Over the past couple of weeks I have been lucky enough to spend time in two hot and sunny places – France and then Cyprus. The latter was with my mum, so there were no opportunities for a sexy photos. However while in France, Master took this one.
The trip to France was arranged to make some running repairs on the apartment. Owning property abroad seems glamorous, when in reality it can be expensive and stressful. This year the lady who was meeting guests and cleaning suddenly sent notice and so I was forced to cancel all my airbnb bookings. This has meant that the place has been empty for most of the summer. Now I’m no longer working, I need to consider whether to rent in the future or keep it for family, friends and us.
Summer in the south of France this year has been glorious and still is. By Monday lunchtime we had pretty much done what we wanted to do and over lunch hatched a plan to stay longer. A friend was arriving Sunday, so we just needed to lead before then (he already had the key).
Once the new flights had been booked and the car hire extended we settled into a relaxed routine and did very little.
Morning sex is our thing. Master tends to be horny when he wakes and I can be easily persuaded. So after sleeping late and just luxuriating in not needing to get up, we had sex most mornings. On the surface this might seem quite vanilla in nature, often missionary. But there are always elements of Dominance and submission as well as restraint, nipple pinching, forced orgasms and the like. We didn’t have toys with us and so used our hands and mouths to please and excite.
When finally we emerged from bed and showered we then spent time sitting out on the balcony over coffee and then lunch. Strolling out to the shop if necessary and then returning to our nest for the afternoon. I would stretch out on my sun bed and maybe take a swim. This all may seem a little dull, but it really wasn’t. It was the end product of 3 months and more of stress, packing, unpacking and general craziness. It was what we both needed.
Most evenings we ate out. Strolling around the harbour area, or into the local village for dinner. It was lovely to be able to eat al fresco and to watch others either dining too or wandering around the area. It was good to be uninterrupted by normal everyday life but to interact when we needed and wanted to.
The only real downside to the warm evenings was that we were feasted on by the local mosquitos (me more than him). We should have been better at spraying ourselves with repellant I know. But the bites will heal and fade, the memories of our lazy days and warm evenings will remain.
There is something about the sea that draws me to it. As I stand, on land – perhaps the beach, on a cliff head or perhaps a beautiful promenade and look out towards the sea – I am filled with wonder. I am in awe that when you look towards the horizon the sea carries on even though you can’t see it. That the water can be so many colours from a beautiful clear blue to a dirty brown or black depending on it’s depth, or the weather or location in the world.
When I met S, the fact he lived right by the sea was a definite attraction. Apart from the hot sex, we spend quite a bit of time walking near the sea. I say walk, sometimes it was more of a hike, but we did have some lovely picnics on the shoreline as well as walks across the cliffs.
I have dreamt of wading naked into the sea with a lover. Swimming together, having some fun splashing around then embracing and having sex. But that has never actually happened. For one I was married to a man who barely went in the sea, or at least not further than getting his feet wet. And I haven’t been in the warm sea of the Mediterranean (for example) with a lover.
The cold water around the United Kingdom holds little appeal – we would be clinging together for warmth rather than having sex. For me the sea holds a romantic appeal; walking along the sea front, eating dinner over looking a harbour. I can’t get enough of that and so it is lucky that next weekend we head off to France for a few days. We will be close to the sea, though I doubt there will be an opportunity for naked sex. Just being there will be enough for me. However I do hope that the sea will be calm. It can be less pleasant walking by the sea when it is blowing a gale and that bit of France can be a bit prone to windy weather.
Have you ever missed a flight? Arrived at the airport just a little too late and been turned away at the check in desk? Or, have you arrived at the desk as it closes and been shooed through security. Only to miss the flight anyway? Have you ever been through security with something (or things) in your bag that if discovered, would be a tad embarrassing?
We had only known each other for a couple of months when I asked him if he wanted to accompany me on a trip to France. The previous summer I had bought an apartment with some redundancy money and now I wanted to check it had survived the winter. This has become something of a routine now – open up in March, shut things up in October. But this was the first time. He said yes.
