Breakfast Epiphanies

*HA-LLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HALLELUJAH HA-LLELUJAH HA-LLE-LU-JAH!*

I feel like I am in a movie montage. I’m pretty sure Katrina and The Waves was playing in the background as I walked down the street just now, and there may or may not have been troupes of dancers breaking into a GAP-advert-style routine all around me as I went...

FINALLY, after almost TWO AND A HALF MONTHS, I have had some sex. GREAT sex. I’m sorry, I can’t unjam my finger from the Caps Lock... It’s just that everything is right with the world again. Life is wonderful! It is literally amazing what a good bit of sex does for morale.

Just when it got to the stage where I was so frustrated I felt like I might go into a primary school with a machine gun, along comes the man of my dreams (please excuse the very heavily rose-tinted spectacles, I am still in that post-coital phase where I am in love with the world) and sweeps me onto my back. Joy!

Adam and I have recently been reunited after several years out of contact... We met at High School, and between the ages of 11 and 16 he was the bane of my life. I loved and hated him in equal measure, and all with the passion that only a teenage girl can muster. And then I moved away to college and we just lost contact. But now, seven years later, he’s moved down to London and I’ve been showing him around the town. And by showing him around the town, I mean getting him blind drunk on black sambuca and inviting him to stay in my bed.

My housemate was awake when we got in, and I actually did a little excited jig in the kitchen with him whilst Adam went to the loo. I like to think that aforementioned housemate was incredibly impressed by the calibre of man I had bought back. Adam is devastatingly gorgeous. If I am being perfectly honest, I was incredibly impressed with myself. I was reaching breaking point, after the longest period of celibacy in... Well, years. I’d have had sex with a ginger dwarf if he’d offered. But no – here was Adam. All cheek bones and feline eyes and 6’3” of lovely broadness. There are those rose tinted specs again. But really, he is spectacular.

That of course carries its own problems... What’s the protocol when the man in your bed is so attractive you feel like you want to book out every doctor on Harley Street from now until 2012 in a futile attempt to be worthy of their attention?! Buggerbuggerbugger! Is it too much to ask that I look just a little bit more like Angelina Jolie please?! I mean, she and I share the essential genetics, but past the cellular level the similarities sadly end. Of course it doesn’t really matter... Not really really. Once you’ve got your clothes off, most men don’t care what you look like. And if you’ve mastered the blow job, well. You could be a ginger dwarf, they really wouldn’t give a flying fuck.

Having said that, so long has it been since I had sex, I had almost forgotten how it was done. “Right, so just remind me... Where does this go?” (probably best you don’t answer that). Luckily I think I managed to get back into the swing of things without too much trouble...

And wow. Wow. All I was thinking was – “Let’s never stop doing this”. I could imagine a point in the distant future where the force of my addiction to having sex with Adam meant that I wasn’t eating or sleeping, and eventually the Police would knock down the door when the smell started seeping out, and our emaciated little bodies would be found atop an enormous pile of Durex. I don’t know if this is an image I will ever share with Adam. I think perhaps not.

Sex again this morning was lovely, and a bit calmer than last night’s whirlwind. When Adam suggested we go out and get breakfast I was a) A bit panicked at the thought of letting him leave my bed, b) Thrilled at the idea of being seen having breakfast with a demigod (I know, I know. I’m being over the top), and c) Impressed. Men are so often a bit weird the morning after sex – and I know I’m not alone in having experienced this. They dart off making weird excuses, like they can hear us humming the wedding march under our breath. I realise that I have just painted a scenario where I trapped Adam into sexual assisted suicide. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT, YEAH? That’s purely a sex thing. Surely most men would like to be shagged to death?

Although... You know... It was really great at breakfast. Maybe it’s not purely a sex thing? Crikey, that’s quite the epiphany to have over a sausage sandwich (no euphemism intended). As I sat there and thought about it, I could sort of see Adam and I, a few years down the line; taking long walks along the beach with our dogs, me crying with happiness as he slips the enormous diamond engagement ring onto my finger... WhatamIsaying?!?!?! I’ve become completely irrational. I think I might be high on sex. I need to go and have a lie down and regain my senses.

And then, once I’m feeling completely back to normal, I’ll ask Adam to be my boyfriend. No! No! *deep breaths deep breaths* Be. Sensible.

I will ask him round to dinner.

Yeah... That’s what I’ll do. That seems reasonable. Right?!

I mean, we’re very old friends... There’s nothing wrong with asking a very old friend round to dinner is there? He couldn’t possibly construe anything from that. Could he?! I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