Should I stay or should I go?

I'm thinking more of The Clash than any deep and meaningful question. In any case, I don't believe anyone has yet written a song entitled "I'm really confused, is this sex, an affair, a relationship ... oh sod it whatever it is I'm having too much fun to stop right now" so if I was going to quote a song, I wouldn't have an appropriate song to quote. Next, imagine the classic opening riff to said Clash song ....

Now, why should that pop into my head all of a sudden? Ah yes, Mr Magic. After another wonderful twenty four hours, I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.

He is delicious and delightful in almost every way, and even the ways in which he is not delicious and delightful are not what I would call deal breakers. I am increasingly finding that the more time I spend with him that more time I want to spend with him, but there is also a linear relationship to my desire to call the whole thing off. I wouldn't know where to start to describe him between the handsomeness, the cooking, the intelligence, the hand holding, the gentle kisses, the suppressed dom, the confidence, the insecurities, the loveliness, the intuition - all wonderful aspects to discover of him.

This is not a man who does not know what he wants, so why is it he does not know if he wants me? I'm all for enjoying the moment, living life to the full, but the highs with him are so high it make the lows, which are lower than I've ever seen, seem even lower. Now, because it's a beautiful song, and I've nothing further sensible to conclude: Set Fire to the Third Bar

Wh?

Where does it start, and where does it stop? What should you do when you can't see the woods for the trees when you are quite happy looking at the trees? And how do you know what to do next?

He is no longer just a figment of my imagination; for some time he has been a living breathing body, living beside me, breathing beside me, completing a puzzle I didn't realise required a resolution. Does he fulfill my ego, or is he penetrating it? What will he do when he realises he has my heart?

Instinct drives me to despair, to a place where I am at his mercy, he is at mine, and we are at each others. Is it him that I like, or is it myself in him that I like? How far can you go with someone who pushes you in the way that you push them?

How much would you sacrifice for a journey of self-exploration? That is the real question. When I decided that nothing would be off limits with Him I don't think I realised what was beyond my self imposed limits, so yet again I find myself in sticky territory, longing to be alone and to have the space which that allows, yet simultaneously yearning to share that time with Him for nothing more than to clock up yet more magical hours spent with Him, as well as the periodic tender kiss onto my forehead that he is so fond of delivering.

As I commit pixels to monitor I'm immediately drawn to the backspace button - it's so much more than that. I don't know where this will stop, when it will stop, or if it should stop - my instinct is telling me that it will but does not allude to a reason. Is it me, is it him, is it us? I don't know, but I quiver at the thought of him, and the thought of more of him, and at the thought of more of us.

I know who he is now, he's the Magician.

In Denial

For a while now I've been trying to recall the best sex I've ever had. This is purposeful twofold; firstly it passes the time of day as and when required, and secondly, I'm so blown away by my current lover I can't quite accept it's the best I've ever had. What makes sex great, or should I ask what makes great sex?

A close friend once informed me that having sex with someone you love was such an amazing experience it was incomparable to that which you would have from casual sex. I have always disagreed with that, in part because she only had experience of the loving kind, but also because, well, to be perfectly honest I consider it a silly statement. Sex in a loving relationship is only good if you want it, they want it, and it all works nicely in tandem.

Casual sex is great, but always on the premise that it's great because that's what you want. Take Mr Green, who I saw on and off for a year or so - our relationship was not strictly monogamous, nor committed on a full time basis - he was lovely but had issues with not being good enough for me (oddly in a social standing kind of way, not a sexual one) which ultimately was our downfall. There was only room in that relationship for one self destructive neurotic, and that was me!! So on we go ...

Mr Green was challenging - emotionally, intellectually and physically - he was, and to some degree still is, someone special and absolutely brilliant in bed! The other most notable partner, Mr Marine (who surely deserves at least one dedicated post at a later date such is his deliciousness), was predominantly challenging physically, and fared pretty well on the other two fronts, though not in such an enjoyable way - but boy was he, and is he, hot hot hot!! The current Mr, a suitable moniker is still not yet forthcoming, blows them both out of the water in the most curious way.

