As we walked out of the cinema last night (after a spur-of-the-moment Let’s Go See A Thing decision), the air felt heavy with the soporific heat of the impending summer. It had cooled down a bit, but I still felt sticky and hot.
It had been that hot for most of the weekend. We’d been down at his parents’ house, minding the cat while they were away. It was a lovely break from the proceedings of the last couple of weeks.
I sat in the lounge downstairs, fiddling with my laptop and reading The Man With The Rubber Mask and Himself was upstairs, making music. For once, I felt at peace with my surroundings.
Earlier that week, I dragged ILB to London (with minimal effort) as an attempt to centre myself. We went to Forbidden Planet and I nearly did a little geek-cry as I wandered around making a mental wish list of Things Wot I Must Buy. I remember my first visit to the shop, where I got so excited I put a dent the size of 200 quid in our holiday budget.
Next, we went to a little store on Monmouth Street called Mysteries, where they sell all kinds of magical doohickeys. Again, it was an attempt to centre myself (because I’m naturally drawn to witchy stuff). Again, I walked away feeling pangs of despair.
I couldn’t quite explain it. Maybe it was indeed money-related, or just a sense of not knowing where to start. It’s a sense I’ve been experiencing a lot lately.
That Friday night, after a lot of jiggery-pokery (and some sobbing), I stripped off and got into bed. A bed which had been the centre of our lives for a few months. A bed that I loved so much, it’s kinda ridiculous. A bed we made love on so many times.
And on Friday night, we made love on it again.
Every minute of it was brilliant. From the kisses to rubbing his penis against my wet lips, to watching him put the condom on, to the whispers in my ear as he made love to me. Right up until I watched the last drops of pearly come drip down on his chest after he’d masturbated for me.
It’s kinda strange. Sex is a thing that centres me.
But then again…