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Much outcry, little outcome
It is unfair to call Walter a dick as he is not old enough to know better. Of course I mean the Walter in my class at school, whom we were talking about earlier. When the class was asked what the moral of the Aesop's fable about the mountain in labour was he cried out: Much outcry. Which is completely appropriate for Walter the dick, as you may have known him from HR or as I knew him more intimately, oh so much more intimately.
So, Walter was a dick. He was a louche dick I dated for several months. Of course there was also the abrupt, fastidious side of him that you saw in the office. You would have assumed him callous, even cruel, the type who enjoyed conducting disciplinary hearings. Well, to begin with that was the impression I had of him in the office. Yes, we met at work, always a bad idea but it is where people meet. Of course that was when we weren't all working from home, but you know that already. Who knows where people will meet now? I'm not sure online is the best place to meet. I've a colleague who is dating online for the first time but that is another story. Perhaps we'll get back to meeting in pubs, and socially distanced socials. So, where was I? Finance and HR used to have a monthly social late lunch after Simon joined the company, remember him? At one of these, I cannot remember the reason why, but it is a very me kind of thing to say, I said: the female orgasm is important, no, vital. It was not something bizarre, not weird. It fitted with the conversation, whatever that was, perhaps we had been discussing the Vagina Monologues, I don't believe the social club ever went to that show.
Well, the thing I can remember clearly was Walter’s response: it is a question of care, and skill and persistence. That was it. The moment that changed my perception of Walter. I was hooked. I imagined exploring my orgasm with Walter. Yes, you heard me correctly.
And whenever I had the opportunity, I would make a hint at it. When that film Desearas was showing I asked him on a date. Quite a first date, it might still be on Netflix if you haven’t seen it. In English.
At a coffee shop in Waterstones, Walter told me about a book he had: She Comes First. It is a Ronseal book. It is about how to give women orgasms. First.
I didn’t know if he had just bought it or it was a book he had studied, but just the fact that he knew about the book was a turn on.
Over dinner in an ironic Harry met Sally way he talked about foreplay, he talked about the multitude of erogenous zones. It was tinglingly erotic listening to him list names and types of touches in a matter-of-fact, best-bbc-presenter voice, like he was regaling a list every young man had learned in school. Shakespeare delivered by the neighbour’s nephew. Loudly enough for most of the diners to hear, well, the adjacent tables anyway. I imagined one of the diners saying: I want what she's about to get.
He joined my salsa class, I don’t think you came, did you? The social club arranged it for a couple months. Salsa was fun while the social club organised it but when it stopped I didn’t continue. Anyway, Walter came because, he said, it is vital to be in tune with the rhythms of the body. It was the most knicker-wetting date I have been on, it didn’t matter that it was a work do, or that Walter was moving his lips while counting in his head, or that our dancing consisted entirely of bruising thumps as we moved out of sync. What mattered was Walter viewed this as a step to exploring my orgasm.
Then a Friday about a week later came the main event. Walter didn’t like drinking with colleagues so we went to Clapham, near where he lived. We drank. We talked. We drank. We laughed. We did. Then we went to his. The time had come. The moment had arrived. We kissed. I am sure we kissed while the kettle boiled. He said he had to get a tea bag from his room. I followed him. We kissed again. He pushed and pulled, pawed at my clothes until they were off. I remember saying: It is easier if you reach round to undo the clasp. Then with the sensitivity of Usain Bolt he charged for the finishing line. Ten seconds and the condom was knotted and in the bin. And he was lying on his back, cheshire cat grin. I curled up into him with the hope of round two.
Round two never came. Not that night, nor on consequent occasions. Like the moral of Aesop's fable it was much outcry but little outcome. And so it was that I stopped flirting with him about giving me orgasms and all that was left was the dick everyone in the office knew.
I think I will end my story there as that man seems to be here for you. But perhaps, if my story has not put you off we can meet again next Tuesday. I would call that quite a plan.
