Instead, I reach over and kiss him and it’s everything I remember. The lips, the hair, the sensation of wanting him desperately and, before I know it, I’m unbuckled. I straddle him in the passenger seat, my body pressed up against his, an urgent need to just have him.
‘Here?’ he whispers into my ear.
‘Here…’ I reply, breathily.
‘But what if?’
What if someone sees? What if I’m late back to the office? What if you find out who I am and hate me for it? At this very moment, I don’t think I care. I want to have sex. Now.
EIGHT
I do have sex. Contrary to what you may think about me, I’m not a prude. I like sex. I’m just not my mother. I lost my virginity when I was in college. It was like any first-time experience. His name was Paul, we didn’t know what we were doing, but he aimed and hoped for the best. I brought along ten condoms because, you know, I like to be prepared. Past that, sex has varied depending on the partner and the energy. The energy is crucial. I did date a dentist once at university and, on paper, this man should have been excellent in bed because he had a six-pack and decent tackle, but the sex was mechanical, missionary, mundane – the same energy you get from a lighter that just never sparks, no matter how many times you shake it about and will it to light.
The energy between Cameron and myself is pretty seismic. We had sex in a car. I’m under no illusion we shook that car for a good six minutes or so, fogged up the windows and tested out the strength of my suspension. I tore off his beanie and I came so very hard in my passenger seat that when I think about it now, I have to bite my lip to stop myself grinning.
Girth. He had girth. And anyone will tell you, sometimes it’s just about the fit, and that it did, so very well. However, there was kindness there too. He asked what I liked, a direct look into my eyes, his hands in the small of my back to pull me in closer, a moment when the pleasure soared through my spine, up and out of my mouth, a slow whispered moan into his ear. He didn’t ask why I had condoms in my glove compartment, but I’ve never changed – I’m still prepared.
After that, we sat there for a moment. We laughed. He really had to get somewhere for three, so I drove him to the station. He kissed me before he left. I went back to work. My only regret is that in some sort of post-sex stupor, I walked back into my office and told everyone the restaurant was excellent and that they should all go. They now have a table booked for ten at the weekend. I hope they’ve sorted their floppy tacos and orange juice shortage by then.
Since then, Cameron’s not even tried to play it cool. We sext. Like a lot. He’s unearthed some sexual version of myself that I have hidden away for a while. He makes me feel wanted, attractive. He makes me smile. We overuse emojis, we send each other pictures (with the necessary filters) and there is something illicit, naughty about it all that triggers the endorphins, that makes me crave him.
That said, in the real light of day, sometimes I panic about what this all means. We can’t just keep sexting like this, one day the truth will out and the longer I leave it, the harder it will be to repair, the bigger the lie will be. Like when someone sees a crack in a wall and just pretends it’s not there. Next thing you know, the whole place has come tumbling down around their ears.
Happy weekend, Miss Josie. So, last night…
Today is Saturday and the sexting has already started. It’s become an all-consuming thing, not separated by night or day, work or home. He sent me a dick pic from a work toilet the other day. I may have sat at my office desk and told him I’d do things. Last night was, for want of a word, a bit of a sesh that involved twenty-two photos I’ve now put in my Hidden folder on my phone that I must remember to permanently delete before I ever let the IT crew at work near my Cloud.
I cradle a glass of champagne and squirm on the sofa, looking around to see who may be about.
…was pretty awesome,I reply.
Pretty? I’d say really fucking awesome…
I giggle, trying to hold in that uncontainable bliss that comes from receiving a text from someone you like. He is really good with words, saying what I want to hear and sending the sorts of texts that make me cup my hands over my mouth in shock.
Have a good day today xx
That text comes with a picture. Of him, just out of the shower, a towel tied around his waist, a garden path, a hand about to pull the towel down. I try to contain my amusement by downing the rest of my drink, at ten in the morning.
Take off the towel.
He sends a picture with the towel removed. Good morning. I tip some champagne over myself, looking over my shoulder.
Are you in bed?
No. I wish I was. I’m out in public.
I send him a selfie in return of me with my champagne glass.
Early working engagement?
You could call it that.
That is a damn shame. Enjoy, Miss Josie x
He’s putting kisses at the ends of messages now. I always think that’s a milestone of some description, a hint of emotion beyond all the physical stuff we’ve done. Here’s a kiss to say I like you.
Do I put a kiss too? No, have a thumbs up back. I throw my emojis around like confetti. God bless the thumbs up for saying everything I can’t and special mention to the laughing crying one too so I can reply to people’s memes even when I don’t get them.
