“What should I do?” asked my handsome Welsh bear, in a WhatsApp that pinged into my phone on Friday evening, as I was deep in a task for a PR agency I’m interviewing for.
I had promised myself that I would only sleep with him if he absolutely needed a place to crash before Pride the following day.
Instead, I found myself creating a plan. A plan which involved delicious Italian food, a film and cuddling. Which promptly found him on the train and into London from Cardiff. We went for dinner with my housemate and were so full neither of us could face the thought of sex that evening. We simply lay side my side and stifled in the oppressive heat from London’s second wave heatwave.
The following day, and we both woke up hungry for one another. Greg is the sort of man who is an entirely selfish lover. He can be intimate, even affectionate, but only on his terms. If he is not feeling it, he will simply give you the shoulder. Literally, in some cases, if you’re lying in bed with him. It’s like when we were watching the parade later and I’d slip my arm into his; he’d simply slip it out again if he wasn’t feeling it.
It was the same the last time he was here. In a way, I wasn’t really hurt by it because I know at the end of the day he’s a bit of an insecure arse. Albeit a very sexy one. So his quips and odd little behaviours don’t really affect me one way or the other.
I hope this is a reflection on how far I’ve come. I’m sure there would have been a time when I was pining away, washing my bed with tears and thoughts of him. But now I think I’ve grown and matured in a way that I can look past the sexy man and into the rather comical boy which lies beneath.
With Charlie, interestingly, it was quite the other way around. Charlie was also, not just the most generous of lovers but the most generous of men. I don’t think he actually knows how to be selfish, at least not in the way that someone as silly as Greg does. Someone whose Instagram is a horrific medley of himself lifting heavy things.
But what is it about him that attracts me so? I know that he’s overcompensating. I know that so much front much hide some sort of deep-seated insecurities. So what is it that makes me so aroused by his body; his movements; his everything?
It’s not even like he was that well grown on the home front, if you catch my drift.
We met up at 1:15 after I’d been to my Saturday dance class, whereupon he promptly informed me that he had been chatted up by all manner of boy toys and bodybuilders in the bars of Soho where he’d been hanging out. But that he chose me over hanging with them, despite the fact that Mr. Wales himself has been “all over him”.
“I didn’t know you had that kind of willpower,” I replied.
“Neither did I,” he said.
Not exactly a born charmer, is he?
But we went to the parade, and it did feel nice to have such a handsome man with his arms around me, especially in the crowds of thousands. I loved when he slung one of his thick arms around me and pulled me in close to nibble on my ear. When a couple of my friends showed up, he was even able to turn on the charm. There was something of a pride at Pride to have someone who so obviously wanted me; there is something of a power in being a sexual being in front of people. Subtly, tastefully. Perhaps because he was so obviously strong physically there was something of a power play at work. Particularly in front of someone like Hannah, who so evidently likes to flaunt the fact that she’s constantly fucking my friend and housemate.
The odd thing is I’ve thought about Greg the muscle bear a lot in the days following. He’s a twat. A douchebag. A dick. I thought that he was only ever going to be a scratch to an itch, and yet Pride was the second time that we’ve met. I know that he is an entirely selfish being and yet my mind keeps spinning towards him.
Why am I so attracted to him even though he is selfish and could even border on cruel? I have sense enough to know that if we were ever mad enough to try and enter into a relationship it would crash and burn within weeks. I know that I’d be left broken and scarred after.
Even with the fact that his Instagram is ridiculous lifting and flexing pictures.
Even though he admitted he makes extra money by charging desperate twats to worship and feel his muscles (I feel dirty just writing that bit).
Evidently, he has some sort of charisma or I wouldn’t be thinking about him at all. But how can I be even remotely attracted to him after all the things I know and the way I’ve seen him treat people?
Surely even I can’t be that desperate?
It must be more than just a set of brawny arms and a pair of pretty eyes. There must be a quality about him, something fundamental, that attracts me to him. I suppose it shows just how much we look past the outside and into the inner being when we make love to someone…Or is it that we don’t? I cannot decide.
I hope I see him again. But I know that I shouldn’t.
I hope that he wants me. But I know that I shouldn’t care.
I didn’t name him the daemon lover for nothing. I remember the roaring pleasure that he sent through me; the heat of his body and the smell of his sweat. Perhaps at the end that is all I really crave from him: the pleasure.
I think that there might be more there. But not much.