched me writhe. He kissed my neck gently and found my clit, holding my whole body still with one hand, using the other to drive me wild. He turned me over with ease, I’d underestimated his willowy frame, parted my thighs and pressed down on my hips, keeping me motionless as his tongue teased me. He groaned as I came, sucking hard then flicking his tongue quickly up and down. I begged to be fucked for what seemed like forever, I came twice more before he allowed himself inside me. I could see now why he had got me so wet beforehand, his cock was huge. I felt him stretch me and I whimpered, he offered up his forefingers to my mouth to stifle my noise. He pushed right into me until he couldn’t go any further, pulled right out, pushed right in again, each time pushing his fingers further into my mouth, getting faster and faster. He next lifted my legs over his shoulders, fucking me so hard it hurt in that incredibly arousing way. After maybe ten minutes like this I felt his cock begin to throb, his groans alone made me cum and as I did, so did he. It felt fantastic, all of my muscles tightened making him hold hard onto my legs. He looked down at me, shook his head and whispered ‘Christ’. That was it, I couldn’t have put it better myself.
We carried on like this for most of the night, biting, hair pulling, scratching, spanking, pushing and pulling against one another. Position after position, having every inch of my body gripped, pulled at, my pussy stretched each time he entered me, my mouth filled with his cock. I liked this side of him. It was filthier. I love the arty, music playing, note writing Tom as well, but he disappeared during sex, only returning once we’d both finished. He’d stroke up and down my spine and my sides, turn curls in my hair around his fingers, gently fondle my breasts, run a finger across my cheek. He did it all so tenderly, using his big hands carefully. Each time he finished fucking me he’d hold me close to him and touch me like this, telling me I was beautiful and how he’d not met anyone that he’d clicked with in the same way. These kinds of thins would usually see me run a mile, but it felt sincere and yet okay from him. I was beginning to think I might feel the same. He’d speak and look after me like this until I fell asleep, curled into the hollow of his chest, an arm wrapped around me, laying flat on his back, talking to the ceiling. I didn’t want to leave him this morning, groaning at the sound of my alarm. He sat up and switched it off, lay back down next to me, sliding a wetted finger deep inside me. He fucked me slowly this morning, laid behind me, arms around me almost protectively, caressing my chest, moving my hips gently. It wasn’t the wild sort of passion I had experienced throughout the evening and early hours, it was a deep, raw, unforced kind of sex. His moans were from deep in his stomach, his arms tensed at the slightest tilt of my hips, when he came it was not a violent thrust into me, but rather an intense shudder that ran throughout both our bodies. We plan to see each other again.