Two weeks ago, a new bar opened on the same block as my company. Or rather, it reopened, having been closed for about a year. Until its closure, it was the number one spot for people at my company, and the location of many of my debaucherous nights out; its reopening was very highly anticipated. Great crowds were expected for their opening party, with exclusive entry and long queues to avoid overcrowding. Luckily, I’ve been around long enough that I knew what to expect, and made sure that me and my friends got in hassle free, without waiting in line.
Anyone who’s anyone was there. I saw dozens of people that I knew, and just walking to the bar to get a drink felt like a high school reunion. I had expected all of the guys from my old office to be there – they were very firm regulars at the old place – and was very surprised to only run into two of them, neither of whom I’ve ever even considered a dalliance with. I’d gone to the opening with the guys from my new office (obviously, in my new office of ten, I’m the only woman) who I don’t yet know all that well (and luckily don’t fancy), so instead of hobnobbing and talking to everyone, I stayed with this group of people and had a lot of fun. Disappointingly, the guys from my office aren’t exactly party animals, and they left at about 8pm, leaving me with two guys who were friends with someone from my office. We chatted, but I wasn’t that interested in them, so when I went to get a drink and saw The Editor talking in a group to one of the guys from my old office near the bar, I leapt at the opportunity to converse with far more exciting acquaintances, as well as to interact with The Editor in a more social setting than the newspaper office. None of us realised that we were mutually friends, and so that gave us a starter, and from there conversation flowed.
I’d never really spend much time with this guy in the office, despite knowing him for years, I wasn’t actually sure that we’d ever had a one on one conversation. All I knew about him was that he sailed a lot, and he was dating someone who I went to university with, but didn’t really know (small world, isn’t it?). With The Editor distracted by the others in this group of people, The Sailor says to me, with a flirtatious smile, “So. How’s your love life?” I assumed that he was referring to the incident with G, frowned, and asked whether he was joking. He wasn’t, he swore, it was a genuine question. I responded with a wry smile, telling him that it was disappointingly dull, and nothing was going on. Ah yes, he lamented. “Mine too.” It was then that I remembered hearing that he’d broken up with his girlfriend a few months ago, after being together for years. I’d assumed that they would have got back together, I felt bad for him. But I changed the topic of conversation, lest he get depressed, and started gossiping about people in his office. It wasn’t really flirty, just friendly, and I was happy when The Editor rejoined our conversation.
I was pulling out all the stops with The Editor, at my most charming, with funny stories coming out of my ears. It was going well – I remember him saying that I was the most interesting person that he’d ever met, and conversation was flowing readily. Despite the rest of the people he was with drifting off, he didn’t seem keen to leave. At the same time, neither did The Sailor. The Sailor was keeping me supplied with drinks, and as he drank more, he started flirting, and was becoming quite tactile about it, constantly touching me in some way. I was panicking that this might give The Editor the wrong impression, and was focussed on not reciprocating in any way, while at the same time being royally confused. The Sailor knew that I’d slept with one of his office-mates (luckily, he didn’t know that out of the five guys, it was actually two, with the other two being married and asexual), why was he hitting on me? I’d never thought about him sexually in the remotest sense, I just didn’t know what to make of it.
After several more pints, and some shots of tequila that I made the boys drink instead of me (“Trust me guys, you do not want me to drink that tequila. I am not responsible for my actions if I have tequila”), as it got much later and approached the closing time of the bar, The Sailor won this standoff between men, and The Editor made his excuses and disappeared. Although I’m sure that he said that he would be back, I didn’t see him again after that, although that could be because I got a little distracted. Now we were alone, The Sailor upped the ante, and flirted even harder. There didn’t really seem to be a reason to fight it anymore, and when he leaned in to kiss me, I kissed him back. Soon we were up against a pillar, necking like teenagers, in a bar that had called time and was waiting for people to leave.
I pulled away from him, slightly embarrassed at the situation. “They’re closing,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck. I looked around, confused. I didn’t realise that it was so late.
“I guess we’d better leave then,” I murmured back.
“What do you want to do?”
I shrugged, raising my eyebrows.
I could see him weighing his options. “I want to go somewhere and spend more time with you,” he eventually said.
Very cautiously put. I grinned. “Well, let’s go then!”
At this point, I don’t really know what I was planning. He’d certainly got me hot and bothered, but I wasn’t sure if I liked him enough to take him home. I’ll probably leave him at the tube, I reasoned. The walk to the tube took a lot longer than usual. Stopping every few steps to press each other up against glass windows that we normally look out of during the day, our eager hands explored each other in the relative privacy of the dark streets. If that hadn’t got me riled up enough to decide to sleep with him, the decision had been made for me when we got to the tube station. Much in the same way as had happened with Homeboy, I’d missed the last tube home in my direction, and really had no choice but to go home with The Sailor.
