48 Hours and a Great Western

by Red Velvet

I’m a Londoner. The British passport I possess though my family is a European hybrid of Ashkenazi and Safardic Jew. I’ve visited at least 80% of the 48 ceremonial counties etched into England’s 50352 square miles but I had never made it to the South-West until last month. Cornwall, a veritable haven for surfing, wrestling and ‘the deeply greasy yet wholly rewarding at 4am’ Cornish pasty. Also reportedly the ‘most homophobic country in the U.K’… this video provides a fuller explanation complete with cheesy visuals and voluble CAPS.

But I’d prefer not to probe into the factional rifts of the Cornwall Constabulary. My intention on this weekend jolly was to probe something quite different. Tenuous link, now let’s begin. ‘Eat sushi off my…’ frame meets me at Paddington station at 17.05, I’m snooping around the champagne shelf, she clocks me and the necessary purchases are transacted. The cross-country Great Western journey feels breezier than a half-hour on the tube, as she inks washable motifs upon my outstretched hands. Rather like Jesus, but with a little less blood.

Once the train has docked at the rural station, we ride a cab with an American straggler to the quaint bed and breakfast – which is everything I envisaged in my glistening imagination. You know those places which retain the intimacy of a non-chain, while affording the freedom of privacy and lack of obtrusiveness. Nothing excites me more than the ‘Honesty Bar’ where you note down that vodka tonic you’ve free poured yourself. However she’s brought a cheeky bottle of whisky which we swilled at fleeting intervals during the weekend of surfing and kayaking.

Once unpacked, we navigate the descent down what could loosely be described as a ‘High Street’ to the harbour. She sucks on an apricot-scented rollie using naval metaphors to describe the universe. Fast forward to 23.11 and she’s doing pushups on the pub picnic benches. The footie shirt emblazoned local boys gawp. With each inhale my temperate rises, I’ve got the fever. I’ve got it bad and she knows it.

00.11 and we’re back in the room, a Russian philosophical podcast is beating out an iPod rhythm and it’s bedtime. I’m conscious of her every move. It’s the first time we’ve been alone with the knowledge she’ll still be there in the morning. We could just go to sleep, hold each other and flirt with the dawn watching the waves lap the shore with various degrees of separation as the tide recoils into the afternoon. But I’d be ravaged with desire and the boundaries are blurred. There’s too much ‘want’ in the room. She looks me dead in the eyes as she rationally explains that this weekend is just that, whatever happens in Cornwall stays confined to this room. I nod in tacit agreement as she kisses me. And it’s beautiful, stronger with every breath as finally we’re lip-locked as her hand cups round my neck tight. It is this power play of asphyxiation which lasts 8…9…10 seconds as she releases. The clothes are ripped off and the toys are out the bag. I come prepared: vibrator, lube and even Viagra which doesn’t burst from its capsule on this occasion. I dropped the prerequisite hints pre-weekend she should follow suit, this girl has superlative foresight.

I could wax lyrical about the sex: when we came, how hard, how deep and how passionate. But I’ll hop-jump-skip to Sunday 17.05 as we’re waiting on a sun-drenched platform for the final train back to the capital. I’m running my index finger down the blunt, powdery edge of my credit card lusting after one more 48 hour hit. She’s practical, dogged and tied to routine whereas I’m feeling flighty, dramatic and frivolous. The four-hour train chugs into Paddington. The home run prompts the inevitable call from the husband. He’s waiting at the taxi rank, he’s missed her. My heart skips a beat. I take the tube, taking seven minutes on the Northbound Bakerloo line to re-adjust my mind, engage my tummy and choke on a deep breath. Everything is OK again, everything is OK.