Other than the frankly surprised post back in the day about the first bout of Speckled shenanigans, I'm not the sort of blogger who routinely goes into detail about the sex she's having (mainly, if we're honest, because it'd make posting rather more sporadic and definitely less frequent than I'd like). The men in my life get a rough enough ride on here (no pun intended) without being given marks out of ten for performance and technique on top of it all. And so any between-the-sheets and on-the-kitchen-sides action is notably absent.
The same might be said, not just of this blog, but my life in general at the moment – and this despite my current, several weeks-long dalliance with The Northerner.
It’s not been a deliberate course of action, but to no one’s greater surprise than my own, I'm actually rather enjoying it.
As far as I can recall, none of my previous flirtations have enjoyed such chaste behaviour.
In a show of willpower – the likes of which I was unaware I possessed – I didn't end up in bed with Sports Nut on our first date (although holy cow, did I want to), but it didn't take much longer after that. And my years-long whatever-it-is with Speckled Lad has always been defined by sex – whether we’ve not been having it but wanting to; having it illicitly and swearing blind to all our friends that we're not; or creeping round his parents' house in order to have it. Smooth. (Yes, I’m well aware this level of hussyishness could well have been the problem with all previous dalliances and I'll thank you not to tell me what I already fear.)
And so, to be spending time with a man without sex being on the immediate agenda is both charming and refreshing.
I'm not concerned that the lack of carnal shenanigans is a symptom of anything other than impeccable manners. There's enough tactility, flirting and really rather delicious kisses that I would be exceptionally surprised if this were another one who turned out to be gay.
Instead I'm enjoying the opportunity to spend time with The Northerner; to discover that his tipple of choice is a Spanish red or a single malt; to learn that he’s currently reading one of my favourite books (Hangover Square by Patrick Hamilton, for those keeping count); to indulge in horribly romantic walks along the South Bank in the twilight – all instead of worrying that I really could do with getting my legs waxed and buy some sheets that don't have cat fluff moulded to them.
I’m enjoying being reminded that, as hot as it is to peel a man’s clothes from his body, having him gently entwine his fingers in yours; brush your hair away from your face; stand next to you, watch the river flow into the evening, then kiss you, lightly, and ever so slowly, can actually be the sexiest thing of all.