That thing when you go to his home and he pours wine and then you sit on the outside couch, take off your shoes, toes touch a little, it’s quite sexy, too hot, you move to the study, to the sofa, knees touch, you’re closer, there’s a hand on your leg, you shift, he changes the music, pours another glass of wine, you move to the other lounge, sit opposite each other, more formal chairs, there’s eye contact, no touching, it’s a little agonising, it’s a lot sexy, get up again, wander around, look at all the rooms, say I’m just going to try out the daybed, move to the daybed, he moves with you, lies next to you, you’re close, very, asks if he can kiss you, you say yes, yes you can kiss me, it’s sexy, a shirt get unbuttoned, soft and slow, fingers on chest, I can feel his heart, my dress slips off, he reaches in to feel me, touch me, all of me, it’s urgent, harder, faster, another kiss, naked, his body, my hands, his hands, touching, beautiful skin, his hard skin, my soft one, his black skin, my white skin, my legs, his hands, tangled, it’s good, can’t breathe, the music is great, the wine is great, the bed is great and the sex is completely bloody fantastic.
Afterwards he brings me a liqueur and he says it took a long time, what did he mean, a long time, why didn’t we start kissing on the first couch is what he meant, why didn’t we just stay there?
It wasn’t possible, I told him.
I’d tested the other couches. The bench. The chairs. The Sofa. Even his bed.
It had to be the daybed.
It’s always about aesthetics