Having left the tall guy in his hotel room, I spent a day walking around London in the rain, hiding in galleries and cafes and watching a film in the afternoon. I was conscious of his scent still lingering on my body and desperately wanted to shower and change. But, I was meeting the economist for drinks and dinner and so applied fresh lipstick and perfume in the ladies powder room of a department store before choosing a bar to meet him in.
It was a rather typical overpriced bar in Mayfair. I found a secluded corner and ordered a champagne cocktail, texting him the name of the bar. He arrived a few minutes later, wearing a crisp white shirt and dark blue suit. He looked sexy. His athletic physique was complimented by his smart attire. It was the first time I had seen him in something other than jeans and a sweater. And all I wanted to do was throw him on the floor and ravage him. Instead, I sat with my legs crossed and smiled mischievously at him. We drank the cocktails and chatted about the events of the last few days. He had had a stressful week at work and was being sent to New York the following week. After the drink we moved to the restaurant and ordered some food. Dinner was early, as he had to meet some friends later, a blind date. We ate, our knees touching under the table and he slowly began to relax into his usual self. There is something about his face that fascinates me. I love his chiselled jaw and cheekbones, the laughter lines around his eyes and the little protruding rivulet veins on his temples. He is shy, I think. Shy and reserved and so a double turn on for me. The restaurant was now filled with the usual Friday night post-work crowd and we both agreed it was a dreadful crowd. Wanting to escape the crush, we decided to go to the river and find a quieter bar with a different scene.
Taking the tube to Charing Cross, we walked down to the river and across the bridge. We held hands and kissed in dark side streets, both of us conscious of bumping into someone we might know. He took me to a little underground bar in Waterloo. This was a different crowd – more my kind of thing. We drank beer from bottles and sat opposite one another at a tiny table, our knees touching. We were overdressed for our new venue, but it didn’t matter. I could look at him in peace and quiet, etching each line, wrinkle and expression into my memory. Meeting a lover for an evening, when you both know you will not be able to share a bed brings with it a delightful simplicity and innocence. We both knew those shared beers would be our last before he left to meet other friends and I would return to my bed alone. That hour felt like a whole evening together. We flirted, touched, laughed, drank, tucked away in a basement behind Waterloo. It was perfect.
As we walked to the station, he stopped and pulled me towards him, taking my face in his hands and kissing me passionately. Through our coats, I could sense his erection and he pulled me tight whispering that he wished he could come home with me. I smiled and stroked his hair. We both knew he couldn’t get out of his ‘blind date’ with a friend of a friend. The irony of taking a single man as a lover: he still has dates with other women. I told him he would have a great time and may even like the girl he was being set up with. We agreed to meet on Sunday instead. We parted at the station, both of us desiring the other’s body. I crave him, desperately.