Sex In The Cam: Week 5

Last week a family friend of a family friend got in touch. He told me he was going to be in Cambridge over the weekend visiting some old university mates and asked if I wanted to go for a drink.

We’d met a few times at family parties and always ended up sticking together: forming a united front against the smog of middle-aged torpor that settles on these kinds of evenings (always worth going for the incredible posh-people food though). He’s got a sexy, scruffy, young D. H. Lawrence thing going on but he’s about twelve years older than me so I didn’t think anything of it. Quite hot like your cool young teacher was quite hot when you were in year eleven, nothing more.

So I take him to a nice little Cambridgey pub for a pint or two. Two pints turns into about five. I’m full to the brim with ale but I want to keep talking so I suggest a mosey back to mine for some gin and tonic. We talk for a couple more hours, by which time I’m that lovely house-party kind of sozzled where you don’t have to worry about being in enough control of yourself to do anything like walking or being rhythmic.

After getting up to pour us yet more drinks he sits down next to me on the bed rather than back in the Nice Guest Chair. Over the next hour we do all the things: talk about our feelings (I’m so brooding and mysterious, doesn’t that make you want to put your penis in my vagina?); let bits of our bodies accidentally touch corresponding bits of the other’s and listen thoughtfully to jazz.

Eventually there’s a knowing look and I climb on top of him. He responds enthusiastically, drawing me in with one hand on the back my neck and the other around my hips. I’ve always been keen on beardy older guys and, even though we’re both smashed, kissing such a full face-mane is making me feel more like a sorted twenty-something than a hectic little student who’s got two deadlines the next day (deep down I know that I’m never going to be that sexy young professional. It’s going to be a lot less Carrie and a lot more Hannah from Girls).

Wallowing too much in this time-machine-feeling brings me back to reality, but realise pretty quickly the reality is quite hot. He must quite fancy me to have looked past the bizarreness of the situation. Maybe he went to bed after those parties guiltily fantasizing about fucking a girl who just a few years before would have been the sulky teenager in the corner, and a few years before that at home with a babysitter.

Moral propriety seems to have taken a back seat this evening, so along with that I let go of any nervousness about his decade extra of experience (or, on second thoughts, maybe it’s the Dutch courage). He’s a good combination of forward and nimble-fingered; I’m feeling great, really getting into my stride. But after a while he unentwines and says, “Not tonight?” I give him a look that says No, tonight is just fine thanks, but when we get back to it I realise what he means. Do you remember last week when I said that sometimes the honey-pot gets too boozed to do its job? In my own little world of gin-tinged pleasure I hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t remotely wet.

A night of no climax and all anti-climax left me feeling pretty grim in the morning. We had a grown-up hour in bed with tea but I suddenly felt very young. There wasn’t even any fresh (by that I mean not mouldy) bread to make him some toast. After a coffee and some hangover food I saw the funny side. I felt a bit weird about the whole thing but for him it must have been a serious case of what-is-my-life: you’re in your thirties, you have a proper job with responsibilities, you’ve probably even started putting into your pension … what the fuck are you doing waking up in a grotty student house next to a girl you know through your parents who’s ten years your junior? Looking back I’m glad I had a stab (well, technically no stab, but you know what I mean) at the student/older guy experience, though I think I’ve sacrificed the posh parties for a few years.