Eighteen year old me would have been so proud, still got it. Still got him curious, still made him want to taste a little...

I met up with him, we went to his place which was actually very nice and he was quiet modest about it. He bought me a bottle of wine which I quickly drank over punk LPs and bizzar comedy movies, but I was giggling at everything at this point. 

He leant me some pjs, we hugged on the couch, I saw him on his bed, the next thing I know we're passionately kissing and he's pealing off the trouser bottoms and the rest was just noise and pleasure. As grim as that will be for me to read back, but I have to document it in honour of this blog. I missed his magical hands, what they do to me...his kisses were much wetter this time, a lot more keen with his tongue, he was fast, rough, dominating, completely in control without staying a single word. Incredible. 

I remember feeling this way the next day, in pain. I'm sure I'll punished for it all throughout the week. 

But I feel quiet refreshed by it all, it's a bit of a closure. I was young, but he was immature. He isn't easy to please, he likes to dwell, he is in exactly the same place as he was when I was last with him. He's wounded from his recent break up, needed a release, and I was there for him. I didn't stop him, and yet for some reason I felt like I had a handle of the situation, unlike in the past where I was just totally under his spell. 

Dad came up to visit, which was lovely. We had some nice lunch, went to a museum, had a proper catch up. I'm on my way back from the station, made sure I saw him off safely. I love him so much, I'm so lucky to have him. 

I feel tired and a little sick, soon I'll be calling Olive and in truth I don't have much to say to him but I know he'll be hanging on to every word...I'm awful,

I'm a terrible person, he doesn't deserve this, he deserves honesty....