Being with Leonard was liberating. I loved him so much, and he took in all my kisses, all the pettings and the little songs, and he loved me back and recited me spontaneous poetry and performed naked dances. It was delicious.
I started the relationship in my usual disparaging way – I thought he was a little wet behind the ears, but quite lovely, so I lay in bed with him for days, stroking his hair and feeding him. I thought – how can someone so much older than me possibly accept all my peacocky drivel. I thought – when it stops being fun, when he gets clingy, I’ll end it. I thought – he’s too kind to not secretly be a psychopath. Once, I didn’t text him back and he thought I was angry with him. I was only in the shower. I filled with sympathy for him, silly thing, sitting on the train wondering if I would still see him when he arrived.
He drove me to his home for a weekend away. I wasn’t well, was drab and quiet when I met his sister and his parents and friends. I felt embarrassed. We had a fantastic shag over the back of the sofa; it rocked to and fro with our slamming hips, and almost fell over with us on it. He went down on me when I was watching High Society – most diverting. And in the night, I sprung out of his spoony, furry cuddle and crouched on the floor, paralysed with anxiety and convinced that my insides were rupturing and tearing apart. It was the worst pain; I could barely get upstairs to the bathroom, where I vomited copiously (COPIOUSLY) with the shower turned on so he wouldn’t hear. Then I sprayed deodorant around so the smell wouldn’t pervade the house, although it probably did anyway. I sat on his living room floor and cried at three in the morning, and he put me in the car with a dinosaur biscuit tin to vomit in, and drove me back home, without my even having to ask. I think that’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me, even though we had to stop off at a petrol station so I could throw up some more, where I conducted some very sickly business. My kind of romance. There’s a lot to be said for the moment you realize you could shit yourself and fall in it, and your new boyfriend would still want to bang you. Not that that happened.
Originally published at The Erotic Memoirs of Crystal Chandeliere.