The fun of infatuation

And so it has started. My infatuation. I find myself thinking about him all the time. Without realising it, I check my phone for messages from him. I keep going back to the two or three photos I snapped of him the first time we met. My waking and sleeping thoughts are plagued by him – flashes of his torso, his neck, his eyes. I trace each wrinkle of his face before I fall asleep. I crave him, desire him.

The economist has me infatuated, elated, alive again. We have met three times in as many days – twice yesterday! We will see each other every day until I leave the country in four day’s time. Sometimes I feel like I am hurtling myself towards an abyss. When I leave the country I will leave him behind too. A massive void ripped into my daily existence. We will be left only with recent memories of our secret rendezvous – his club, the hotel room, his flat, my place, dark London streets at night. It is all consuming, this infatuation. I long to be with him, every minute of every day. If I could, I would be happy to just sit and watch him work, observing him silently, etching him into my memory so that I may never forget his beautiful face.

Yesterday, I bought him flowers. It was an impulsive gesture. They now sit in a glass jug in his bedroom. They will still be there long after I have left the country. I went to his place yesterday lunchtime. He was working from home, as his business trip had been cancelled at the last minute. He met me at the bus stop and we walked back to his flat, my arm interlinked in his. He took me up the stairs and placed the flowers in water, preferring to keep them in his bedroom where his flatmate would not see them. He has never been given flowers before. We stood in his bedroom, smiling at one another in the middle of the day. Such decadence! It was like being a student again. Making love in the middle of the day, as the rest of the world rushed about their business.

We undressed and lay on his bed, the only sounds were the church bells and the gentle buzz of his Blackberry as his emails trickled in. He went down on me, his head buried between my legs, his tongue licking and flicking at my heat. Making love in broad daylight marks a new stage in any physical relationship – no longer a fumbling in the dark, alcohol induced haze. Broad daylight reveals all. There is no hiding. There is an open frankness about the sex. An honesty that brings a closeness. Using his fingers to stimulate my G-spot whilst pressing his tongue to my clit I came quite suddenly, shudderingly. My legs shook and the soft fleshy part of my inner thigh twitched as the waves of orgasm gripped my body. I reached for his cock and found it rock hard and ready. He entered me, holding his torso above mine so that only our hips touched. His arms and shoulders were tense with the pressure and I could see the veins on his neck and forehead begin to throb as he moved ever deeper inside me. My sex was so sensitive and ready for the sensations of him. It felt like a deep thirst being quenched. We moved together and he teetered on the edge of climax for a long time, saying suddenly that he couldn’t come. But then within seconds of saying it, the barriers were breached and his body was gripped by the orgasm. I watched his face as the tension changed to concentration and then elation. He collapsed on top of me, panting heavily.

After sex, we dressed and went for lunch in a nearby pizzeria, drinking a glass of wine and sharing stories, ideas, dreams. I didn’t want to leave him. I wanted to lie in his bed and watch him work, naked. I felt a physical tug inside as we parted at the station. During the afternoon we arranged to meet again in the evening. Seeing him, fresh after his run and floating through the streets of London together was a perfect end to a perfect day. We ate dinner and chatted until our respective curfews. I miss him, though I know I will see him in a matter of hours. I revel in this infatuation. He is my muse.

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1 Comment

Filed under General, lovers

One response to “The fun of infatuation

  1. april t

    i could have written this one. almost. never been to
    London…

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