Boundaries that I refuse to accept do not seem to exist with him which leaves us with a 'the world is our oyster' feeling. We move between loving and tender, to rough and intense, back the other way and then everything in between as easily as putting one foot in front of the other. The very thought of him is intoxicating, let alone when he is between my legs, but it goes beyond the act of sex alone, it covers ever interaction with him. The intensity of the connection we have on an intellectual and physical level, and I pause before adding an emotional level, leads to the most mind blowing sex I have ever had which I think neatly answers my question ... I do like it when that happens!!

The question that now follows, for me at least, is, given our scarily similar selves, is this a relationship built on narcissism? I think I have some reading to do before I consider that one fully ...

Neurosis

I invited him to join me for dinner on Saturday, and in the style of 17th century companions, we corresponded through his acceptance, the arrangements and his concern that the lack of chaperone may have on my reputation. You may ask why, but I ask why not? We've put the debacle of the previous weekend behind us, and I am resolved that whilst not necessary, I need to make an effort that he is not necessarily aware of, but which he will appreciate.

I'm happy to admit I have a few neurosis: I'm not keen on displaying affection in public, I loathe neediness and I have a horrible tendency to separate emotions from sex. The net result is that the man at the end of my attentions finds that I'm attentive and adventurous in bed, but I won't hold hands in public without cringing and am laid back regarding when I may see him next which often appears ambivalent and occasionally cold. In principle you could argue that there is nothing wrong with this, but it very much goes against certain aspects of my character so is often confusing for the recipient.

I'm very aware that the two occasions I've ended up spending the night with Him, it's been at the end of an alcohol fuelled evening. Not excessively so, but if you put it into the context that it's natural where alcohol is involved for your normal barriers to be lowered, it prompts an unpleasant question. Am I more likely to display affection and emotion when I've had a drink? I think this is in part true, and that I'm not likely to be alone in that, but I also recognise that with Him there are lots of uncertainties surrounding our relationship that leave me uneasy and as a consequence less likely to overcome these neurosis.

So I am resolved that necessary or not, it would be to both our benefit for me to make more of an effort in these regards. Our dinner date was lovely - a nice evening with good conversation as companions, and later, as anticipated, we got down to business ;-) Yet another sleepless night, toe curling engagement, pushing of boundaries and genuine ongoing and seemingly unending pleasure. But amusingly, I feel the need to remember to take his hand next time that I see him, because I think he'd quite like it.

Saturday

Saturday came and went. The net result was that I went home by myself to a cold flat, and sat in the lounge for a few hours staring blanking at my laptop in a state of fierce despair and confusion waiting for the tumble dryer to tumble my bed sheets dry. I desperately wanted to just crawl into bed, shut my eyes really tight and fall asleep, not thinking about anything.

He came to the party. He didn't just appear all of a sudden - we met in advance, he didn't shy away too much from the cameras, and we didn't re-enact our favourite trick of competing with each other in front of other people to the point we both make idiots of ourselves. Making an idiot of oneself was reserved for me that night, and me alone, and I'm conservatively sure it isn't for any of the reasons you could imagine, so let me try to explain ...

Having had the opportunity to meet him for coffee during the week I took it, thus thwarting my own attempt at game playing. He was and has since been lovely, as I have come to expect, but he also was not planning on attending the party for a fairly reasonable reason: he knew the host had not invited him, she'd invited the prospect of us, which to someone like us, is strangely offensive. Neither of us wanted to feel like performing monkeys, we are both quite (and I say this somewhat ironically given the medium I choose here) private people, and can't abide matchmaking. So a little gentle persuasion and he booked himself a hotel, bought a new shirt and informed me of his quandary between shoes or boots.

To the other guests we appeared good friends, glued to each other side, but not what you would call an obvious couple. As the evening progressed and I performed my social butterfly trick I grew increasingly frustrated to a point I've never gotten to before, with the lewd attention I was receiving from a few other men. These are men that I know, and some I don't, but who all took it upon themselves to cross the line that is invisibly drawn between friendly banter, and inappropriate and unnecessary lewdness. As each one crossed the line I walked away, choosing to refrain from entertaining their company for the rest of the evening - that's an important point, I walked away.

At the tail of the evening, I explained my frustration as it really had an unexpectedly profound effect on me, and he was just lovely and we sat holding hands (a fact I confessed to him that surprisingly to me, with him I enjoyed doing it), but he also said that I invited it, the lewd comments he means. Why? Because of the lovely but fairly low cut dress I was wearing, but also because I choose to engage at all with these men. We escorted the birthday girl to her residence and watched her stumble through her front door trailed by a blizzard of helium balloons, and he invited me to stay at the hotel with him. I awkwardly deliberated and then awkwardly declined and as he kissed me goodnight I found I could barely kiss him - him, the man who makes my toes curl with delight, who pushes me into tornado of emotions and catches me when I'm tossed aside by it's force - and I couldn't bring myself to kiss him!

As I drove home, en route parking up in a layby 500 yards from the hotel to sit in my car and recover from my bout of insanity, I could think of nothing else but of why I reacted like that to him, whilst simultaneously feeling sick at the prospect of the damage I could have caused. What have I done? By the time I reached home I had gotten as far as realising that I couldn't bare the thought of hearing him say to me the same words those other men had earlier in the evening, to the extent I didn't want him to do anything other than hold my hand, or put his arm around me. It's an ugly and inexperienced knee jerk reaction that on many levels I perhaps could have handled better including telling him what was bothering me - the latter being possible had I actually realised what it was before I had left him but hey-ho.

I'm just used to it, the banter, the comments, the inappropriateness, and when, and if it goes too far I will unquestionably make that clear, but perhaps he has a point about my behaviour. If the situation had been reversed I'd have been uneasy to learn he'd engaged at all in these conversations, would probably not have acknowledged that he had drawn the line and walked away, citing the engagement, not the line crossing as the problem, and I would have been mortified if he'd then walked away from me at the end of the evening. Why? Because I would have found it disrespectful of my feelings for him, confusing and I would have been thoroughly unimpressed. Had he not been there, would I have acted any differently with these men - no, I wouldn't, but perhaps I should have acted differently because he was there, or just because of him ... I just don't know.

I like to treat people as I would want to be treated myself, so whilst I think it could appear meek, if I don't want him to behave in a certain way in those circumstance, I then don't want myself to either. As for any insinuation that my attire invites such comments, well, I'll dispatch that with a healthy 'whatever' - if he sticks around long enough he'll learn that if it's not my cleavage that instigates such comments, it's my mouth, and those are far worse. Regardless, I felt desperate at the thought of leaving him, and of having left him, at the thought that I might have upset him, and that I might not have upset him at all, and terrified that this might all be a concealed attempt to sabotage the relationship through sheer fear of what it could bring.

So I left him with a briefly apologetic text, which asked that if it was ok with him, I'd call him the next day to explain once I'd cleared my head, and that it really was lovely to have spent the evening with him. I will undoubtedly spend the rest of the day torturing myself over what to say before I call him, if he'll pick up, be receptive, or insist an explanation is not necessary. I'll wonder if he'd have spent the evening with his arm around me, something he does in short bursts as he knows my reserve of such displays of affection, if he'd have done that and made clear that we were there together, would these men have engaged with me in the same way, would I have let them, and would it have changed the outcome of the evening? Every time I consider that I end up asking myself why I think that it should be something he does that would have such an effect, rather than something I could have done, and that actually, he's been the perpetrator by flirting with me in front of his girlfriend so is he really going to cry wounded soldier?

Je suis un idiot. The reason for this remains unresolved

Oh cher!

Je suis un idiot! I don't like playing games, I don't like games being played with me, and I don't like watching people play games with each other ... so of course I find myself playing a game! I feared events would turn ugly: He, or I, or we, have started already, and today at least I have not the patience for such things!

I find myself in uncharted territory, feeling something like an abandoned Wellington boot, stuck fast in a thick bog, waiting quietly for its owner to return and claim him from the forces of nature. I am struggling severely to maintain the degree of decorum that is required to let nature takes its course as one needs to in any blossoming relationship. What will happen next, and the time after that, and the time after that ...?

