Memories of butter

One of the things that makes me sad is that I can’t get off on my own writing. I mean, obviously if I could I’d be unbearably smug, but even though the scenarios that I write about turn me on, my own prose makes me self-conscious in a way that means it’s unlikely that you’ll ever find me in bed with a page or two of A4 that I wrote.

So, when Kristina Lloyd posted a link to this on Facebook, I begged her to write a story entitled ‘Memories of butter’ – because her writing does turn me on. Somehow, she managed to persuade me that I should write it instead, which led to me squirrelling myself away in Bettys tearooms in Harrogate while away at a work conference, writing dairy product porn:

***

We’re sitting in a mink-coloured leather booth and the wall opposite bears a collection of vintage teapots. It’s 11am on a Wednesday – early-bird special – and we’re the youngest people in the room bar the couple opposite who are toasting their engagement with champagne and a three-tier cake stand.

It’s very proper here. A sign at the door requests that mobile phones please be turned off, the staff wear starched white aprons, the tea menu stretches to three pages. And your fingers are inside me.

I try not to grin at our dirty little secret. True, under my striped jersey dress I’m wearing hold-ups, not tights, but I didn’t intend you to discover them yet – the big reveal was meant for later, after dinner. I was going to seduce you on the walk back to the hotel, not over morning coffee in some fancy cafe. Seriously, I’ve only had them on an hour.

You curl your fingers against my G-spot as the waitress approaches and I dig mine into your thigh to keep from crying out. Fuck, there’s too much going on – not only do I have to fight the urge to pee that I always get when you first start to stroke me there, I have to try and keep my facial expression neutral and to remember that I’m ordering black coffee and eggs Benedict for you, and Earl Grey with skimmed milk and muesli for myself.

Somehow, I form the words. The waitress scribbles on her pad. You drag moisture from the depths of my cunt up across my clit and I squirm against the bench seat. When the old man across the room dropped his walking stick, everyone swivelled their heads at the noise. I swear they’re doing similar at the sound of you playing fast and loose with my wetness.

‘Anything to eat with that tea?’ the waitress prompts.

My cheeks are burning. ‘I’ll have the -‘

‘Crumpets,’ you interrupt. ‘She’ll have the crumpets.’

You do this, every so often, and I shouldn’t find it sexy, but I do. It’s not ordering for me, exactly – it’s more intuitively picking up on what I’ve spotted on the menu that I really want, and making sure that that’s what I end up with. And you’re right, I don’t want muesli at all, I want something dripping in butter.

Still, I round on you once she’s gone. ‘Don’t tell me what I want!’

’No?’ You plunge your fingers deep again, which is cheating. I can’t win an argument when I’m mad with the horn.

‘No!’

’But you like that,’ you murmur, leaning in to nip at my neck, and I can’t help myself, I push back against you and spread my legs wide. Thank god for long tablecloths.

It’s true, I do. I like smug, dirty boys just like you who can make me come by twisting their fingers exactly the right way, not letting up even when I gasp loud enough to draw attention. Even if no one else is looking, there’s a certain vulnerability about letting you see me come apart like this, in broad daylight, nowhere to hide as my mouth falls open on a silent moan.

‘Why do you always have to be fucking right?’ I ask, when I’ve caught my breath.

The lady at the next table glares at me as she spoons ketchup onto her plate. Ketchup with a spoon, offended by the F-word – it’s a good job she has no idea what she’s actually just witnessed. I catch your eye and start to giggle.

I don’t know what made me think of that again today. I’m in a different cafe, on a station, waiting for a train that’s an hour delayed. But it’s not the cafe – I visit cafes all the time without having flashbacks. I’ve been away too long, missed you, perhaps that’s it. But what I do know is that when they bring my toast, an insipid plate of it, with a sad little plastic packet of Flora, it makes me remember.

And so I text you: ‘Home soon. Buy crumpets x’

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