Entitlement

The quality of the writing on some other blogs: The Naked Truth, Bittersweet-Me never fails to impress me - how they manage to capture a moment in time, freeze-frame it, spin it out microsecond by microsecond, describe and make explicit the implicit, the subconcious with clever metaphor and simile and I tried to mentally photograph moments to describe here, but its no good. I get lost in the moment too completely and it slides through my mental grasp like a wet paintbrush over the bit of carpet you didn't cover.

Alas, the discreet hotel was full, so his secretary booked him into the usual, goldfish-bowl one. I bowed to the inevitable, and got a different secretary to book me in too. Despite the fact that I have spent less time thinking about him this week, seeing him occasionally during day between meetings made me realise that I was absolutely gagging for it.

We rushed away from work to check in early - to get a couple of hours' peace and quiet, and we made good use. Orgasm followed hard upon orgasm but as the count rose higher, so did the emotional overload. Too many hard orgasms can make me cry even at the best of times, and this is not the best of times for me - vulnerable, rocky and unstable are all words that wouldn't be out of place to describe me at the moment. At least I didn't break into full-on, snot-snorting sobbing; let's be grateful for small mercies, but it was touch and go at one point. I was so pathetically pleased to be with someone, for a touch, for a conversation, for him.

"Has it been very quiet indoors?", he gently inquired. He knows the offspring are away, to return on Friday. What could I say? That, yes, it has been, and sometimes that's ok and sometimes it isn't. Again he mused out loud on how long I will want this reality, how long it will be enough, how long I will want him. I wonder too - the stubborn, invulnerable, fuck-em-all part of me thinks that I shouldn't settle for the precarious state of mistress for a second longer, that I should need nothing and no-one unless they are prepared and free to court me fully and properly, and that I should demand nothing less for myself. But the human, vulnerable needy me that I don't like to admit exists realises that as little as this is, its a precious something, and its removal would leave a gaping void. No promises, no expectations, I told him. One occasion at a time - that way there's less room to get hurt, even though we all know I will be.

I want to say to him that I was touched that he'd bought champagne the other week, even though we didn't get a chance to drink it. But if I did, I might go on to admit that I was so touched, because no man has ever bought me champagne before, and fatally, go on to wonder out loud if that was because I wasn't that sort of woman, or because I don't attract that sort of man. I can't decide which answer is more depressing.

Oh I have the grots tonight, it must be hormonal. I promise in a day or two, I will post happy, positive posts. My ceanothus bushes are poised to burst into glory, the Mexican Orange Blossom is pregnant with budding beauty, the aquilegia is verging on colourful delight. The occasional snow-flurries can't stop the march of Spring and now the decorating is finished and BST-lit evenings are here, fresh air and exercise will prod your blogger into better moods, I promise.