I don't think I can wait, but I know that I have to. I don't want the physical to dominate the intellectual nature of our relationship, or vice versa, they are not, after all, mutually exclusive. Despite me having gotten very much a part of what I want from him, on many levels, I can't bare to think he has too. In a probable awkward and unconventional way I think we have to lead each other through the quagmire, but are not quite ready for that next step, not just yet.

He has made a tentative, but inelegant move to introduce the concept of seeing me again, and I have blown back with equally inelegant piffle. Neither of us are in any doubt that we want to see each other, but the capacity within which that would happen is not disagreed upon, but nor is it agreed. We, or I, or he, are, or is, I suggest, scared at what might happen next if we were to arrange another meeting.

He knows when he has the opportunity to see me without arrangement; at the party of an of-sorts mutual friend, and I'm digging my heels in enough to refrain from asking him to accompany me, or at the very least to join me at the bar. I think he won't go though he's had plenty of notice and surely has the motivation, because it's a public place where cameras will be flashing, and because he does not know what to expect of me in such a situation. If I gave him the opportunity to respond to that opinion, he would surely say I am wrong, of that I have no doubt, so I am suffocating his ability to say anything on the matter at all...

I'm now going to sit back and wait for Saturday to come.

First impressions

I think I have one of those faces. The type that silently seeks opinion from anyone in the vicinity, unassumingly inviting them to opine - and they do. On the train home this evening one of a group in my carriage, who'd engaged a few of us in friendly and amusing banter, opined that he liked my hat, a few minutes later he appreciated my handbag and then moved on to express his admiration of my eye-liner. I thanked him on each occasion, raising an eyebrow and questioned his unquestionable sexuality, and then sat in dread, anticipating his next observation.

I can't remember the first time it happened, I'd venture it was around 14 years ago. The frequency ebbs and flows, and with age has morphed into a more subtle, unspoken appreciation - unless of course the commentator feels they have secured my confidence (or are just plain stupid), in which case they happily, and mostly disappointingly go for the jugular. Somewhat sadly, I have now become immune to it, almost bored by the lack of originality, and consistently irritated with the blatant lack of manners. I say sadly as when a lover clearly, and so seductively appreciates it, it should be a moment to enjoy, to savour, to take advantage of, not one to wince at.

I've had all sorts, none of which impress me but are all variations on the same theme: I have a lovely mouth. I've lost count of the number of times men have stood next to me at the bar and matter-of-factly informed me that I have a fantastic mouth for a blow job and then casually continued to order their drink, the men who have sidled up to me and leered that they know with a mouth like mine I'd give them a great blow job, and the women who just tell me that they'd kill for lips like mine. I think I've heard every version, and seen every type of look.

They're not too big, not too small, plump, a good size with a great shape and a tendency to gently pout when left to do their own thing. Of all of the ways one could make a first impression I've learnt to accept that my mouth, smiling, pouting, or otherwise, is a large part of how I do it. Amusingly I've also learned to recognise when I can induce a colleague into losing their train of thought by a seemingly innocent but necessary application of lip-gloss - and just in case that gives the wrong impression of me it means any variation on the themes: 'I'm bored now', 'stop talking to me', 'go away' ;-)

It seems irrelevant now, but the chap on the train didn't mention them after all, though he did venture to ask if I was a dominatrix - something to do with the way I slowly pulled on my elbow length leather gloves apparently.

Clearing the air

Before I go any further, I need to clear the air: I didn't embark on this relationship with the intention of starting an affair. In actual fact I have tried every trick in the book to end it precisely because I didn't want to start an affair. To counterbalance that, I've also tried with all of my heart to see if we could be friends. The net result appears to be that I'm having an affair, or at least I think I am ... I'm still not convinced that's what I'm actually doing.

He has been attached to dowdy girlfriend since we met. She is the type of woman who travels abroad for extended periods of time, years on end, he is the type of man who suddenly discovered at some point in the past couple of years that he's actually charming, attractive to other women and has quite a presence about him. I don't know her well at all, but I know that she does not like me one bit, and at this point in time I'd say quite rightly too. In all, they are a very odd coupling.

