Not where I belong

We were sat in a park. It was warm and sunny and all was right with the world. I was with friends – mostly a little younger than me. A friend of a friend was sat next to me. She was pretty. Undeniably so. She was chatty and interesting and interested. Her white summer dress had little flowers on it and the skinny shoulders straps hung over perfect tanned skin. Her long blonde hair shone in a way only possible in shampoo commercials. It was impossible not to be attracted to her. It must have been so for anyone who ever met her. As the conversational Barton wad handed to someone else, we glanced at each other. Her eyes were brown and deep and all clichés aside, I fell into them. It was just a moment – I didn’t stare – but I was intensely uncomfortable and quickly looked away. “What?” she asked. “Nothing”, I replied, stymied by embarrassment. She giggled, but not in a mocking way.

The room wad white. Everything in it was white. The chairs, the table, the walls, the doors. Only people added colour. A briefing. She was sat next to me. A residential activity weekend, with the friends from the park. Staff introductions. Itineraries. Health and safety. Room allocations. She was sat closer than one would have expected. Not shoulder-to-shoulder close, but personal-space close. It was warming and hopeful and scary. I wanted to hold her hand.

The meeting over, everyone took their bags to their rooms. A little settling in time before the first event of the day. She was sat next to me. Close to me. Touching close. Was she just friendly. The touchy-feely kind who just sat close to others? The room’s other occupant excused himself and we were alone. It turned to look at her. She turned to look at me. We were 1930s-movie-screen-kiss close. She was beautiful and entrancing and smiling. Had our friends set us up? I was significant, though acceptably older than her. I was just out of an unrequiting marriage. And I had long forgotten enough of how this worked to know if this was how it worked, or even if it was. I went to speak, not that I had anything meaningful to say, but know what I was about to say. Her smile and a coy dip of Her head silenced me.

We were lying on the bed. Wrapped around each other. We we clothed. We kissed. She was soft and warm and cripplingly pretty and confident and shy and sexy and beautiful. Aphrodite incarnate. It was too good to be true. She was just too perfect. Way out of my league. This must be a setup. Orchestrated by my friends. Make the old guy happy. Give him a pick-me-up. Take his mind off his loneliness and troubles. Yet she was happy to be there. It made no sense. The kisses were gentle and teasing and intense and sweet and deep and genuine. Reality is not like this. “One more thing …” she whispered. Her hand moved from my face leaving a cold longing behind. She lifted the hem of her summer dress. Her thigh was perfect. Neither athlete nor model – just perfect. I was transfixed by it. She encouraged my gaze a little wider, willing me to see she had no underwear. There was nothing tarty or skittish about her action. Just beauty and willingness and gentle desire. This could not be real. Life is not like this. I needed to get up. There was a problem. Well, maybe not a problem as such. But outside this dream I was sleeping with my ball stretchers on. Inside this dream I did not want this perfect moment to be tainted by kink. I needed to take them off. “Any chance you can hold that thought while I go to the toilet?” She smiled a perfect, patient, loving smile. “Absolutely.” Before I left the room I fumbled in a pocket for an alen key. And woke up. And desperately wanted to get back into the dream. Reflecting on her perfection, her softness, her gentle eagerness, her softness and warmth, her openness and shyness, her absolute perfection, I knew I couldn’t get back into that dream. I would taint it. And more importantly, it was not where I belonged.

[ED: It is difficult to reflect on how entirely different this woman was from AM’s Wife.]

4 Responses to “Not where I belong”

  1. What makes you think she wouldn’t be interested to know more about your kink?
    What makes you believe that YOU would ruin the moment?
    Maybe, just maybe, she simply wanted to fall into your eyes and learn to know YOU?

    So I guess this all goes back, in the waking world, to: Why do you think you’re not worthy of being loved by someone you find perfect?

    Great post AM. I hope you get back to that dream!

    • Don’t ask me what my unconscious thoughts mean. Who do you think I am? Freud? ,-)
      I doubt there are many of us who have never been smitten by someone we saw as I out off our league.

    • Yes, the question is not that you saw her out of your league.
      The question is why do you think kink has to be a deal breaker? Why do you think no one could love you (or even desire you), accept you just as you are?
      I don’t need to know the answer, but the question has to be asked 😉

    • I think it was more about the first time and not complicating something that was perfect in its simplicity. I have no idea whether it would have been never any kink. For all I know that perfect woman could have had a whole wardrobe full of rubber and thoroughly enjoyed being filmed at BDSM as I get a parties. But I equally have no idea whether she would ha e turned out to be far too high maintenance. Or an escort hired by my friends.

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