The date continues… will the angel or devil win?


The Saskia date continues…

We walk back to the tube and that’s when the kissing starts. The sexual chemistry that’s been potent all evening finally explodes in a frenzy of making out against walls, parked cars and shop windows.

It’s awkward at first, we miss each other’s mouths and bump teeth. My shoulder devil’s* whispering “for fuck’s sake” under her breath. The angel is clearly in control of the vehicle (me) and steering it away from “bad decisions highway” towards “celibate corner”.

I go in for a slow, soft kiss but Saskia is having none of it. At one point I think she might climb me. It’s like a feeding frenzy in an octopus tank. And then my stomach chooses that moment, when I’m in a tight lip lock with this absolute goddess to do a number on me. I get acid reflux (I’m blaming the mini cheddars**).

You know when you hear your throat making weird little gassy sounds and you’re paranoid the other person can hear it too? It distracts me so much I can’t get lost in the kiss. I’m trying to be sexy and suave and seduce the hell out of this woman and all I can think is, “Please don’t let me cheese-burp in her mouth!”

In the control centre, that is my brain, the angel’s locked the devil firmly out and is having a right laugh pressing the buttons that initiate acid reflux. The devil’s swearing profusely and banging on the door to get back in. Eventually it dissipates (the devil breaks the door down and smacks the angel around the head with a frying pan. Honestly, It’s like Tom and Jerry inside my head sometimes).

The passion builds and I’m only semi-conscious we’re in the middle of a London street (albeit a quiet one at night). So much for worrying about being near soft furnishings with this woman! Because now, Saskia the supermodel has her leg wrapped around me and breathes into my ear that she wants me to <ahem> make her mine. AND. I. JUST. CAN’T. FUCKING COPE.

Fortunately, I’m saved from spontaneously combusting by two dickheads yelling, “Woah! Two girls kissing!” out a car window, like they’ve stumbled onto a lesbian porn set and can’t believe their luck. Yeah, it still happens. I break the clinch and we stagger, lust drunk, towards the station where finally we part after another furious bout of tonsil tennis.

I sink into the train seat thankful for the respite. Only it doesn’t come because we launch into an A-grade sexting session that could win gold at the porn Olympics. It carries me all the way home and continues into the night, driving me so fucking crazy I think I actually leave my body at one point. 

She invites me to her’s for dinner later that week and I’m guessing there’s more than mini cheddars on the menu.

But… there’s a nagging in my head (probably the angel pressing my “conscience” buttons). This feels like a sex thing to me and I’m aware she’s wanting more. But I don’t think there’s enough between us apart from the pheromones. And now I’m “sex sober” enough to realise we need to have “the talk”.

The one where I say I’m not ready to lock this down into anything other than casual right now. I tried over drinks, saying I’m looking to date without rushing into a relationship. But I’m not sure she fully took that onboard. And admittedly, the mammoth make-out and sexting marathon probably didn’t help…

*A cartoon angel and devil perch on the Cheeky Charmer’s shoulders fighting the eternal battle against bad decisions.

**See previous post for how to get sexual with a mini cheddar.

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