That is, my frustration levels are running high.
My thoughts have been plagued by memories of the nights spent with the economist, the (now) pipe dreams about Moriarty and an evening spent at a lecture with a number of men in the audience I could quite happily have shagged. One in particular excites me. I met him last summer. He is oh-so-young. Probably 21-22. But a James Dean look-a-like and frankly, has a lingering eye contact when he talks that turns me on. The lecture was about to start, the lights dimming and we spotted one another across the room. He inclined his head, raised and tipped his glass, mouthing ‘Salute’. I blushed.
Talking to him briefly after the lecture, I felt the tingling, expectant sensitivity of my sex and cursed his young body, intelligent gaze and flirtatious manner. For now, I am home, alone (he, naturally has returned to his girlfriend). My levels of frustration are bubbling dangerously close to the surface. I have had a few glasses of wine and my breathing is shallow. What I wouldn’t give to be touched right now.