Tag Archives: the Italian

The end of the affair(s) – part two

Closure is important, I suppose. So when my Italian lover contacted me on Skype recently, that is what I gave him. Closure.

We have not seen one another since saying goodbye at the airport after our second Scotland trip together back in March. I resolved back then to dump him, after some of the worst sex I’ve had and three excruciating days together. I’ve received the odd text from him since then, but nothing more than that.

Two weeks ago he popped up on Skype. Told me his news and then asked me about mine. Then he wanted to know what had happened, why I had suddenly stopped talking to him nine months ago. I realise now, that nine months is perhaps a pertinent number given his question about whether I had had a baby. In his mind, I suspect he had concluded I was pregnant after our Scotland trip and hence had broken off all contact. Of course that was not the reason.

Being English, I have real issues when it comes to politeness and upsetting people. In fact, I believe one of the reasons for my numerous lovers is that I do not wish to offend any admirer and so would rather go to bed with them, than upset them by saying no. However, I felt it was time to give him an answer.

And so I told him: his unwillingness to use a condom, despite numerous requests on my part, showed a lack of respect for my person. And, as a result, I was angry with him and that is why I never contacted him again. He was devastated.

I’m just glad I told him that reason and not that he was simply shit in bed… Not sure his ego could have coped with that blow.

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The end of the affair(s) – part one

As I watch the snow gently falling outside and the black silhouette of the lifeless tree against the grey sky, I can’t help but feel the end of an affair is near. Perhaps, after two years, my older lover and I are in the winter of our relationship.

We met at a party in London last week. It was the first time in six months. The last time we kissed goodbye it was early summer. The sun shone brightly and there was hope, a lightness, an optimism in the air. It was also then that I gave him a drawing, a birthday present. A drawing that now, apparently, hangs in his marital bedroom.

I arrived at the party, excited at the prospect of seeing him. My eyes scanned the room when I entered, but I couldn’t see him and so chatted to strangers, looking up expectantly every time a guest arrived. It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I saw him. He had been there the whole time. We chatted amidst others, trying to keep the conversation casual. Eventually we left the party together. It was a late hour and there was no plan to go on together. We walked and talked, kissing in doorways. I told him I was in love with him. I told him how much I missed him. How sad I was that we had not seen each other in six months, despite many attempts on my part to make it happen. He asked why I never write in our blog anymore. Why I am so distant. I got into a taxi. He got on his scooter. We have not spoken since.

In my mind, I make excuses for him – his redundancy, search for a new job, father of three kids, etc., etc. That is why it has been so difficult for us to meet when I have been in London. But then I think that if he really wanted to, he would make it happen. He does not commit, does not make plans. It is all left to the last minute, to fate. He fails to realise the lengths to which I have gone and will go to see him. The lies I tell, the money I spend. And so I told him that. I also told him how I had realised that I will never be his focus. His family and wife will always come first. And that makes me ever so slightly sad.

I am not entirely sure what new phase of our relationship last Friday night marks. I worry it is the end. It leaves me feeling empty. Cold.

If it is the end of my affair with my older lover, then I do not regret my time with him. He was, after all, the best fuck I’ve ever had. He raised the bar. He gave me the best oral sex I have ever had. I shall miss him.


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The void

Strangely, the last few months have been a libidinal void. I’m not sure what happened. I suppose I was busy working, the husband was around all the time, geographically distanced from all my lovers and no time to meet new ones. Perhaps my London lover odyssey exhausted me. Perhaps I just needed to recharge. But I’ve been searching for that elusive tingle, that excitement, that feeling of standing on the edge. And so, returning to the scene of many crimes, I find myself in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. A city I left over a year ago, still tingling and raw from my first threesome with the American and Frenchman. A city full of memories – the gardener, the Italian, Eton boy and other late night fumblings.

Last night I saw the gardener again and I felt something begin to thaw behind my eyes. It was a dinner, another friend was there, so no chance to be alone. Looking at his tanned skin and lean muscles I could sense a distant, yet familiar sensation, a sort of light-heartedness. We chatted and laughed over wonderful food, hands brushing occasionally as we both reached for our glasses, knees touching under the table. Then, walking home again, we lagged a few paces behind my friend and I felt his hand reach for mine. It sent a little jolt through me. Perhaps it is the shock I need to wake me from my numbness, to pull me out of this void. I want to feel alive again.

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Perhaps there’s a thesis in that…

On my long drive across the Europe today, I had plenty of time to think. It occurred to me that the two lovers designated to my ‘RIP’ category are both Doctors. One has a doctorate in maths (the Italian), the other a doctorate in law (the German). Both speak multiple languages – 4 and 5 respectively.

Both seem to struggle with the most basic knowledge of female anatomy and sex. Could these facts somehow be related? And if so, is this a bad sign for the cute barman?

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