I might be having an affair...

Hi

Yes, I know the title in tantalising. 'How can you not know?' you may well be asking. Yes, it's a tough one. I really ought to, didn't I? It should be obvious. Another person's flesh should occasionally come into intimate contact with mine, perhaps even ravish my internal organs, and things like that don't happen without nerves somewhere shouting out in either delight or discomfort. 

I am confused. I'm confused at what point an affair actually starts. It's not likely to take the form of a race, with a gunshot (though many affairs have ended with one). Nor is the shaking of a six an obligatory opener. Is it with the first penile penetration? The first finger insertion, or fumbling crotch-shake? Is it a kiss? And does the kiss have to be accompanied by a groped tit, a squeezed arse, a gently titillated inner thigh? If any of the above are mandatory, then my affair is not yet underway. And yet I am almost sure it has begun.

My affair is akin to a train journey and, more exactly, a journey from the great age of steam. The track is already precisely laid. The panting train sits upon it, its meticulously machined components either oiled, greased or perfectly painted. A fire is burning in its belly, steam is hissing from its shining valves, and yet - although movement is now almost inevitable - it is not yet moving. However, the horizon beckons. Pressure is building. The steam box is full to bursting. Coal is being shovelled into the raging firebox and all it takes is a signal - perhaps a nod of a head - and a lever's gentle release for the beast to ease into action.

It's a wonderful feeling. The anticipation. The longing. Though the timetable is painfully vague, the knowledge of the train's ultimate destination leaves me in a constant state of arousal, feeling my own heat, my own pressure building, and the longing of the starting lever's lascivious activation.

And so, I wrote a poem about it (Yes, another bloody poem! I'm in love! So fucking sue me!). I heard a song recently. Indeed my future lover - the one who will, by the time we get to Paddington Station, have fucked my brains into mush - played me this song, probably in an attempt to explain his own precarious domestic position. Can you believe he wants to stick his cock into me while still shagging his wife? Not actually at the same time, you understand, but in the spaces between? Well I don't give a fuck. Bring it on, I say. The sooner the better. Now! Do it fucking now! And if you too had seen those emailed photos of his beautiful organ, I'm sure you would agree. Anyway. The song he played me is called 'Borrowed', is written from the mistress's point of view, and is very beautifully poignant. So I shamelessly nicked the title (to parallel the way I am stealing him from his wife) and wrote a reply, from the male viewpoint, of where this relationship might go and what it all means. There is no sex in it and no explicit language. And that, for me, makes it all the better. It's here, in all its naked, cock-straining, pussy pulsing glory: I do hope you enjoy xxx

(Please excuse much of the above: I find myself in a state of constant arousal and thus the command of my emotions - and hence my vocabulary - is really not what it ought to be xxx)

A scratchy old 78 pithily portends the poignant resolution of a passionate affair

Borrowed

You say I'm merely borrowed

Like in some old cliché

Of a song recording sorrow

In some other place, on some other day

Well let me tell you, Miss

I have no more time, no more love than this

Please take the half I have to give

Though sad, this is the life I live

*

I'm not a book off some old shelf

Pen, sweater or a coat

I'm a person, something like yourself

Just trying to stay afloat

So listen to me, Dear

Though selfish sometimes I appear

Embrace, enjoy our fantasy

While it still thrives, for I can see

*

A day when you will turn around

Like in some old cliché

Of a song recalling happiness

Where girl meets boy in the well-worn way

For the last time you will take my hand

See that all my words were true

At that moment understand

You were borrowed too...

*

As you walk away you'll realise

That all my words were true

It was always in your sad, brown eyes

So I guessed you always knew -

That you were borrowed too

*