#shut up

So after receiving a text message from Monday night's shag saying that he'd read my blog I felt even even less bad about planning to go to Malebox on Wednesday night.

Not that I'd felt that bad.
Just a little bit bad.
Although there was some regret in my modus operandi thus far.
He had been such a gentleman.
And I had not.
And after Wednesday night's experience I wish I had.

@mr_malebox is probably reading this just as you are.
He'd been a fairly good shag too.
And I'm not just saying that for his benefit.
(Although after the shag was weird).

And he had also driven me home. 

But similarity with @handsome_barrister ended there. 

(Sorry if you're reading this)

(@handsome_barrister, if you're reading it, I'm puttin' up my hand for another chance...)

Anyway, he’d been nice and all. 

Met him at Stonewall.

As you know.

And despite the three digits stuck to our left pectorals, he'd approached me the conventional way: by pressing himself up against me, thereby pressing me up against the wall.

Which was not entirely unwelcome.

Although his opening line was: “What do you like doing in bed?” 

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I said. 

“Snoring and dribbling.”

He didn't get it. 

He was muscly and sweaty. 

47 years old. 

Complete with earring. 

And a New Zealand accent. 

I knew it wouldn't lead anywhere.

So I threw myself into it with gay abandon. 

Now don't get me wrong. 

He was nice. 

Husband material even. 

But somebody else’s husband. 

Dragged me back to Zetland. 

Lives in one of those LegoLand complexes, furnished as though he’d gone crazy at the SupaCenta. 

Was both anally attentive and anally retentive. 

After fucking me senseless with fingers, dick and large object from bedside table, he removed the sheets from the bed. 

Immediately.

Took ‘em off before I’d barely lifted my shag-drunk body from the mattress. 

Was like one of those magic acts where some bloke whips away a tablecloth without the crystal, china or silver even wobbling. 

Once I'd recovered suitably I stumbled towards the shower.
Feeling a little tender.

And, after the sheet incident, suddenly unclean.

He followed a couple of minutes after. 

Stepping into the shower while I was still there.

Now I will tell you that showering with somebody else is one of my least favourite activities.

Bath - fine.

Hot-tub - fine.

Shower, no.

Especially with somebody who's just whipped the sheets from under me.

Who then, and I kid you not, started squeegee-ing the glass screen and door.

While we're still in the shower...
What is it with these prissy queens and their cleanliness fetishes?
I couldn't wait to get out of there, but somehow ended up staying the night.

He even cooked me breakfast.

Which I know is supposed to be a nice thing to do.

But just feels awkward, especially when the preceding night you've been made to feel like you've somehow soiled the joint.

And that person is so far down on my suitable husband's list.

(I'm hoping you've stopped reading by now)

Especially after Monday night's efforts.

(@handsome_barrister, I hope you're still here).

Presumably after all of this though neither of them would want to see me again anyway.

Note to self: keep identity secret.

Don't mention column and blog.

#DNA Magazine

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