09 November 2012

You knew

You leaned in and kissed him.

It was dark, yet light enough for people in the crowd to see.  You pulled him in closer, lips strong, tongues probing, as his stubble rubbed against yours.

Those close by watched with mouths agape, as tentatively his tongue began to explore your mouth, my hand pushing on the back of your head, encouraging you, forcing you in closer and deeper.

The pressure of my hand pushing you to know without doubt what I wanted.

Your legs begin shaking as your knees begin to bend.  Your mouth working its way down his body.

You knew what lay ahead.

You knew where your mouth was heading. You knew what you had to do, albeit not really wanting to do it.

You knew.

It might have been.

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, It might have been."
John Greenleaf Whittier.
I think and reflect. Of what might have been.  Of what could have been.  But of what will never be.  And I guess, those thoughts are ones of melancholic sadness.  It is always hard to think of the loss of the potential.  Especially when we know exactly what that potential was or could have been.
It could have been. It might have been. It never will be.

02 November 2012


… here was a boundless sensual freedom, theirs for the taking, even blessed by the vicar—with my body I thee worship—a dirty, joyous, bare-limbed freedom, which rose in his imagination like a vast airy cathedral, ruined perhaps, roofless, fan-vaulted to the skies, where they would weightlessly drift upward in a powerful embrace and have each other, drown each other in waves of breathless, mindless ecstasy. 

–Ian McEwan, On Chesil Beach

01 November 2012

The first day of November and a typical November morning at that.  Grey, cold and raining, not a day which makes you want to jump out of bed.

In fact, far from it.

Getting up to walk the dogs and heading off to work while the day was trying to break into some form of daylight was just not appealing.  The only thing I was thankful for was that I wasn't having to leave anyone else there . . .otherwise it would have made it indubitably harder to have left.

It is just one of those days where you just want to stay wrapped up in the warmth of the duvet, languishing as the day slowly ticks by.  A day where the minutes pass so slowly, a day where you just want to stay in bed and fuck to the sound of the rain against the window, or in tune to the thunderstorm as it passes overhead.

A day to kiss and cuddle, chat and laugh, drinking hot chocolate, dunking biscuits.

A day to lounge, to stay warm, getting up on a November morning is not my idea of fun. It's a day to spend it with you, a day for teasing, moments of gentle intimacy and tenderness.

It's a day to curl up and read a book or watch a movie, taking a break every so often just to fuck a little bit more.


It lies in all of us.
Sleeping, waiting and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir.
Open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us, guides us.
Passion rules us all and we obey.
What other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments.
The joy of love,the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear.
If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace but,
we would be hollow.
Empty rooms shuttered and dank.
Without passion we’d be truly dead.

Joss Whedon