So we have him, we have her, and we have me. We tried an evening out with a few other friends, and it descended quite rapidly into chaos, never to be repeated. What followed was months of trying to be friends under her radar whilst all the while realising that was not what either of us wanted. He never mentions her, citing conflict of interest, and I don't ask - his only concession is to go so far as to say they both agree the relationship is not working. Having anticipated her next departure would very likely change the way he dealt with me, I distanced myself from him.

What followed is what takes us to the present day. In a nutshell, once she'd gone he asked me out to dinner, claiming they'd separated and he was a single man. I made a last gasp effort to push him away to which he responded by issuing me with an ultimatum - which I should point out was a very brave move to try on me - dinner, no dinner, answer now because he won't ask again. I buckled, we had a wonderful dinner, I saw him again and we ended up in bed. Amazed by my willpower aren't you?

So why don't I believe him? I say: "I'm single", he says: "I'm as single as it is going to get". To say that I like him is a gross understatement; he captures me in a way that leaves me breathless and unable to comprehend functioning without him in my life. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen, something to break the spell because deep down I don't expect him to break up with her and be with me. The reason I say that is that can't imagine being with someone who could carry on like he does, behind her back. But then, I never thought I'd be the one to have an affair ...

Turandot

It was a picture postcard, the text he sent, a picture postcard of where he is, alone, on holiday. With: 'Wish you were here ... XX' written underneath. Amusingly I found that my mobile had done it's thing and turned itself off unnoticed by me else I'd have received it 8 hours earlier and thus would not have spent a fair amount of time fantasising about the mental torture I could serve to him. God I hate it when he's right!

A friend had mentioned he'd just gone away, so my irritation had been sparked by not knowing this, or at least not recalling that I knew this. Irritating to find then, that once he'd settled in his hotel he'd found a nice view and sent me a picture of it almost straight away. I wonder if he sent the same to the dowdy girlfriend as she is currently away on a long term mission so hence not with him (more on that, I'm sure, in another post), if he really did wish I was there or if he was just being lazy regurgitating a used text message. Furthermore given his reasonable attempt to get me to go with him whilst he was considering location, whether I wanted to be there with him, if I was irritated with his sentiment or just pleased that he thought of me at all.

Should I embrace this relationship with careless abandon, should I remain sceptical of his motives, or can I dare to sit back and gently appreciate it, all the while letting it develop into a deeper and stronger union? Rather than ponder that further let me tell you about Turandot, which I saw last night - it's the story of a beautiful Chinese princess, burnt from past experience she decides she will only marry the man who can answer her three riddles and those who fail lose their heads. The story unfolds, a prince succeeds to her horror but rather than take her hand he sets her a challenge: to discover his name before dawn - if she succeeds she can take his head, if she fails she must take his hand. The prince, blinded by her beauty and his love for her, crosses the chasm under moonlight and tells her his name, leaving his fate in her hands. As the opera reaches it's crescendo, we watched the princess take audience with her father, declaring that she knew the princes's name, and that it is Love.

If you don't already know, this is where Nessun Dorma comes from, and by the end I was fighting back tears, breathless with emotion, hand poised dramatically over my chest as if it would catch my heart when it burst out, unable to beat so fast in its own chamber. I identified with Princess Turandot; I've unintentionally set Him various challenges, which he has met at every step, and rather than bask in glory he challenges me, then changes the rules, handing me victory, relying only on the trust that comes from a deep unspoken love to save him from failure.

As a person who is loathe to trust at the drop of the hat, but who's socks have been well and truly knocked off in the most magnificent way by Him, I ask you: How does this happen in the real world, and how does one deal with it?! Baffling, quite honestly, baffling ...

Fire ... bar .. Part II

Still no sleep, much like last weekend but at least then I'd had the tortuous pleasure of 12 delicious sleepless hours in bed with Him. Oh last weekend was wonderful - yet another development in our seemingly never-ending, and never-boring relationship.