We spent the tube ride being those horribly inappropriate people you sometimes see, unable to keep their hands off each other, and barely keeping their behaviour to an appropriate public level. Tube trains are well lit, after all. Luckily, it was only a few stops. Once off the tube, we played a more residential version of our few steps to distraction game. After a probably illegal few minutes against a wall, I pushed him back. “There’s something that I should tell you,” I said seriously. “This morning, I made the decision between coffee and shaving my legs. Coffee won. They’re pretty hairy.”
“Are you serious?” He laughed. “Is that really your biggest concern right now?”
“Well,” I said. “Yes!”
He kissed me.
In between the wall moments, we held hands and had those pseudo-deep conversations that you can only have with people that you’re sleeping with. Eventually, we reached his house, and headed straight for the bedroom, with a temporary diversion so that we could both pee. Both relieved, I pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him. We were suddenly both trying to rid each other of our clothes in record time. He fumbled with my bra, but then got it undone, and in one swift motion he rid my upper body of several layers of material. Still straddling him, I pulled him into a half sitting position and took off his t shirt, then reached down to undo his belt. As soon as I’d done this, I felt his strong arms hold onto me, and he somehow stood up, lifted me against the door, shed his jeans, and tug mine down over my hips, all in one swift motion. I was impressed, and very turned on – I didn’t realise he was packing that kind of strength! Eventually we were standing there, both totally naked. He made some lighting adjustments, and we dived under the covers of his bed.
Ever the gentleman, he seemed to be very focussed on my pleasure. As I tried to go down on him, he asked me the question that every girl deserves to hear. “Don’t you want me to make you come?” Ever one to look a gift horse in the mouth (and hoping that he’d make it up to me), I wanted to fuck him more than I wanted him to make me come, at that moment in time. After what felt like a lifetime of waiting, he eased into me, and we both moaned in ecstasy. After what was becoming far too long a dry spell, it was incredible to finally feel someone inside me again. And what I was becoming increasingly aware of was that he was really, really big! We fucked exactly as you’d imagine, like two people who were both breaking a drought. It was fast, hard, and passionate. We eventually broke apart, and lay back on the bed, panting and satisfied.
Exhausted, we shifted into spooning, and he fell asleep. I lay there, warm and comfortable, but unable to sleep. After a while, I decided to get up and go to the bathroom. I’d been drinking for hours, I was drunk, thirsty, and I needed to pee again. Unfortunately, I had no idea where my clothes were. Luckily, as I was looking for them, he woke up long enough to direct me to his robe, which pretty much came down to my feet. After drinking as much water as I could bear from the tap, I got back into bed with him, and went to sleep. Fast forward a few hours, when I woke up deathly hungover at about 7am. I needed more water, but was too hungover to get it, and he was still dead to the world. I think I did the classic girl thing of lying awake, tossing and turning, until he was sufficiently disturbed to wake up. Without my even saying anything, he pretty quickly went a filled a massive glass of water and put it by the bed. Either he’s psychic, or he’s a hell of a catch.
We fell back to sleep, entangled in each others arms, but were rudely awakened by the doorbell. The Sailor sprung out of bed urgently, and put on his robe, as I heard someone calling his name from the hallway. He offered no explanation as he disappeared out of the room. I could hear a lot of activity, but I had no idea what’s going on. I knew that I had two options: get dressed and prepare to leave, or pretend to be asleep. I opted for the latter, and tried not to freak out as the minutes ticked by. About fifteen minutes later, he came back into the room, shed his robe, and got back into bed.
“Tesco delivery. I was supposed to be up for it… Did my alarm go off?”
“Uh, I didn’t hear one. What time is it?” It was gone 11am, too late to be hanging around after a one night stand. “I should probably go…”
“Nah,” he replied, wrapping his arms tighter around me. “Leaving is overrated.”
We lay in bed for another few hours, chatting, snoozing, and intermittently shagging (because how can you not, when you’re naked in bed with someone?). He held up on his side of the bargain and went down on me, doing things with his tongue and fingers that I cannot possibly explain and feel that everyone should know about. I wanted to ask what he was doing, so that I can teach it to every man ever, but I didn’t think it was the right time – it seemed like there would be more opportunities to ask on the horizon, after all. Getting hungry, he offered to make me breakfast, which kept failing to materialise as we got distracted from the task of finding food. After a final round, ending on the magnificent climax of a simultaneous orgasm (pretty good for a first time, it was only the second time I’ve ever come without any direct clitoral stimulation), we lay back on the bed, gasping for air. It was nearly 2pm. “Right,” I said, once our breathing slowed. “Let’s get something to eat.”
