Among the stranger conversations I’ve had in the past few days was one with my former boss, when I asked how things were going with her (relatively) new boyfriend.
‘Good, thanks’ she replied. ‘Except he’s a moody bugger and I can’t so much as do the washing up without getting smacked on the arse with a tea towel.’
I have *no* idea how we got there.
Still, I swallowed my mouthful of chocolate digestive and said ‘Wait, do you not like that?
Different strokes for different folks, I know, but as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to saying goodbye especially, being smacked on the arse is better than hugging, and I love hugging.
Hugging a guy you like is great – especially if he’s tall and broadchested and you can snuggle into him, slide your arms inside his jacket and feel him wrap himself around you. It’s comforting, and it’s affectionate, and it’s pretty all-round fucking fantastic.
But, if you’ve fucked me and you’re seeing me out of your flat, hopefully we’ll have done the snuggling bit, and I’ll be aching for something else. Because there’s nothing better than a guy who shows you to the door in his PJ bottoms, gives you a proper snog, and then, as you turn to leave, a good hard smack on the arse.