Often when we travel for just a few days, we take carry on luggage only. But I needed to take some things for the apartment and he, various lotions for his eczema. We didn’t know each other well, so didn’t consider sharing luggage as we would now. The south of France in March, in an apartment that had been shut up for months was chilly. We spent lots of time in bed getting to know each other (as well as sleeping). There was plenty of sex, but also time to sightsee and to shop. It was a short break, but it was fun. Only too soon though it was time to return home.
The flight was a little earlier than we would have liked, and with one thing and another (cleaning mainly), we left later than we should have. By the skin of our teeth we handed back the hire car at the airport car park and reached the check-in desk as it closed. The woman put my case through, but then decided it was time to close. She refused to take G’s case and told him to take it through security as hand luggage. He did as he was told, but of course there were lotions in the case. Lotions in containers that were larger than the allowed 100 ml.
We watched as the case passed along the conveyor belt, though the X-ray machine and out the other end. The security personnel looked at each other and gathered around the bench. They beckoned G over and opened the case.
These were some of the contents………………
Facing the prospect of having so much more than a tub of aqueous cream confiscated G asked if he could miss the flight. Not wanting to travel alone, I asked for my case to be unloaded. As the flight took off, we were hiring another car and rebooking our flight.
Later that day, we checked two pieces of luggage onto a flight at an airport about 50 miles away. No one asked to see inside and we collected them from the conveyor at the end of our journey.
We sat down and paused for breath and water. Then we took a few photos of each other. I happily exposed myself for him (and perhaps the photos will appear at a later date). He did the same for me. This was my view. A pretty good one too. Then we climbed back down!
So, here we are in the south of France. It’s a tad cold right now, so tonight’s dinner for me was a lovely Ragout and for Master, Spaghetti Carbonara. With some local red wine, of course. I would have let you see a photo of my pudding, the house peach gateau but I ate it before I thought things through.
It is 4 weeks today since my dad passed away. In many ways it has been too busy to allow the grieving process to progress in perhaps the way it should. Other than on the day of the funeral, I have not cried. I am not sure that this in itself is a problem. But, I know I am definitely feeling a bit more vulnerable and my mood swings a little more than usual. We all feel the loss of my dad keenly, and no one more so than my mum. But I find myself irritated by her and by her inability to see anyone else’s suffering.
We have always had a difficult relationship. She always put it down to the fact that our birthdays fall within a day of each other and that they are August (Leo) birthdays. I have always wondered however if she has just borne a grudge for the fact that she spent her 23rd birthday in labour! There have been times when she and I have struggled to communicate, to even be pleasant with each other. We have never had that close, almost sisters bond others seem to have. My grandmother, her mother, told me she was a selfish woman. Perhaps she is.
There were times during my dad’s illness when she seemed angry that he was the one who was ill. perhaps she always believed she would be first to go. In the weeks before his death she almost seemed to avoid him, my brothers and I discussed and wondered at this. At the end though, she was there every step and it was her who was holding his hand as he passed away.
So this weekend we have had the kind break that in the past she would have loved – just the two of us. A few years ago we would have been found drinking in the local bars, perhaps flirting a little. But we never had that kind of relationship. Now, sadly, not only is she newly bereaved but she is also a shadow of the fun loving person she once was. She struggles to get around (a legacy of a couple of strokes and years of smoking), and she seems unable to enjoy the simplest thing. I don’t think that the latter is as much to do with her bereavement as perhaps a sadness as to who and what she has become.
The trouble is that it is not just me who sees this side to her. I worry that once the rawness of grief subsides people will see her as a miserable (not all that old) woman. That she will be lonely because she struggles to relate to people and snaps. I worry that I will be one of those daughters who visits out of duty, rather than because I want to.
For the most part, this weekend has been fine. She has wanted to do little and mainly this has suited me. I thought she would have talked about dad more, wanted to laugh more about good times. But that hasn’t been the case.
However, yesterday when we were out for a drive in the french countryside she told me about some of the adventures she and dad had when they were ‘lost in France’ and how, often they had found themselves on narrow tracks and once a farmers field. Perhaps dad was with us, because shortly afterwards, following a diversion sign we ended up on a small, bumpy, potholed track which might have led to a farmers field, but luckily ended up back on the main road.