It became apparent that in order to eat, we would have to leave his bedroom. It also became apparent that we would have to face his housemates. No problem, I thought, I’m not ashamed. I would take a stride of pride into their midst, hair a mess and reeking of sex. “Who are your housemates?”
My heart dropped when he told me that he lived with one of the guys from the office and his wife. I covered my face with my hands and groaned. “Of course you live with him,” I said, cringing. Luckily, due to his being married, the housemate was a lot less laddish than the others, and at least wouldn’t say anything to me. I took my time getting dressed while The Sailor made french toast. In fact, I took so long that he came to find me and asked if I was hiding. I was, sort of, but only in a delaying the inevitable sort of way. Fortunately, in this time he seemed to have taken the hint, and told his housemates to make themselves scarce. The wife had gone out, and the husband was in his room. Breakfast was delicious and very welcome; The Sailor was clearly a very competent cook. Plates cleared, we each curled up at opposite ends of the two seater sofa and chatted, nursing cups of tea. Our conversation was slightly stilted, it was obviously a bit awkward, and moving between topics of conversation was difficult. However we found lots to talk about, even beyond work we had quite a bit in common. This was the first time we’d ever had a conversation alone together, I realised.
Eventually the housemate reappeared, and came out for a cup of tea before leaving. He was admirable – he didn’t seem the least bit fazed by my presence (he’d obviously been warned, but I didn’t expect him to be able to keep a straight face after probably hearing us at it all night) and acted as though it was totally normal that I was in his house looking like a mess at three in the afternoon.
Once the housemate left, it was slightly easier. Every so often I would suggest that I ought to leave, and he’d brush it away, encouraging me to stay. Eventually, it was gone 5pm. “It’s dark outside!” exclaimed The Sailor.
“Okay, this time I really do have to leave,” I insisted. He offered to walk me to the tube station, and after gathering my things, we set off. Unlike the previous night, we didn’t hold hands as we walked, instead out hands buried deep in coat pockets to protect from the cold. I didn’t say much, waiting for him to address the meaning of this day in some way, but it never came. At the station, he hugged me, our first significant physical contact since getting out of bed. “I’ll see you soon,” he said. “Maybe at the bar.” He grinned.
I didn’t really know what to make of it all. He was giving off so many mixed signals, that could be attributed to awkwardness, I just had no idea how he felt. After relaying the story to the BFF, we decided that maybe there was potential. He’d added me on facebook during the evening, so when I went online to accept his friend request that evening, I took the opportunity to send him a message. I know, why would I do that? All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“So… How’s your love life? ;)”
Nearly two days later of mildly freaking out (though not even close to the levels of stress reached with G):
“A bit messed up, you?”
What even is that?! What does it mean? I waited a few hours, and consulted the BFF on a reply that would be technically neutral, but not unenthusiastic, just in case. And to be honest, I was offended by his messed up comment, I wanted to know what it meant.
“A little bit more interesting than yesterday. Why is yours messed up?”
Two days passed. In that time, I had an excellent session at the gym, and managed to sweat out all my nervous energy. I wasn’t bothered anymore, he’d taken too long to reply, he obviously wasn’t interested. Then…
“Because I’m a rubbish person”
Well. What sort of grown man sends a message like that? I knew that I could do one of two things in response: either send a bitchy reply, calling him out on his ambiguity, or I could leave it. I chose the latter. I’m too old to get drawn into stroking the egos of these emo men who don’t know what they want. He obviously wanted me to ask why he was rubbish, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Whatever his reasons for being rubbish, he’d quelled amy flames of desire I was harbouring for him, and I was happy to leave it there.
That was the end of our messaging, but of course, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t seen him several times since. At the bar, where I’ve seen him a few times, he’s managed to avoid me to the point that I can’t be sure he even spotted me. He sat down with some friends at the next table over in the canteen the other day, and I got to watch his face as he noticed me. He visibly cringed, squirmed, and looked around panicked as though he was looking for any possible reason to change seats. I’ve definitely had a lasting effect on him, but the reasons are unclear. Reasoning from some trusted mutual (female) friends guesses that he’s never had a one night stand before, and feels awkward about it. Other reasoning suggests he might not be over his ex. Or maybe he’s just not that into me.
As a result of our lack of contact, I have no idea whether everyone in the office knows about us. I’ve tried to make subtle investigations, but the only people who would come out and say it to my face are the ones who I can’t ask – the ones I’ve slept with. I’m desperate to know, partially because I’m strangely proud of my record there. Out of the non-married, heterosexual guys who coincided with my time there, I’ve scored with all of them, and at some point, I’ve entertained the notion of it being something more with each one. I haven’t met my (male) replacement in the office yet, but maybe I’ll make him my next target. It turns out that third time isn’t the charm after all!