We had a few beers, me and @BarelyLuchid We had a burger too. He insisted that we order the “Six Nations” option, quite deliberately choosing a meal that included, INSIDE THE BUN, both a hideously greasy hash brown (potato – Irish, you see) AND chopped leeks (for Wales – you’re getting the idea now) just so he had an excuse to talk about the previous day’s rugby and how awful my team (England) had been in comparison to his (Wales).
What a twat!
And, looking at us, you might have assumed that was it: two blokes in a pub joshing each other about sport over a burger. I guess if he had been my age, my generation, the conversation might well have stayed inside the boundaries of conventional man-to-man badinage (I’d have said ‘banter’ but my kids made me swear never, ever to use that word as it would ruin it for them). In fact, we ranged far and wide, discussing our respective situations and our relationships, our emotions and our feelings. Nothing, it seemed, was off limits. I found it freeing and cathartic to talk like this, especially so soon after leaving my kinky play partner, Lilly Watson.
The previous night had been full of eroticism and spanky sex. There had been vigorous fucking, tender lovemaking and kissing in the shower. There had been successions of shuddering, moaning orgasms, shy experimentation with a rabbit-tail butt plug and harsh, two-way nipple biting. The experience had left my emotions close to the surface.
At one point I wanted to explain how I felt about the fact that Lilly, who, in the complex lexicon of sex work, is an escort not a professional submissive, plays kinky BDSM games with me; unaccustomed games of submission and bondage, of pain and punishment, stretching her limits and soaking up extreme sensations. I wanted to get across what a beautiful and special thing it was to have this bright, confident, thoroughly lovely young woman place that amount of trust in me, willingly giving me her submission and putting herself and her safety so completely in my hands.
The words were already formed into a sentence because I have explained how important this is to me before, both in writing and in conversation but now, perhaps because it was so soon after my time with Lilly, the sentence refused the fence. Like an inexperienced jump horse at a five bar gate, it stumbled on the approach, lapsing into clumsy incoherence. I circled round, took some deep, calming breaths, gave it a longer run up and tried again, but once more it caught in my throat, leaving me looking at my friend in mute embarrassment. I blinked away an unwanted tear, sucked in some air and tried again. But the horse was spooked now and no matter how long the approach, no matter how much I willed it over the fence, it just wasn’t going to happen.
“Mate,” said my friend, putting a hand on my arm, “It’s OK. I get it, I really do. Being someone’s Dom is heavy shit.” We moved on to different, easier fences, each knowing a little more about the other than we had before.
We became, again, just two blokes talking sport, over beer and burgers, in a pub.
My earlier post will give you a flavour of why my emotions were so close to the surface on Sunday afternoon. Lots of spanking. ANd a belt.
The Wicked Wednesday theme is “Sad”. This isn’t really a sad story even if it was an emotional one at the time: