8 weeks

I open the front door, and there he is. He grins his deafening grin, and we are hugging, tight, my arms round his waist, and my face in the curve of his neck. I had forgotten how well we fit together.

In the kitchen I make coffee, cut smoked salmon, rattle plates, dither awkwardly. We smile at each other, and pronounce short, declarative sentences. Well. I missed you. Hello. It’s good to see you. It’s good to hear your laugh. I missed you. Hello.

A pan of potatoes is boiling on the hob. I stab at them with a fork, waiting for their flesh to yield. He gets up from his chair and stands behind me, loops his arms round my waist and presses his lips to a point midway between earlobe and shirt collar. I sigh deeply, and turn to face him. In minutes we are dancing a blind, stumbling triangle around the kitchen, kissing furiously, his hands either side of my face and messing my hair. We kiss and pause and laugh and stumble and dance and kiss until a noise from outside forces us apart. We have already been caught in a close embrace by one amused housemate- I spring away before we are caught twice. I giggle and smooth my hair. He sits down. We grin at each other, and I check the potatoes. They are perfect.


I forgot to buy salad. I tell him so, apologetically, expecting a reassuring ’That’s okay, I don’t mind’. That’s quite normal, he says instead in a deadpan, unsurprised tone of voice. I laugh delightedly. I have met you, he says. I know what you’re like.

I had forgotten this. 8 weeks is a long time. Sometimes when something ends and it hurts, you have to expend so much energy not to remember how sweet it was; it is such a relief to be bathed in us again.


We are in my bedroom. I am sucking his cock and pulling off his trousers similtaneously. I pull off his socks, swirling my tongue over and around, over and over. He turns and I bury my face between his flesh, gripping his thighs and lapping at his arsehole, breath coming in short gasps.

Hello. I missed you so much. Hello.

He pushes me onto the bed, face down, pulls my cheeks apart, spits, pushes his way home. I moan, my nostrils full of the scent of freshly laundered cotton, my arms over my head, his hands pressed over mine, pressing me prone. He moves inside me and in minutes my breath is strangled and gutteral. I twist at the waist and his mouth is there, searching for mine.


We talk about why I ended- paused- things. I try and remember the metaphor I used to my counsellor- if you feel like you’ve spent years hiding behind a wall, then breaking that wall down needs to be a process of removing one brick at a time, maybe a few. But what he and I did, over the course of those few weeks, was to merrily smash at the wall with mallets, whooping and laughing. And then one day I looked around, and my wall was gone, and I was standing surrounded by rubble in a cloud of dust, with a man I didn’t know that well. And the man was a sadist. And he had a mallet.

And I got scared. Intellectually, I say, I don’t know if we work, but I can’t quite convince my heart. We talk for a little while longer, but soon he is inside me again, and as long as he is inside me I am unlikely to be able to argue we should be apart.


I am lying on my back. his thigh pressing against mine, forcing my legs open. His finger is on my clit, sliding in purposeful circles. I turn my head to one side and whine.

I can’t.

What? Say that again.

I can’t… I can’t.

You can’t what?

I can’t come any more.

Say that again, I can’t hear you.

I can’t come any more.

He laughs. Ahh, poor baby. He removes his hand and gives me his fingers to suck.


We talk. We fuck. We laugh. We laugh while fucking, Stop fucking to talk. I find out he is leaving my house to meet one of his other partners, and I am upset, but then we talk about it and soon it’s okay, it’s gone. We fuck, we talk, we laugh. It’s okay. It could work.

The ease with which my cock fits your arse is proof there is a God, he says, and all I can do in response is smile.


I am kneeling in the bath. The curtains are drawn. I tilt my head back and open my mouth. A hot rain falls on my face, over my closed eyelids, along my hairline, over my breasts and belly. I swallow. I open my mouth. The rain falls. I swallow.

I wipe my eyes, and make as if to stand. No, not yet, we need to turn the water on first, he says. It is December, and the water from the shower is a cold insult. I scream, and move to get up. No, stay, he says. He is laughing, and so am I. I beat at his legs with my fists in mock anger. Easy now, he says, with the mildest of warnings in his voice.

The water finally warms. I stand behind him beneath the shower head and rest my cheek against his back.


We are eating a snack before he leaves. He will go to meet one of my metamours and I will go out dancing. He sits with his elbow resting on the table, and I move so my face is pressed against his clenched fist, my nose and lips slotting into the gaps between his knuckles.

My cock fits perfectly into your arse and your face fits perfectly against my fist, he says.

That is exactly the kind of thing you need never to say in front of most people, I say, as we crease up. Know your audience.

It is true though. We fit.

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