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Sunday, February 13, 2011

Black Cabs at Victoria Station



Last night I thought about taking the half hour train journey into London today.


At the same time as I did this time last week.


To see if he was there.


Just to give him my phone number and ask him to call me when I get back from Portugal.

It felt like a good idea. Exciting. Forbidden.


And today ... my courage has lifted. Somehow it feels as though he'd think I'm stalking him, if he's even there.


And if he wasn't there ... I'd feel deflated, desperate almost.


I'm not desperate ... I mean, I've had plenty of offers ... but I had a connection with him. The perfect stranger.


I'm not seeking romantic love. I don't want anything from him ... other than a couple of nights a month. I want to feel that chemistry ... feel alive ... undress each other with our eyes until we can ... rip each other's clothes off ... and just enjoy each other, give pleasure ... give and take.


Who knows? Perhaps serendipity will intervene. If not, perhaps I'll get the courage to hang round Victoria Station when I return from Portugal ... perhaps though, the magic of chemistry will have worn off by then. Who knows? Que sera sera.


I hope no one thinks I'm on the game if I do.


There again, my mother met my father for the first time, back in 1948 ... under the big clock at Victoria Station. So I can't be that crazy.




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