Blogging like it's 1999

I'm wearing a fitted tweed blazer and tight white jodpurs that you say make my ass look magnificent. It's a playful fashion choice because we're at a National Trust place. One of the many stately homes that litter the English countryside. Some Georgian mansion stuffed with the bric-a-brac of imperial conquest, now repurposed for family days out with screaming kids and ice cream. It's a weekday so it's quiet. Perfect place for a picnic and a romantic date. I've never felt so conscious of my whiteness as we walk the dark wood-panelled halls.

It makes my skin crawl, this history with all it's oppression and racism.

Beside me, you're tall and strong and dark and beautiful. I want you so badly it hurts.

We're somewhere deep inside the house, staring at the fading fabric tapestries and ancient four-poster bed of yet another grand bedchamber. A cute little idea pops into my head. No one else is around so I skip lightly over the rope barrier, pulling you along with me.

There on that ancient bed of the British imperial class, I lay you back and worship you with my lips and tongue. I can't change history but I can give it the (lack of) respect it deserves. And together maybe we can make a better future.

I'm wearing a saint laurent dress with strappy manolo blahnik sandals and diamond studs. I've put my hair up in an elaborate style that took me almost two hours to get just right. The bar tender flirts with me and I get free drinks while I wait for you.

You show up in a faded old band tee, grey sweatpants, and adidas sliders. The bar tender backs off as soon as you approach the bar. You rest your hand possessively on my ass.

Your hands openly roam my body all evening, making sure everyone knows I'm not just in a relationship but indisputably taken.

When you take me home, you slap my ass and tell me to get in all fours. In the back of my mind I wonder if you like having such a high class girl bent over on your dirty old couch. My designer dress seems absurd against the cheap, stained polyester. But then you grab a fistful of my hair and I stop thinking.