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Monday, March 05, 2007

Hotel II 

A few months and a couple of hotels later…

I opened the heavy glass door and exited the bathroom with a towel draped over my arm. I stumbled slightly, because my legs were sore – no doubt the result of spending hours with them wrapped tightly around his back. Turning the corner, I saw him sitting on the bed fully clothed; his jacket was zipped up and his overnight bag was packed.

“Um, look, do you mind if I go now?” he said, awkwardly. “I really do need to get back.”

Caught off-guard by his request, I suddenly felt self-conscious about my nudity; ironic, given just minutes before, both our naked bodies were intertwined as the morning sunlight lit up our heated embrace. I crossed the room to the mirror and looked at our reflections in it; the disparate juxtaposition of my nakedness and his covered-up body, like some kind of analogy for us. I delayed for a moment, unsure of how to reply.

“Oh, right. Well then, OK.” I said, after I had momentarily collected my thoughts. I picked up my lingerie from the dresser and fidgeted with it, turning to face him; his expression showed mild relief. He immediately got up from the bed, walked over to me, and then kissed me on the cheek before making his way to the door.

“See you soon”, he said, his hand already turning the door handle.

“Yup”, I replied, the forced smile on my face as uncomfortable as the atmosphere.

A moment later he was gone; I was left to check out of the hotel on my own.

Still naked, I looked over at the bed, the only evidence of our passionate night, an imprint in the crumpled sheets and misplaced pillows. Part of me felt compelled to tidy the bed, as if by straightening the linen, I could somehow neaten the situation. Then I realised I was still holding my pants and bra in my hands and decided to get dressed instead. I quickly slipped both on and looked at myself in the mirror again. Though the bra had fit me just hours before, for some reason it now it felt restrictive. As I cast my eyes over my semi-clad self and studied my reflection, I watched my chest expand and contract under the brassiere as my breathing intensified. Each breath was sharp and tight; my ribcage pressing down on my lungs with force. And with each heavy exhalation, I felt the anger in me increase. Running through my mind was this: He had left me with no more than a peck on the cheek; it was as if the all-night-fuck-a-thon had never happened.

Now I wasn’t expecting any romance upon his saying goodbye; our stay in the hotel had everything to do with shagging, and nothing to do with emotional ties. But his solitary kiss on my cheek had felt so cold and impersonal: just hours before, he had been passionate as always – his face buried between my legs, his fingers deep inside me, his lips on my breasts sucking with intensity – but now not even as much as an intimate kiss on my lips.

For me, it’s rare for casual sex to end that way. Most lovers I’ve had will, at the very least, grab my arse whilst snogging me, before departing. Or hopefully more than that: certainly if I was naked at the time, there might be a chance of a brief flick of their fingers in the right place, or perhaps a quick shag before we said goodbye. But to finish a long night of passion with just a brief peck on the cheek? Not a good sign. And after getting to know, and sleep with him every few weeks, for almost six months, the abruptness of his exit left me fuming.

But it wasn’t fury for him that I felt; instead it was directed inwards towards me. When he exited the room and left me alone, I was disappointed - and feeling like that made me angry with myself.

It’s not like I had any right to be upset by his leaving – this was casual sex, nothing more. But I really enjoyed his company: I wouldn’t have fucked him so many times if I didn’t. Partly this was because he was a fantastic lover and our sexual chemistry seemed perfectly matched: the sex we had was amazing. But he was also rather different to other men I have been with: I had been taken aback by his cooking a three-course meal for me on our first date; his reading Philosophy in bed turned me on and made me want to jump him; the way he would meditate rather than just fall asleep after having sex, showed another, deeper, sensitivity to his masculinity that I found very attractive alongside his handsomeness.

And during the last six months where circumstances had made me feel needy and vulnerable, alongside being horny and craving sex, he became a sort of trusted solace for me: he was someone with whom I wouldn’t have to keep up a façade. He didn’t seem to judge me - he just accepted me for who I was - so as a result, I could lose myself in passion with him without worrying about any negative consequences – for either of us. I guess given all this, it was only natural for me to fancy him: I looked forward to seeing him when both our schedules allowed.

I had considered the romantic possibilities of course, but there were many reasons why we were not well matched to be a couple: the large difference in our ages being the main one; the extreme difference in our wants in life being another. Still, I had toyed with the idea of being more involved with him in the short-term: it’d be nice to be with someone for a few months, especially with where things were at for me, I thought to myself. We have fun together – why not do it more often, even if it’s not going to lead to a serious long-term relationship?

Until he left me alone in the hotel room, I suppose I hadn’t realised how much I might want something more with him and how disappointed I might be, if he didn’t want that too. Faced with the hard reality – the abrupt impersonal peck on the cheek showing he didn’t want to be intimate with me – I had to accept that this want was one-sided.

As I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I felt stupid. Stupid for letting my guard down; stupid for allowing myself to have even considered being more than fuck-buddies with him; and more stupid for feeling rejected by him, when there was absolutely nothing to feel rejected over.

Standing there in my bra and pants, condoms and lube strewn all over the bedside table, my muscles aching from fucking him until the early hours, I finally saw the humorous absurdity of the situation, and laughed: it had been a great night, there was no doubt about that. I walked back into the bathroom and washed out sections of my dress, wondering how it managed to get so marked during our shagging.

After fixing my make-up and hair, and sliding on my boots, I left the room. I made my way to the hotel lobby, which seemed filled with hoards of media-types drinking coffee and reading the weekend papers. Signing out at the desk, I noticed a handsome thirty-something guy seated near the reception, who was peering out from behind his Guardian newspaper. He smiled at me and I shyly grinned back. I was very tempted to go and say hello to him, and perhaps under different circumstances I would have; he was certainly my type. But given the situation, my confidence had taken a knock, so I certainly didn’t feel up to flirting with a stranger.

Plus, I wasn’t sure if I had got out all the stains on my clothes, and if there are any rules in ‘The Game’ I’d bet they damn well include not chatting up a bloke when you might have another guy’s cum still visible on your dress. So I just grabbed my bag, held my head high, and left the hotel with the sun shining brightly on my face.

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