While we're on the subject of sexual shenanigans I've got a confession to make.
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Wait for it.
Here it comes.
I enjoy the missionary position.
There! I've said it.
I'm made to feel so ashamed of myself for feeling that way.
As if I'm terribly boring and repressed.
But I'm not. Honestly.
I'm not saying that it's the only position that I like.
But, really, I have no objection to it whatsoever.
Naturally, of course, this isn't the time to discuss favorite sexual positions.
But I'll just tell you very quickly that I think cunnilingus is the most boring thing God ever created. I'd rather spend a day filing than endure a five-minute stint of it.
And when they're finished with their few minutes of slurping they act like you should be so grateful for it. Beaming up at you like they deserve a medal. And then act like they're entitled to a year's supply of no-questions- asked blow jobs.
Of course, some women swear by it, but...sorry, sorry.
I finally left and drove over to his house.
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twenty-two
I parked the car just outside his house and feeling a heavy mixture of ex- citement and sordid shame walked up to the front door. Then I remembered that I had left the bottle of wine in the car and I quickly ran back to get it.
I was going nowhere without it.
Dutch courage.
Well, Chilean courage, but whatever.
Adam opened the door almost immediately.
If I didn't know any better I'd swear he had been hiding in the hall, lurking behind the curtain, waiting for me to arrive.
Well, actually, maybe he had been.
He was doing a good job of seeming to be as excited and affected by all of this as I was.
He looked a bit anxious.
Cold feet?
Change of heart?
Pregame nerves?
But then he rallied strongly.
"Hello." He smiled. "You look lovely."
"Hello," I said. I smiled at him in spite of my nerves.
How wonderful, I thought with a thrill.
I felt so dangerously decadent.
On an assignation with a beautiful man.
Have I ever wanted any man as much as I want Adam? I wondered.
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Probably, I thought, sighing.
Just being realistic for a moment.
But right then it felt as if I'd never wanted anyone else, ever.
How long will it take for us to be in bed together? I wondered.
How long can I hold off if he doesn't make a move?
What if he doesn't make a move? I thought with horror.
Or what if it's a total disaster?
Maybe he'll think I'm completely hideous, with my post-childbirth body.
Maybe I'll think he's completely hideous, because he doesn't look exactly like James.
Oh God!
I should have stayed at home.
Before I could bolt for the door, stammering that it had all been a terrible mistake, he put his arm (and what an arm!) around my shoulders and guided me toward the kitchen.
"Take off your coat," he said. "And have a drink."
"But...oh, all right. Make mine a pint of red wine," I said as I sat down at the kitchen table.
He laughed.
"Feeling nervous, darling?" he asked silkily as he poured me a glass.
Jesus! I thought in alarm, don't ask me things silkily. I was frightened enough. If he started behaving like some kind of arch seducer, I was out of there. All I needed now was for him to change his jeans and sweatshirt for a silk paisley dressing gown and parade around with an onyx cigarette holder.
"I'm not nervous," I blurted out. "I'm fucking terrified."
"Of what?" he asked with mock surprise. "My cooking isn't that bad."
Oh, so that's the way you want to play it, I thought.
Faux casual, is it?
Fine then.
I gave him a poised smile.
And flung my entire glass of wine down my throat before I realized what I had done.
"Relax," he said anxiously, coming over to sit beside me at the table and hold my hand. "I'm not going to bite."
Oh, aren't you? I thought. Well then I'm definitely going home.
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"We're just going to have something to eat and a little chat," he said kindly. "Nothing to worry about."
"All right then," I said, making a valiant effort to relax. "What are we having anyway?"
"Homemade Stilton and Muscat Grape Soup, Boeuf Bourguignonne, with Potatoes Dauphinois and my own recipe for Zabaglione for dessert."
"Really?" I asked, astonished. I hadn't put Adam down as a fancy cook--more your spuds and chops type of fellow, quantity rather than quality.
"No." He grinned at me. "Are you joking? You're getting Spaghetti Bo- lognaese and you're lucky I was even able to manage that."
"I see." I laughed.
"And if you're very good"--at this point he paused and gave me a meaningful look--"and I mean very, then you can have some chocolate mousse."
"Oh," I said, all excited, a combination of the meaningful look and the news of the chocolate mousse. "That's great. I love chocolate mousse."
"I know," he said. "Why do you think I got it?
"And," he continued in a teasing tone. "If you're very, very good you can eat it off my stomach."
I burst out laughing.
He was such an angel. I couldn't suppress a shiver of lust at the thought of his flat muscley stomach, although this was probably precisely the kind of reaction he was banking on. I hurriedly poured myself another glass of wine, but this time I forced myself to sip it.
He served the dinner and it was obvious that this was not something he did on a regular basis. He seemed all out of place standing at the stove. Rushing from the sink to the stove and back to the sink again, while the pasta boiled over and the salad visibly wilted. Although it did give me a beautiful view of his butt.
Cooking, unlike most other things, did not come naturally to him, which made it all the more touching that he had gone to such bother for me.
He looked so uncertain as he carefully carried the plates over to the table and reverently placed mine in front of me.
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"Have some more wine," he said, pouring me another glass. That made a change from his acting like the local branch of Alcoholics Anonymous not ten minutes earlier.