Sex with you-know-who

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There is a time in the evening when the light acquires a bluish hue. It falls in amongst the shadows. It lowers itself into the hollows of the space around you in a dream-like sequence.

Bodies lose their concealments as one by one the fabrics fall to the floor. The skin glows in the refracted grace of the arriving night. The air attains a heavier quality and it becomes difficult to breathe. Reason loses ground as passion surges forth.

The cheek blushes with the warmth of the lover’s gasp. Softened lips caress a dimple, the nape of the neck, the small of the shoulder. Fingers search the contours of the other underneath the sheets, caressing a forearm, an inner thigh, the back of a knee.

I breathed in the unfamiliar scent of his body, his ice-grey eyes fixed on me. My traitorous mind transported me back to eyes of a different hue… gaze held firmly as he half-whispered “I love you. Marry me.”

And then it hits me.

This is not my husband! What the hell am I doing? How am I ever going to tell him that I slept with Benedict Cumberbatch?!

I kept silent and looked away. It was too late. We were past the time when we were about to do it, to the very middle of doing it.

I could smell the danger. I moved into uncertain territory. His smile was soft, his lips just parted…

Don’t. Don’t! Don’t!!

It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do about it now. And it got worse. Much worse.

Who could’ve ever guessed that sex with the Sun’s Sexiest Man Alive would fail to deliver on that title’s promise? Let’s not beat around the bush here. It was crap. And whatever of it wasn’t, I was too guilt ridden to enjoy.

I wake up with a gasp. I do not stay half-awake in slumber, enjoying the warmth of the morning. My eyelids are propelled open. I feel nothing but panic. How am I going to tell him?

 

An arm stretches out and catches my waist. I look sideways.

Ben needs to understand this is a one off.

But… it’s not… I’m at home. In my bed. With my husband. Wrecked marriage averted. I breathe out relieved. Phew! Just a dream. Thank f*** for that.

Then it dawns on me.

Me (major angry silence): I’ve just cheated on you with the Cumberbatch.

Him: Mmm?

Me: In my dream. Big massive sex scene. Slow motion and everything.

Him: How was it?

Me: Rubbish. He was absolute crap.

Him (laughs, pleased with himself): Knew it!

Me: (little angry silence, then): It’s all your fault, you know.

Him: Mmm?

Me: You got into my head. If I didn’t remember I was married half way through, it might’ve been passable. You’ve ruined my sex dream.

Him (Leaps over and pins me to the cushions): Know what will make you feel better about it?

Me (expectant): What?

Him: Make me a cup of tea.

Me (angry and bemused): That’s what I get for being married to a Scot: bad-dream-sex with Cumberbatch and a stringent daily tea-making rota.

Him: Alright TeaRex. Let’s see what we can do about that.

Sex scene. Take two. (As if! Curtains down for that one, I’m afraid. Let your imagination run wild, if you will.)