For our third date the artist takes me for a walk on the beach; a little slice of Costa del Kent. I’ve come to her home town, over an hour by train from mine, with a wheelie suitcase packed with champagne, strawberries, perfume and lingerie. We still haven’t slept together and I’m a bubbling mix of lust and nerves.
We buy ice creams and perch on a crumbling stone wall gazing out to sea. I scoop big dollops of ice cream out with my tongue.
“You can definitely keep doing that!” she chuckles and I blush, suddenly self-conscious.
We while away the afternoon pottering around the shops, parks and churches, pausing in puddles of sunshine to take long, sweet pulls on our cigarettes. Over dinner we laugh loudly and often, clattering into the cool night air afterwards to steal sangria kisses in the dark.
As we drive home later down quiet country lanes there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. Now, head swimming with Cachaҫa, I gabble:
“Listen, I think I should let you know that I actually can’t orgasm without some kind of vibrator. So, you know, if it doesn’t happen then honestly don’t worry – it’s definitely not you, it’s me!”
“Assuming we’re going to sleep together?” she replies with a twinkle, “that’s very presumptuous!”
Back at hers she leads me up to her bedroom and we make lust into the night, falling asleep in a tangle of legs and arms.
We wake early the next day and spend it shamelessly wallowing in pleasure like piglets in muck, lolling around her sun-kissed garden with homemade caipirinhas. Talk turns to our budding romance and I feel keenly that I need to be frank with her, that in truth, I’m not girlfriend material. Not yet anyway.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for another serious relationship but I really like you and I don’t want to stop seeing you. I’m definitely not seeing anyone else…”
“Yeah, same here….A lot of my past relationships got really intense really quickly so I’m happy to take things slow.”
And even though on paper we’re on the same page, I can’t help feeling a doubtful flutter in her voice. Dark clouds rumble over the sun and the artist shivers.
“Let’s go in.”
We bundle upstairs and there, under the artist’s gentle guidance, I have a completely natural orgasm, gasping with disbelief and pleasure. I lie back on the bed panting as she grins like the Cheshire cat.
“See, she was just waiting to feel comfortable and trusting.”
As ever, my vagina knows more about my own heart than I do.