I knew from the moment I met him that I'd like him. Actually, make that the second time - the first I don't really recall him but that was probably due to being attached to dowdy girlfriend, dulling his brilliance. The second time however she was absent and I was immediately taken with his wit, in particular the way he would make exactly the same joke or comment that I was about to make, a fraction of a second before me - irritating, yet fascinating. We sat up talking until the early hours of the morning, our host comically passed out at our feet, and as he walked me to my car I remember a wave of satisfaction passing over me as I said goodbye.

Two and a half years later and despite an excruciatingly slow start, he finally kissed me for the second time by which point I felt drunk in satisfaction... though that may also have been down to the G&T's I had consumed by that point ;-) I'd had the most wonderful day in London, pottering from pillar to post, taking in Anish Kapoor at the RA, Mozart in St Martins before settling in a luxurious leather sofa in the National Gallery, admiring my favourite Masterpiece, awaiting his arrival. It felt terribly dramatic, and as we walked down the darkened Mall, towards a floodlit Buckingham Palace, I wanted to take him in my arms, and pause to appreciate that first moment of physical closeness. We ambled along to a nice pub and settled down, alcohol lubricating the necessary progression of the evening which would take us from faux friends to eager lovers.

The anticipation had been building steadily for months, taking me through so many emotional journeys and moral quandaries through a mixture of drunken evenings, testy emails, wonderful emails, handwritten modern day love letters and delightfully calm and relaxing days spent watching cricket. It was delightful to extend this experience to one with a physical dimension; to awaken from my temporary slumber to find myself draped in the arms and legs of his near naked wonderness, to find that his kisses are tender as well as deeply masculine and to add insult to injury he is supremely skilled at just about everything you would want a man in his position to be. So why the disappointment?

I'm a fairly open minded kind of girl who believes honesty is the best policy and one should not court the man of another woman. I've sat back and observed as he has spun his magic around me all the while being unutterably tolerable of me, and he's fallen for my charms whilst I've endured him and all the challenges around him. We've had a night of near-bliss but I now fear the next step is going to be ugly as we try to outdo each other in the frustrating way that we must. I'd rather we bypassed the obligatory wretchedness and went straight to bed, for one thing he's very warm, like a self heating hot water bottle. I'd describe the more pertinent physical aspects of his loveliness, but as I recall them I find myself drifting to that spot of contentment which means I can finally go back to bed and catch up on some sleep ... so it will have to wait for another time.

Oh damn, as I edit this a simple text from him leaves me spellbound. Damn him and his magical powers.

Set fire to the third bar

What have I done? I can't sleep, I can't stay in bed, and I can't get him out of my head.

What did I do? I gave into temptation. Common sense temporarily disabled, I ensnared a man, lets call him 'Him' for now. A persistent, willing and eager man, who would argue he is unwilling to be ensnared by anyone, and certainly not by me, he was ensnared, and I let him ensnare me. The temptation is Him, pure and simply Him - the myth and the actual.

I can't sleep because I woke up too early courtesy of too much wine and a 5am bedtime. I can't stay in bed because I think of the last time he was in it, and right now, that makes me feel very sick indeed. And I can't get him out of my head because he is a delicious mix of addictive, curious, and awkward, with a very handsome backside thrown in for good measure.

I really should know better by now - the actual is never as good as the myth, I'm easily bored, and a nice smile will see me easily swayed. But with Him, the actual is proving to be better than the myth at every turn, and with fiercely high expectations I'm left mystified. He is something of an artist, adept at sidestepping the unspeakable whilst leading you almost unknowingly into the Garden of Eden. This morning however, I am disappointed; his magic has temporarily worn off which leaves me loathing him, cursing his existence, and occasionally deliberating effective ways to poke him with a stick.

In the meantime I find myself distracted with thoughts of an ex-lover, a certain Mr Green, which surprises me, as I normally wander back to the reliable Mr Marine. Set fire to the third bar - such a curious song. I don't understand it, perhaps I do in parts, but I like it a lot as it takes me off into a totally different place. This sounds an awful lot like my thoughts on Him...