Bucolia

Experiencing a lowering in libido I remained chaste in the week.  I blame the election result.  Since that party at Max’s which ended at 2am when we were left without doubt that the left-wing were not going to shine, although not quite anticipating the inglorious defeat, I had been struggling with my mojo.

My dates with Jan though, were notable in their increased frequency – three in the space of four days, the last even included a family outing with animals in a bucolic setting.  The first  occurred on Wednesday evening with a film and dinner, detailed in a previous blogpost.  Then on Friday evening he called suddenly to invite me up to his village for an impromptu drink at his local pub where he regaled me with tales of his dating capers.  The most recent involved a woman on the far side of the continent who would send him saucy pictures of herself posed on a bed, taken with the timer option on her smartphone hanging from a light fitting.  You couldn’t see her face but her body looked pretty amazing, smooth-bellied with sizeable knockers, long legs discreetly crossed and arms cradling her boobs to accentuate her cleavage.  Due to the time difference they would set up dates where she’d enter a cafe bar and set up her webcam to Skype him.  Their next scheduled event was the following morning when she might engage in some titillating banter leading to some mutually satisfying sex talk.

Yet he bemoaned the fact that this was a crazy woman and he couldn’t imagine anything permanent or long-lasting coming from it.  Not that he hadn’t had long distance relationships in the past, some of them lasting a reasonable length of time.  I couldn’t help but agree though that it did seem a little off the wall to consider yourselves being in a relationship when you hadn’t even met, Skype sex being the most intimate thing you might have enjoyed.  He said that she would pout and appear jealous about his other real dates in the real world.  I wondered why he didn’t just fly out to Japan to meet this nymphet but perhaps some self preserving instinct was cautioning him against a potentially destructive move.

We went back to his after our meal and sat on his old sofa in his recently renovated living room.  It already had a lived in look with children’s electronic charging devices and miniature combat figures strewn next to the TV, along with a few chocolate bar and snack wrappers scrunched into the sides of the sofa.  Towards the witching hour I had to decide whether I might be staying the night or driving home.  Jan put his arm round my shoulders and leaned closer and we kissed.  I was reminded of the scene in Back to the Future when Lorraine Baines kisses Marty McFly, her own son from the future and her recoil of disbelieving horror.  I don’t, of course, recoil or repeat her line  – This is all wrong. I don’t know what it is. But when I kiss you, it’s like I’m kissing… my brother.    But it certainly helped me make up my mind.  We said our good byes and I drove home virtue intact.  He’d urged me to text him when I arrived home and I did but didn’t get a reply.

The following morning he texted back – was asleep!  Fat lot of use he’d be if I’d had a puncture or other mishap.  I told him as much and we settled into the all too familiar banter of old friends.  He brought his children round in the afternoon and our two families met for the first time.  It was pleasant and uncomplicated and I invited him to join me on a holiday some time next month.  He said he would think about it and let me know whether he was able to schedule a break round his work and domestic commitments.  And so we parted again in good cheer.

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