the cat that got the cream.
Dear DiaryChronicle of the Fabled Lovelife of one Mr. D. W. Eames,
We just got back last night from a 'Business' meeting in Edinburgh. I say 'we' and I of coure mean myself and Arthur.
I've not written for a few weeks. I've not had the chance. I've been incredibly busy fucking Arthur, and just as busy being fucked by Arthur. And kissed. And licked. And bit. And blew. And all sorts of bloody wonderful things.
I'm not even going to pretend to know what this is, if we're together. In my head we are, and I suppose it's fine to be completely delluded. It wouldn't be the first time i'd let myself believe something patently vague and possibly untrue.
But it feels like we're together. He's been staying with me for two weeks now. Since he returned from New York. 'Returned' in this instance meaning 'Came Back From The States After Having Left Paris Where We Had Sex Three Times'.
We're together, aren't we Diary? I'm not just being a hopeless romantic, and i'm not just letting my feelings run away with me.
We fuck each other until we can't walk. We read the morning paper together. I cook, he does the washing up, and we share the drying. Last week I persuaded him to go on one of those little boats with me on The Serpentine in Hyde Park. This morning I baked oatmeal cookies for him. We go to bookshops, and Museums, and Galleries, and to the Theatre.
Sometimes we talk about jobs. The ones we've done together, and plan ones we might do in the future.
Mostly we talk about everything else.
Now I know how those ridiculous teenage girls in Every American Blockbuster Ever feel.
I KNOW HOW COMPLETELY OFF MY BLOODY ROCKER I SOUND. I HAVE LISTENED TO MYSELF LATELY.
But... I don't care.
I'm happy. And extremely well-shagged.
And in other related news... I bought a remodelled old-style Polaroid camera last week when we went shopping in Portobello Road Market. Having taken it with us up to Scotland for the weekend - for no particular reason I wished to share with Arthur at risk of sounding like a 14 year old girl - i'm going to leave these two photos slipped between your pages, Diary, for safe-keeping.
For the world's best (and sexiest) Pointman, he's not very observant if he didn't notice me taking photos of him in our hotel room. Either that, or he was completely aware and chose to allowignore me.
We just got back last night from a 'Business' meeting in Edinburgh. I say 'we' and I of coure mean myself and Arthur.
I've not written for a few weeks. I've not had the chance. I've been incredibly busy fucking Arthur, and just as busy being fucked by Arthur. And kissed. And licked. And bit. And blew. And all sorts of bloody wonderful things.
I'm not even going to pretend to know what this is, if we're together. In my head we are, and I suppose it's fine to be completely delluded. It wouldn't be the first time i'd let myself believe something patently vague and possibly untrue.
But it feels like we're together. He's been staying with me for two weeks now. Since he returned from New York. 'Returned' in this instance meaning 'Came Back From The States After Having Left Paris Where We Had Sex Three Times'.
We're together, aren't we Diary? I'm not just being a hopeless romantic, and i'm not just letting my feelings run away with me.
We fuck each other until we can't walk. We read the morning paper together. I cook, he does the washing up, and we share the drying. Last week I persuaded him to go on one of those little boats with me on The Serpentine in Hyde Park. This morning I baked oatmeal cookies for him. We go to bookshops, and Museums, and Galleries, and to the Theatre.
Sometimes we talk about jobs. The ones we've done together, and plan ones we might do in the future.
Mostly we talk about everything else.
Now I know how those ridiculous teenage girls in Every American Blockbuster Ever feel.
I KNOW HOW COMPLETELY OFF MY BLOODY ROCKER I SOUND. I HAVE LISTENED TO MYSELF LATELY.
But... I don't care.
I'm happy. And extremely well-shagged.
And in other related news... I bought a remodelled old-style Polaroid camera last week when we went shopping in Portobello Road Market. Having taken it with us up to Scotland for the weekend - for no particular reason I wished to share with Arthur at risk of sounding like a 14 year old girl - i'm going to leave these two photos slipped between your pages, Diary, for safe-keeping.
For the world's best (and sexiest) Pointman, he's not very observant if he didn't notice me taking photos of him in our hotel room. Either that, or he was completely aware and chose to allowignore me.
