There’s quite a lot of hair-stroking. And hand-squeezing.
I texted Best Mate from the aged leather sofa by the window of the local whilst my companion nipped to the loo. Her response was typically unequivocal.
Give him a slap, then.
And this next piece of information may come as something of a surprise, but when Speckled Lad returned, and rested his hand against the back of my neck, I… Okay. It won’t come as a surprise at all. Because I didn’t give him a slap. I didn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, I let his fingers rest there, leant my head back into his hand and shut my eyes. And so it continued: the low-voiced conversation and the unnecessary contact. And then the lights went up, and we left the pub to go our separate ways.
Sweet dreams came the text, as I let myself into Blonde Towers. There ensued a brief, but intensely flirtatious exchange until, twenty minutes later, I opened my front door to find SL standing in front of me. And so it was that, in entirely different fashion to the last time, SL took my face in his hands and kissed me, tenderly and unhurried, as he nudged us inside the flat and towards my room – and he barely stopped kissing me until we fell asleep later that night, his arms wrapped around me, and my face nestled into his shoulder.
But, just like last time, there was no real discussion of the previous evening – this is us: why discuss the whopping great elephant in the room when it can just linger there, taking up all available space? We didn’t talk about it when SL got up to bring me tea in bed; nor when we lounged around on the sofa for hours, watching daytime TV and talking about nothing in particular.
So it was only when SL wandered reluctantly towards the library later in the afternoon that I was left alone to consider whether the previous evening was the only way in which SL and I could acknowledge the fact that actually yes, we do quite fancy each other and that, at some point, if we ever want to give things a go, then we are going to have to force The Conversation. But then, given SL’s track record, I thought, as I stood in the shower at 3pm, feeling that there was something wrong about the situation I couldn’t quite put my finger on, do I really want to get into a relationship with a boy whom I’d never be able to trust completely? Or is it going to be better in the long run if I accept that we’ll probably always feel this way about each other, and simply stay great friends, periodically scratching the itch when the sexual tension becomes unbearable?
It was only as I got out of the shower, wrapping a towel round my hair and picking up the bleeping phone that my train of thought screeched to a violent halt.
Hey, how are things? I haven’t seen you in ages. Fancy doing something tonight?
And it was only when I read the message from The Voice that I remembered that the flirting, the sex and the waking up in someone else’s arms of the previous few hours had been done with the wrong person. And even then, the guilt was steadfastly unforthcoming.
Whatever this means for the relationship between the Speckled one and me, it clearly only means one thing for me and The Voice…
Tags: Make-you-feel-like-a-schoolgirl-crushes, Men, Moral dilemmas, Sex
The Daily Star at a crossroads
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