We woke up late this morning, later than usual, gone 10am. As we woke, Wolfie informed me that he he’d topped up the electricity meter in the chalet.
“Why?” I asked, half asleep.
“Because we ran out” he mused.
This morning started off in the worst way possible. It started off with an argument.. another argument, about sex. The one thing we argued about, nearly always, was sex.
“Maybe we should see a therapist when we get back to Bristol” I suggested, the thought made me cringe, but something had to be better than nothing.
He dismissed the idea, and frankly, I wasn’t entirely sure that I blamed him. Communicating for me was tough, having someone so candidly talk about sex was sure to make me blush. Writing is fine, but talking is challenging.
I lay awake for a while, willing the tension to go away. Holy cow, that ache was nothing at all to do with not wanting him and entirely all to do with not wanting a part of a one-sided transaction. In my head, he’d bite me and devour me and make me moan and scream until I pulled all of the bedsheets off. Oh, if only.
In my head, Shaun Mendes’ Senorita played. Intense, fiery and passionate, I wasn’t angry with him, I wanted to fuck him, but I wanted us both to be satisfied and I saw no sign of that happening.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing my pain.
I clenched my eyes as if blinking away a painful thought. How to say this in a dignified fashion?
Think, Elena, think.
“What is it, love?” he insisted. I sighed.
“I’m horny and want to fuck you, but I don’t want to fuck you if you’ll be the only one who is satisfied” I paused, astonished at myself. So much for holding back.
“Sorry, I’m not one to mince my words” I added.
“I’m horny too, but you said no” he said. Five minutes later, and we were back in bed for some intense, mutually satisfying, passionate sex.
The dog started barking and he got up. Looking around the bedroom, I couldn’t help but fill that the chalet bedroom had a touch of a nautical feel. In fact, with a dash of imagination, the grassy hills outside the window would look like the swell of the ocean if you squinted at it a bit. The thought amused me. Our very own private yacht, sailing across the Atlantic ocean to.. umm.. where, exactly?
“I’m going for a shower, I’ll be five or ten minutes” he said quietly. When he returned, it was hard not to take my eyes off of him. A cock like that should be worshipped. Often.
I joined Wolfie in the dining and kitchen area of the chalet. I’m going to miss it when we get back to Bristol. We’ll be back to our small, galley kitchen instead of the square kitchen and dining area that we have here. Most days, we’ve made breakfast together, or cooked together and sat down to eat together.
“I thought about giving up the blog yesterday” I said, matter-of-factly.
“What, why?” he asked, astonished. I shrugged.
“I have nothing new to offer” I said.
“But you love writing” he implored. He was right about that.
Over coffee, I sat down to reearch arguing about sex. We’d made a pact that these sex-plosive arguments needed to stop. it wasn’t a lack of sex, but it was either what we did, or how often we did it.
“I think really, we’re quite secure. Certainly more so than my parents were” I said, “we hardly argue, apart from this one thing. My parents always bickered, so I think Nan and Grandad were really my role models of a happy marriage.”
“I didn’t really have any role models” Wolfie said sadly.
“What about Nan and Grandad?” I asked inquisitively.
“I don’t really remember Grandad,”Wolfie said, “he died when I was quite young, about a month between him and my Mum.”
My heart wrenched, my Ten Shades.
Sometimes we struggle, we have arguments, we have disagreements and heated discussions. Sometimes he says things that seem unkind or unfair, and sometimes I say things that are far from tactful. yet in spite of our imperfections, in spite of our struggling to make an imperfect relationship perfect, we are just two people who love each other intensely and care about each other, very, very, very much.
Over the past few days, I have started reading E.L. James’ latest book, The Mister. It is awful, really, truly, awful. From the get go, Maxim Trevelyan reads an awful lot like our former handsome, rich, heartbroken chosen bachelor, Christian Grey. The book contains texts, emails,inner monologues and a chop and change between the characters which makes the book incredibly hard to followIt’s only saving grace is being set in “Trethivick”, the surname of Richard Trethivick, who is famous in Camborne, a town only about five miles away from where we are staying. There is also a brief mention of Healey, an engineer born in Perranporth, Cornwall, who I read about at Healey’s Cyder Farm yesterday. Alas, when I reached the mention of the dreaded ‘mouth formed a perfect O’ like we see throughout the Fifty Shades trilogy, I deleted the book from my Google Books library. From what I’ve seen, dear E.L. James is a bit of a one-trick pony.
“Deleted” I informed Wolfie.
“What was it called?” he asked.
“The Mister” I said grimly.
“Well that’s a shit book title for a start,” he said, checking the reviews on his mobile phone. “It’s got mixed reviews, apparently, the words are slipping off of the page on the paper version.”
I grimaced. If a best-selling author could turn out such a publishing faux pas then there was certainly hope for me yet.
For a moment, I considered renaming my blog. I was so displeased with the writing style of E.L. James that I wanted nothing more to do with her books. As much as her writing style abhorred me, I couldn’t deny the uncanny resemblance. The editorial female lead, the male lead with connections to all kinds of businesses (my betrothed took great delight in informing me about a new opening for a maintenance management contract for a British high street store that I occasionally frequent), the kinky fuckery and the troubled past. True, Ten Shades may be an awful lot like Fifty Shades, but he was better.
Tomorrow, we say goodbye to Dad. It’s going to be hard, and yet somehow I am ready, I feel ready. We set sail at 10.00am on a little blue and white mackerel fishing boat called Bootlegger, to a small cove our skipper, Colin, knows and where we can all be in peace. There, we will be able to finally lay my dearly beloved Dad to rest. It will be hard, it will be painful and it will be a first for me. But with my Ten Shades at my side, I know that whatever happens, I’ll be ready.