Sybarite is our Features Writer from London, UK
It started after a few too many drinks on a school night. We were colleagues. Newfangled friends. Out for a “stitch and bitch” session after a demanding day at work.
A South African guy was chatting me up in an old man’s pub you wouldn’t be caught dead in at the weekend. He worked in the same building as us and apart from being expats living London life, drinking indulgently on a Wednesday, we had little in common. I wasn’t attracted but he humoured me, stopped us from over talking depressing office politics, and shouted us rounds of tequila with salt and lime.
When the Saffa* left to go to the bar, he quickly grabbed my face.
“I shouldn’t do this, but I have to,” he declared, before planting an intense wet kiss on my lips. Shock prevented me from reciprocating or equally from fighting it.
It’s the reverse psychology theory we hear time and time again: what is it with men? They’re not even vaguely interested in you, but when someone (who in their mind is a far inferior being than themselves) flirts with you, they want you. Bad. It’s that competitive drive, that bulging ego and throbbing dick which allows them to act upon a feeling they should’ve otherwise kept for an intimate wank at home.
We stopped quickly in a brief moment of realisation. The line had been crossed, but now I wanted to dot the i. This was naughty and exciting. The poisonous confidence brought about by the little tequila devil floating above my shoulder. If anyone from work saw us, what would they think? How inappropriate.
Sloppy secret snogs between rounds continued until the Saffa realised he had become the half-time entertainment. The real game was happening under the table, in the bathrooms and around several corners.
The drunken overnight encounter, developed into a brief romance. Where romance was purely sex and brief was the weekend. I took a day’s leave; he was on the road. He was experienced and could get away with it; I was new and unnoticeable.
Determined to cover tracks and avoid the humiliation my unprofessionalism warranted, I caught a train to a small village in Wales. One you wouldn’t bother knowing let alone visiting, unless the brief was to be locked up in a bed and breakfast for two nights with a Value Mix Pack of Durex Pleasuremax for an all consuming sojourn of audacious and uninhibited sex.
I wore lacy underwear and heels too high for the country. He ran baths, showers and massaged me like his client. We even met for dinner downstairs in the B&B restaurant, pretending to have a professional and civilised meal as colleagues. It was all part of the game.
When it came to a grinding end on the Sunday morning we knew our sex charade was over. We had little interest in anything other than work related rants then fucking out scenes of poorly plotted pornos. I accepted his offer to drive me back to London. There was no longer a need for the Agent 99 wig and trench coat.
Perhaps, it was that I had no interest in him. Perhaps, it was the approaching expiration date. I couldn’t resist one more encounter. Giving head on the A40 seemed a fitting way to finish that job.
* South African