260 Miles of Emotion.

My head is a fucking mess. Like an actual fucking mess. A disaster zone.

I should probably fill you in on what is happening really. So… we had the breakdown of my relationship with my Beautiful Tattooed Jock. The last post I put up should have been published last night but I didn’t because I was too busy taking care of a 9-week old kitten that had been abandoned by her owner. And crying my heart out.

The night before, Saturday night, I saw My Mr. Grey. He did come and see me. He drove 260 miles to see me for about 5 hours after work. Then, at 11pm at night, he drove for 9 hours to get home in time to go to work. Blimey, he really did want to see me. I can’t get my boyfriend to say the words ‘Please don’t leave me, I love you and we can work it out!” but I can get this guy to drive 260 miles for me. Am I missing something here?

We went for a coffee, then we went for dinner. Then we drove to the marina and just chatted for a bit. He touched my arm and it sent goosebumps all over my body. He placed his hand on the back of my neck like he did in Warning! Explicit Content! and I couldn’t think of anything except the way it felt when he did that in bed. Every touch had so much meaning and every sentence was laced with some sort of badly disguised sexual innuendo. It was foreplay, that’s what it was. Torturous and brilliant foreplay.

We talked about the nights we had spent together and the things we had done. We always do. That’s our foreplay. We reminisce about times gone by and the way we made each other feel, blushing about stolen moments that no one knew about. Well, except for you guys. I’m sure he won’t mind.

He dropped me back at mine and we said our goodbyes. I went to kiss his cheek and hug him goodbye and I didn’t. I just kissed him. Out of the blue, I just went for it. It was only for a moment before we pulled apart but that was all we needed. Now I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Christ, that kiss.

He had his hand on the back of my neck again, and his other hand was caressing my cheek. He’s so dominant with me yet at the same time, he barely touches me. He’s so soft. Firm. Intimidating. Like Mr. Grey in 50 Shades of Grey. Just so you know, I just watched the trailer again. Just so you also know, every time we have sex, it’s just like that trailer. Fucked up. Fucked up and intensely erotic. Holy shit.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SfZWFDs0LxA]


We didn’t sleep together. I had some self-control at least. I couldn’t keep my hands off him though. In a ‘friendly’ sense, of course. My arm was draped through his as he guided me to the restaurant. Because that’s what he does – he guides me. Because he is a man. He opens doors and helps me when I wear heels. He holds my bag and helps me rearrange my outfit. He pulls strands of hair out of my face and moves them behind my ears. That’s what he does. He’s an old-school erotic-romance kinda guy. It’s insanely hot. For a guy so seemingly uninteresting, he is the most fascinating man I’ve ever met. I’m always mesmerised by him from start to finish. That scar on his forehead, the way he pronounces the ‘h’ in words like ‘w-h-ile’, ‘w-h-ether’, etc., the way he smiles at me from just the side of his mouth. He’s an amazing guy. We have amazing chemistry.

I loved listening to him speak. His voice is like caramel… smooth, calming, Scottish. It’s the accent. It was the Hubby’s accent too. And Jock’s, clearly. And My. Mr. Grey. I can’t keep away from that fucking accent. I don’t even think I like it that much. Well, clearly I do.

When he walked into my work he bound over to me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and lifted me up, my legs flailing around in the air, true Hollywood movie style. It was so cute. Cute but completely wasted on the three guys I was working with that day that just kinda took the piss. I knew what My Mr. Grey was doing – he was checking out my incredibly slender frame compared to the last time he saw me, and he was announcing his dominance over the other guys I work with. Because he’s a man. That’s what he does. And that’s how he does it.

I told him that Jock and I were falling apart. He was supportive, of course. I also knew it changed the way the game was played that night. He would never have made his move knowing that I was still with Jock. He has too much respect for that. Oh no. No, he waits for me to get drunk and make my move because I always do. That’s always how it works. He sits there and eats dinner, waiting for me to get pleasantly pissed, knowing full well that later on when he pulls out that lubricant and those love eggs, I’d run right into the toilet and pop them in, just like last time. Funnily enough, we went to that exact same restaurant except this time, I just ordered a Diet Coke. No getting pissed for me.

After I told him, he started playing the game. He turned on the charm and we were nostalgic about the treasured memories we had saved from times gone past. Like the time he accidentally fisted me and I squirted all over the bed. Sorry, I probably should have warmed you up for that one. How about the time that he came all over my face in my bedroom, while the guy that later turned out to be my Hubby hoovered my front room just the other side of the door…? How about the time he tied me up with ropes to my wrought iron bed and trailed his fingers all over my body endlessly until I literally couldn’t take it anymore? That’s what he does – that’s how he makes his move. He stirs up all those filed-away memories until my cheeks are flushed red and I’m lusting after him like a big tub of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. And it worked this time too. Except I wasn’t drunk and apparently I can control my own urges these days. I’m pretty sure that happened somewhere around the 26/27 mark to be fair.

So there you have it. That’s whats going on in my life. I’m sad of course. My heart is breaking over the breakup with Jock. It really is. But My Mr. Grey proved to be somewhat of an attention-divider for a couple of days. At this point, every little helps. Plus he is really hot. Hot is the wrong word. Mesmerising.

I don’t know why I do this to myself. I really don’t.

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