All The Usual Methods Of Payment

Rigorous scientific enquiry has led me to the conclusion that you should never try to fuck on an inflatable mattress. We’re still in Birmingham, still being put up by friends and to be honest I’m not totally convinced it’s good manners to attempt fucking in someone else’s house (without at least inviting them to join in, which we didn’t do because these are nicely brought-up friends and not the usual amoral skanks we hang out with in London).

D doesn’t agree with my ‘not fucking in other people’s houses’ thing. He thinks that’s exactly the kind of place you should try to do it, hence last night’s slightly inconclusive festival of uncoordinated bounciness. This morning we both have strangely bruised knees.

Birmingham (motto: actually a bit nicer than you’d imagine) has it’s own siren rocks in the form of the Bullring Shopping Centre, which I dragged a struggling, mewling D around all Saturday afternoon until he was actually threatening to just lie down on the floor and make me pull him. I appeased him by promising to take my clothes off in Selfridges.

This was actually a cruel way of tricking him into standing outside changing rooms while I went, “What about this? What if it were blue? Will you get me another one of these? No, not that one!” Once he realised I had now tried on every floaty little Parisian chic dress in the Heimstone range and was starting to try some of them on for a second time, he snapped and growled, “Quickly, pick three!” which he then marched over to the till and bought before I was decent enough to leave the changing room. So in an unintended way, that worked very well.

In my simple way, I think dress-buying on that heroic scale deserves sexual favours as a reward. I realise this isn’t very enlightened of me and I shouldn’t see our relationship as a form of economic barter, but who am I kidding? Would I have got the nice French frocks if I wasn’t the blow job queen? I don’t think so. And besides, I think Borders is a good place to put your hand on your boyfriend’s cock and stage whisper, “Fancy a good time, mister?” (It’s certainly a better use of Borders than as a place to buy books, a purpose for which it is fucking horribly suited.)

I’d like to thank the staff of Wagamama who signed the rota to show they’d checked the cleanliness of the toilets at regular intervals. They made an excellent venue for a blow job, followed up with big bowls of chicken ramen. D pointed out that their menu says “we accept all the usual methods of payment” but I suspect this method’s only usual in our house.