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Short skirts, french knickers

Monday, August 15, 2005

Blast from a past

I was at Velvet this the weekend, dancing to the imaginary tunes in my head (more fun than listening to whatever everyone else is). Spent half the night trying to figure out how they pack so many people in and still have everyone look so comfortable. There was a girl in a bright yellow top sprawled over the bar. Literally. She seemed to take up the entire table. Seems there really is room for everyone at Velvet!...

... except A. Any place becomes too crowded when he's in it and I could spot him a mile away in that same faded blue shirt he'd always wear for partying. How long had it been?... 1, 2 years? I couldn't even remember - some things end and you forget without realising. Soon, before I could hear myself think,

"Hey, you! You look great. It's been what? 1, 2 years? What you doing?"

I quite hated myself for thinking he still sounded charming. And smelled just the same. That's it, no-one ever smelt as good - you'd think the way I liked his smell so much would prove some sort of biological theory that we are most attracted to people whose smell we like.

"You know, same old, same old." It was hard to look indifferent. There's that thing about great sex with an ex which was all A was really. The relationship thing had quickly fizzled to an anticlimax but the incredible sex afterward kept things up for more than a year after. Eventually, he got serious with someone else so he moved on, I moved on.

And then full circle, here he was in that same old shirt.
"God, you really should get some new clothes."
"Look at yourself! It's got holes everywhere, I swear. Look."
"Well, take me home, take the shirt off. I stay the night and you mend it for me tomorrow."
"What is that? Some bad attempt to get me into bed again. Dontcha know, I go for quiet, well behaved boys now. I dated an accountant last month."
"Get out."

We did. He drove me home as I sat up close whispering in his ear and having him touch me, wet through my panties, at traffic lights. We giggled our way through front door and into the living room where I dragged him down to the futon, left crumpled from my afternoon of indulgent DVD watching.

It was over fast, less than 10 minutes before I came shuddering, my back arched sharply. Less than 10 minutes after that for him to come heavy, full, his face thrust upwards, eyes shut and that long familiar moan. Sex with him had always been crazy hard, fast and intense enough to make any 20 minutes entirely exhausting. He was breathless, I was breathless but there wasn't a moment between the tangle of legs, thrusting and being folded in half to breathe.

Afterward, we lay entangled on the cramped spaces of my sofa.
"God. You're still the best fuck I ever had. And you didn't even blow me that time." He laughed.
"Yeah, yeah."
"Yeah. So where's this hole in my shirt?"

He stayed the night, fucked again in the morning, got my phone number and left by noon. It'd been quick, but just what we needed after all that forgotten time - something fast, desperate, lustful... just as a reminder to each other that we were still playful. There would be plenty more time later for plenty more things now we've swapped numbers.


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