I write this in the spur of the moment:
I am going back to the apartment with a slowdancing buzz and a heart shaped lollipop – and company I thoroughly enjoy. Barcelona, Spain is wicked.
I knew the end was coming. Complacency and steadiness had edged their way into our whirlwind and passionate relationship. His text the morning before our prolonged weekend getaway was exhibit I’ve-lost-count in my case.
Running late with work. Rebooked flight. See you later tonite. XXX
The message reminded how much I didn’t appreciate his staccato texting skills. Running late with work. STOP. Rebooked flight. STOP. See you later tonite. FULL STOP.
I spent to morning getting ready, contemplating the weekend ahead and the future, while folding lingerie and beach wear. And handcuffs – they were essential for this trip. Almost as an afterthought, I placed a short riding crop on top before closing my suit case.
I am by no means bitter, but melancholy that the end of a relationship is drawing near. We’ve been together for a little more than a year and the last six months, we’ve been exclusive. True, our relationship has been based on passion and sex, and yet somewhere along the way, we came to know one another and have feelings for each other.
This weekend vacation was our goodbye and I wanted it to be our finale, bittersweet as it might be.
Marta had a lovely dinner ready when I arrived. She looked perplexed that I arrived alone. I skipped through the house, complimented the way, she always made everything homey. You could smell the freshness of the sheets in the master bedroom. There wasn’t a fleck of dust playing in the rays of the afternoon sun. Fresh flowers littered side tables, just the way I loved it, the exotic scent already reaching my libido.
‘Enjoy your stay,’ Marta said, as she grabbed her purse and left with a wave over her shoulder. I couldn’t help but smile, I always do. I found a chilled Chardonnay to accompany my dinner and planned the evening.
He arrived as the sun began to set, looking a little rugged with his five o’clock shadow and his suit jacket over his arm. He had taken off his tie and opened the top buttons of his shirt, drawing my attention to his chest. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal his muscular arms. The sight of him always made me salivate. He is the right combination of brains and brawn – and with an excellent humor to boot.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ he said from the door.
I went to him and gave him a chaste welcome home kiss. Kinky came later. I draped the jacket over my arm and dug my hand into his pants’ pocket where I felt his cuff links and something else. This was about as domestic as I get, which he knew very well.
‘I need to finish something, before I can give you my undivided attention,’ he said. He licked his lips, ready for the undivided attention, but his eyes and the faint slump of his shoulder told me his mind was still at work.
Exhibit I’ve-lost-count and one.
I took his jacket and cuff links to the bedroom and used the opportunity to change in a white and blue floral sarong. I loved the feeling of the flowing silk caressing my body and the edge of the fabric binding the sarong together and ending in a knot at the nap of my neck.
The sunset was just an orange slice against the darkness of the ocean and the sky. The breeze whispered in the palm trees and the cicadas hummed their music. I served him a glass of the chilled Chardonnay and began to light candles around the room, playing with the options for the evening.
His eyes followed me around the room. The sound of him typing away stilled when I bent over to turn a leaf of a potted plant. Of course, he was watching me. I was only wearing the sarong. Every time I moved, the fabric divided in the front, flashing my thighs and my dark curls. When I bent over, my soft cheeks whispered an invitation. I turned and gave him a frank stare.
‘Finish!’ I ordered him. Our eyes met and I knew that I was winning him over. He concentrated on the computer screen in front of him and I resumed my teasing tour.
The cool air from the open doors brushed my sarong aside and let me feel how wet, I already was. He groaned from his seat by the table, one hand in his lap.
‘You type faster when you use both hands,’ I tell him.
With both hands on the keyboard, I clearly see the bulge he was nursing in his pants. I hope we soon skip to the main attraction of the evening.