#mrlucky

.....Then, one Sunday, I met Edward. We were all shiny and clean, hair all Andrew Ridgelyed up, ironed tee-shirts, in fact I think this was the night I was wearing a vest – I could fit in  one in those days – and we were all up for a bit of…well, Tea Dancing. Juice and sandwiches first, then drinky – poohs. Nicky was on the Bacardi and cokes, Tony on the – God knows, gin probably, and I hit the Stella. Two for the price of one? It would’ve been rude not to.

Dancing ensued. Twizzling round the tiny floor, sweating like a pig, wafting Aramis as I went, when BOOF! I smacked right in to a middle aged, blondish, non-descript bloke…..who had the hairiest chest I had ever seen.

Beer spilt, down both our tops – well, his shirt, my vest – expecting some kind of “OI! You CAHNT! Watch where you’re FACKIN going” kind of thing, but what I got, over Jimmy wailing about sitting on the platform with everything he owned in a little black case, and the wind and the rain on his sad and lonely face, was:

“Sorry. Not looking where I was going. Crowded tonight eh?”

“Erm..Yes,” I yelled in response. “Sorry about your shirt.”

“It’s just a shirt. It’ll dry. Sorry about your vest…Shall we just take them off?”

And there we were, dear reader, topless in a gay bar! Just like Heaven, only with more fat and less ego. He was sweaty and all his chest hair was plastered to his skin, and he smelled…smelled proper manly.

Should've known better than to cheat a friend

And waste the chance that I've been given

So I'm never gonna dance again

The way I danced with yoooooooo’

…… wailed George, and Edward and I , for that was he, smooched and swayed, and slithered and snogged our way through the song that was to become ‘OUR TOON’ during our brief courtship. I loved the way he felt – he was stolid. That’s a good word. STOLID. Not fat, not a ‘chub’, but solid and hairy and a very pleasant man, a sweetie, a kind man with a nice cock and a gentle way of making love to me. And, as it turned out, a tendency for stalking.

Amazingly, we didn’t do IT that first night, but arranged to meet up the following Sunday, which we did. Same packed floor, same heat, smell of fags (as in cigarettes, obvs.) and beer, and gay boys wearing aftershave, me included. And there he was, smiling at the bar. He saw me and waved.

“Hello, hun,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. I’m so pleased you did.” Awwww. That’s nice eh?

“I said I would, and here I am.” I think I was alone that week – Tony was IN LURRVE with his banker by this time and had no time for such lowly haunts, such hovels…

“I know, but that’s often said. People don’t. They lie. To me, anyway,” and he looked so lonely for that moment and I was pleased I was not one of the ones who had let him down.

“Drink? I noticed you were on the Stella. At least, that’s what you threw all over me last week!”

“Oh yes please. Lovely.”

So we found a space to squeeze into and just talked; nothing heavy – work, hobbies, ex-boyfriends, what food we liked…..chat, a bit of touchy feely when the moment arose – a hand on the leg with a laugh, a touch of the hair to emphasise a point…..he was a very pleasant man, hairy and generous and mature and I liked him. So, when he said the immortal line: ‘Do you want to come back to mine?’ it wasn’t sleazy or cheap, it was a genuine invitation to make love with him and I accepted.

He didn’t tell me he lived in St. Albans, mind you, so it was a bit of a late night, a whizzy – headed drive out of London, away from the city to the countryside. I was a bit pissed (no change there) but not drunk and I was really looking forward to what lay ahead. We arrived – a neat semi, in suburbia, nets, Everest Windows  -exactly what one would have expected. A place where Ted (contractions, already!) lived his single life, wishing it otherwise and hopeful that tonight would change his life.

We had a gin and tonic; he’d not been drinking due to the drive home but we sat, I drank, had a St Moritz, the last legacy of You Know Who, and it all felt fine. “Come on then,” he said and took my hand and led me gently to the bedroom, leaving my gin and my cigarette, which rolled on to his Ercol coffee table and burned a hole before it went out. Seemed to be a habit…

We didn’t just fuck, come, and go to sleep. He was very gentle, undressing me slowly, slowly so my excitement increased. He was expert – how did he learn these skills? – and once naked, he undressed too. He was very sexy; as I said, solid, well built, a little bit of a belly, but beautifully hairy and a nice fat cock, which was more than ready for the event. We moved on to the bed, and kissed and caressed each other, passed slowly through the stages and finally he fucked me, but oh! So gently, considerately, asking if it was OK, taking his time, taking care.