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Friday, May 18, 2007


Dear The Guy,

During the years I’ve known you I’ve never thought of you in a romantic or sexual way. Not that you’re not handsome or sexy – you certainly are – just that I never imagined you in that context. You were, well, just you: someone I vaguely knew. Not someone I was hoping or expecting to see naked. Not then, anyway. Perhaps not until that day we bumped into each other in the street and you convinced me to meet with you. “We should have a coffee,” you demanded. “We really should.”

A few days later, after having a long meeting, on impulse I telephoned you. Two hours afterward, when we were sat at the pub on our second pint of beer, I felt like I was meeting you for the very first time. I had no idea you were so funny, nor the wealth of knowledge you had about film, music and the arts. I had never noticed the amazing smile lines that creased around your blue eyes, or the way your cheeky grin framed your face. I became fidgety in that stupid girly way: conscious of my body language, my nervous lip-biting habit, the way I kept playing with my hair. I found that my eyes were not only seeking out the laughter expressed in your face, but tracing down your body, trying to scope out your man-cleavage and, dare I say it, the outline of your cock through your jeans. At that point it certainly wasn’t the alcohol influencing me: it was just the unexpected connection and flirtation between us.

In the restaurant, when many hours had zipped past, you made my insides stir again: you offered me tenderness and compassion without hesitation when you knew I needed it. That spoke volumes to me. Then I became aware of how utterly beautiful your hands were. As you cradled my hands in yours, I felt compelled to lift and caress your palms, kiss your knuckles and suck on your fingertips – all the while imagining your fingers deep inside me. Of course I didn’t express this to you, but that’s what I was thinking as I sat there. I’m sure this desire of mine was obvious later, when our lips were interlocked and my hands were sliding further down your back towards your arse...

I remember when you admitted you knew about the blog/book. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed; it’s just that there always seems to be this weird moment of hesitation prior to people telling me they have read all my innermost thoughts and desires and my having to accept that. How do you tell someone you hardly know that you’re aware of so much of their sexual history? How do you imagine I felt, knowing you knew? Regardless, it’s irrelevant now, because your open-minded blasé, unrepressed attitude to sex proved you’re not fazed by what you’ve read so far, which was some relief to me.

It's ironic how laid-back you are, in contrast to me. I know I overreacted after something you said a few weeks ago: clearly I am overly defensive about certain issues. I'm aware I can appear highly strung, short-tempered, stupid, neurotic and opinionated; I like to think that these are some of my better traits…
I know being fiery isn’t necessarily a good thing, but it’s in my nature. And as Tyrell said: The light that burns twice as bright, burns for half as long - and to my mind, that's no bad thing, because who wants to live a dark existence? The fact that you were prepared to challenge me – and tease me about it afterwards bode well, I thought. Here’s a man that’s not intimidated by my assertiveness: great.

But we’ve barely spoken since that night. In my normal introspective overly analytical way, I've been wondering if perhaps I should have apologised for my reaction. Whilst I’m not losing sleep over it, I'm not so proud as to deny I can be wrong (sometimes), so I want to take this opportunity to say sorry. It's not often I meet a man that sparks my mind as well as my crotch like you seemed to; we both said there was a connection, so how about we get to know each other a little more? Or at least be on speaking terms should we bump into each other in the street again...

I know you still read my blog even though I asked you not to: so this post is my attempt to re-establish a dialogue between us and maybe meet for that coffee sometime. And I do mean coffee. God knows I’d also like to unzip your jeans, slip my hands inside and discover you hard with no underwear on, but more than that, I’d like to sit down with you, drink a few cappuccinos and talk about David Lynch all afternoon. (I still haven’t seen Inland Empire.)

If you want to do that too, you know how to contact me.

The Girl

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