I’ve been trying to write something like an Origin post for this blog – who I am, my relevant life experiences, how I discovered my queerness to where I am now, what I hope and want for the future, and some commentary on what happens on that road. This isn’t that. Not completely anyway…
This is the bit where I get fucked with a real cock for the first time.
Raoul and I had a much needed planned break for a couple of days over New Year, remote part of Wales, hot tub and photos ideas on an isolated beach. Relaxation was had, the hot tub utilised but the beach photos didn’t work out (too many people and not the right frame of mind). However, an idea struck me in the hot tub and my ever willing partner ran with it, it was certainly fun to do and much warmer than the beach!
P.S It’s really difficult trying to float in a hot tub!
You were standing in the kitchen when I got home, putting away the last couple of bits of shopping. You heard me drop my keys in the bowl by the front door, and called out a hello, and I replied in kind.
“How was your day?”
“Antsy! Nothing in particular, just a low tolerance for for stupid people in supermarkets. Oh, and all the idiots seemed to be out on the roads today.”
I step up behind you and wrap my arms around your waist, nuzzling your neck.
“Well it’s chill time. I’ll make dinner in a bit. Risotto?”
“Mmmmm” is the only reply I get.
“If you’re antsy, does this help, or make it worse?” I ask as my left hand comes up to hold your right breast through your blouse. You release a quiet gasp and wriggle your hips into my groin.
Helena and I were 41 and 43 in 2014 when we met and, when we
met, I honestly think we were a bit in love before we made eye contact. She’d
seen something I’d written on Fetlife about Strong and Difficult Women that was
inspired by a Royal Shakespeare Company mug I have, connecting Cleopatra,
Desdemona, Kate, Lady Macbeth and Rosalind. She immediately pulled me up about
the ‘difficult’ bit, and after much back-and-forth, with digressions on why
Irish authors write better female characters, I changed it to ‘Strong and
Challenging’, which sat much better with both of us.
We met at a munch a couple of weeks later, and I went to a
(ostensibly vanilla) party at hers just after that, where things got excitable
(involving fire poi, amongst other distractions), and then a couple of days
later, we had our first night together in a hotel. She tries to deny how
quickly I fell in love with her, but I can give you the gist of our Fetlife
chat without ever having read it again. I can describe pretty much exactly what
she wore when we met, how her hair looked, what we talked about, and how I (robust,
confident, gregarious) could barely bring myself to look at her when we first
met because she was so fucking …much.
So beautiful and clever and funny.
We’ve been through so fucking much since then, blending
families and tying together our lives, exploring and discovering things about
ourselves and each other. I can honestly say I’m more in love with her today
than I was yesterday, or any day before that. We know each other; we’re both
ridiculously empathic, and that feeds the core of our relationship.
We’ve got a lot that we’ve brought into this relationship,
including a not-insubstantial number of children, and we occasionally chat
about opportunities missed. How it would have been to have our own, together.
How we would have loved discovering ourselves together in our 20s. How it could
have been if we’d been there to support, encourage, conspire and generally be a
bad influence on each other. And we both miss those missed opportunities.
Except those missed opportunities weren’t really missed.
We were raised hundreds of miles and a sea apart. The
closest we ever came to each other was about 50 miles when we were both doing
our respective training. If we hadn’t travelled these separate paths; if we
hadn’t had the respective spouses we had; if our previous relationships hadn’t
failed when and how they did; if, if, if …
If we change one thing in our past, the whole bifurcating, Sliding
Doors, Star Trek reboot, path not taken, chain of events that brought us together
collapses, and we never meet. And although I’d have no way to know it, my life
would have been immeasurably poorer for not having met her. The world would
have had one fewer shining examples of ‘nauseatingly in love’. You know those
doddery old couples you see in their 70s who are as clearly at least as in love
as they were way back when? That’s our realistic and easily achievable
So. Do we wish we’d met 20 years earlier? Fuck yes. Do we begrudge it? Fuck yes. Would we change a single thought, deed, or decision that brought us to where we are now? No. Not a single fucking thing. I wish that we could have had another two decades of being in love, but we’re not concentrating on that. We’ve got today, and tomorrow and everything else, and we’re looking forward to being together in a nursing home, scandalising the staff by both of us flirting with the same cute ones, demanding Viagra, and Helena asking for assistance with her strap on cock.