‘S wonderful! ‘S marvelous
You should care for me
‘S awful nice! ‘S paradise
‘S what I love to see
I took Lilly to see the London production of An American in Paris, a wonderful fusion of a classic love story with Gershwin’s music and some quite stunning ballet. I had hoped that its 1940’s glamour would appeal to Lilly’s sense of period style.
The show was wonderful, really one of the most stunning theatrical experiences I’ve had. There were so many outstanding sequences, all knitted together seamlessly and draped with the silk of Gershwin’s melodies. I was left wondering if these were dancers who could sing, singers who could act, or actors who could dance. The whole experience was a glorious tour de force. I must admit however, that a ballet sequence conducted in what appeared to be period one piece swimsuits pressed buttons that were nothing to do with the artistic merits of the dance.
The show was followed by Champagne and chat with Lilly and an equally glamorous female friend of mine. Lilly casually rested her hand on my thigh as we talked. It felt natural that she should do so and I liked it.
After we’d finished our Champagne and the friend had gone, I couldn’t quite bring myself to let Lilly go.
So we found ourselves back in the hotel bedroom for some rather steamy sex.
I couldn’t quite bring myself to let her go after that either so the inevitable happened.
It was just lovely to wake up alongside her in the morning.
Even then I struggled to let her go. She was all tender kisses and just rested her head on my chest for a while. I am so unused to this kind of treatment that a started to feel emotional and recognized that I had to let her go before I got in any deeper.
Of course, it could just be that she’s a closet fan of Tracy Emin, whose work this is, and that her retweet was completely unconnected from any thought in her head at that moment. I’d like to think that wasn’t the case.
The rush of affection for Lilly that surged through me was a visceral, physical response that I couldn’t control, a wave of pure emotion. But it was followed by an answering rush of alarm. “I can’t be that guy,” I told myself, “I can’t be that older guy who thinks he’s fallen in love with the pretty escort half his age because she holds his hand and smiles into his eyes. Dammit, she’s a sex worker; part of her job is to make me want to be with her!”
I was troubled for the rest of the day: concerned that the emotional vulnerability that arises from the various messes in my life was taking me to a place I simply couldn’t allow myself to go.
It troubles me much less now. After all, isn’t that the perfect way to leave an escort?
Full of wonder at the things you did together;
full of delicious anticipation for the next meeting;
and just a little in love with her.
I think it might be.
More wickedness here: