Saturday 2 February 2013
11.40 a.m. Roxster has just left because the kids are due back in twenty minutes with Daniel. Could not resist putting on Dinah Washington’s ‘Mad About the Boy’ and dancing moonily around the kitchen. I feel so happy and fantastic and as though nothing is a problem any more. I keep wandering around, picking things up and putting them down again in a daze. It is as if I have been bathed in something, like sunshine, or . . . milk, well, not milk. Moments from last night keep coming back to me: Roxster lying back on the bed, looking at me as I walked out of the bathroom in my slip. Removing the slip. Saying I looked better without the slip. Me watching Roxster’s beautiful face above me, lost in what we were doing, the slight gap between his front teeth. Then suddenly the very adult shock wave of the thrust, the unexpected shock and thrill after so, so long of feeling the fullness of him inside me, a moment’s pause to savour it, then starting to move and remembering the ecstasy two bodies can create together. It’s just amazing what bodies can do. And then, when I came, far too soon, Roxster watching my face with a horny, disbelieving expression, then feeling him starting to shake with laughter.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I was just wondering how long this was going to go on for.’
Roxster getting hold of my feet under the duvet and suddenly pulling me right down to the bottom of the bed and bursting out laughing. And then starting again at the bottom of the bed.
Me trying to pretend not to be having an orgasm in case he started laughing at me again.
Then finally, hours and hours later, stroking his thick, dark hair as he briefly rested on the pillow, taking in every detail of his perfect features, the fine lines, the brow, the nose, the jawline, the lips. Oh God, the fun, the closeness, the ecstasy of being touched after so long by someone so beautiful, so young and so good at it. Resting my head on his chest and talking in the darkness, and then Roxster taking my upper lip and lower lip and holding them together, saying, ‘Shhhhhhhh,’ and me trying to say through his fingers, ‘But I don’t bant to btop talking.’ And Roxster whispering kindly, like I was a child or a lunatic: ‘It’s not stopping talking, it’s more like saving up talking, till the morning.’
And then . . . Oh, shit – doorbell.
I opened the door, beaming. The kids looked wild, mad-haired, dirty-faced, but happy. Daniel took one look at me and said, ‘Jones. It must have been a very good night indeed, you look twenty-five years younger. Will you jiggle on my knee and just quickly run through the details of the whole thing carefully and precisely while they watch SpongeBob SquarePants?’
Sunday 3 February 2013
9.15 p.m. Has been a wonderful rest-of-weekend. The kids were happy because I was happy. We went out and climbed trees and then came back and watched Britain’s Got Talent. Roxster texted at 2 p.m. and said it had been wonderful apart from the sick he’d found on the sleeve of his jacket. And I said it had been wonderful apart from the mess he’d made on the sheets. And we both agreed our mental ages were very low and have been demonstrating it in text form ever since.
I’m so lucky, at this time of my life, to have had that one night, with someone so young and gorgeous. I’m so grateful.
9.30 p.m. Oh God. Suddenly, for some reason, reminded of a line in the movie The Last King of Scotland where someone says, ‘I prefer sleeping with married women. They’re so grateful.’ Think it was Idi Amin.
BACK IN THE PRESENT MOMENT
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL