The Winterfood Diaries

The Winterfood Diaries

Friday, 21 July 1989

On The Dark Side Of The Moon

‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now’ – Starship

When the day began, I was still in Miranda’s bedroom, talking about Tolkien and other assorted miscellany.  She had opened a bottle of red wine and I joined her in drinking it.

By 1.30am, we were both extremely drunk, and inside, I was panicking about getting home as I really did have to get some sleep so as to be ready for work at 8am.

Yet, we drank on, going down to the dining room and opening a bottle of champagne.  This was curtains for our mutual powers of perception and any everyday sensibility, but we went back upstairs to continue talking.

Sadly, she never managed to develop the nude pictures we took of each other last summer, as the film was faulty.  It’s a shame; I’d have loved copies.


We were talking about making sure we’d see a bit of each other over the next few days, and as we did, I found myself caressing her naked feet, delicately massaging and rubbing them with the fingers of my right hand.  Why?  I do not know.  I hadn’t necessarily planned on anything romantic occurring – though I hadn’t ruled out the possibility – but there we were, chatting, free as you please on the windowsill, curtains open, yellow moon, raging wind and me, caressing the feet of Beatrice Miranda Wasp.

The conversation continued, but this sub-textual groping began to get the better of us both; my hands touching her hers as they joined mine at her feet for that very purpose.  Then she got up, stood me up, held my arms and stared into my eyes.  She then clasped both my hands and pulled me down onto the bed, where we lay together and our lips kissed and kissed.

But the wine had taken its toll and I needed to urinate.  I went to the toilet, my head full of, ‘What’s going in?  Do either of us need this?  Is it a bit soon?  Oh what the hell, I do love her and have done for a long time.  I’ve dreamed of moments like this, so who gives a damn?’

‘In Your Room’ – The Bangles

When I returned to the bedroom, it was pitch dark and Miranda was under the duvet.  I lay on top of it, next to her – ever the gentleman.  The time was approaching 3.30am.  I kissed her again and she pulled the duvet over me, then removed her clothing and mine.
‘Oh god… I’ve got to be back home for seven…’
‘It’s okay…  I’ll drive you.  I’ve set the alarm for six.’
‘Good.  Oh, good.’

We then kissed a lot more and I found myself lying on top of her naked white body.  I guess to some, it may not be the most incredible body in the universe, but to me it is the incredible and exciting body of Miranda Wasp.  And the aura that body gives off arouses the hell out of me.  I have to admit hat, and if I can’t admit it within these pages, then where can I?  From that beautiful, careworn face, to that small, pretty neck; those broad shoulders, her delightful underarms, her lovely arms, her large, firm breasts with their perfect nipples, her stomach, hips and thighs, her legs and feet.  I love that body.  I love that gorgeous thatch of dark hair between her legs, her small vaginal lips.  I love this body, the body of Beatrice Miranda Wasp.  I truly love it. 

But the feeling is new again, different to what it once was.  Almost the desire I feel for her actually conflicts with love.  More than love her, I want to understand her.  Learn her.

In the drunken heat, she held my penis and played with the head.  I clasped her vulva and fingered her clit, pushing another finger into the tight wet hole, her juices running down my hand.  My mind struggled to question the sincerity and necessity of what was happening.  These questions briefly danced in and out of my consciousness before quickly dying like mayflies.  But part of me wishes they hadn’t.

In a kind of haze, I felt my penis being pulled and guided into her vagina.  I briefly thought about contraception and wondered if we should be more careful.  ‘Careful,’ she sighed, heaving her hips toward the ceiling.  I sank slowly and a little painfully into her; my penis feeling torn by the dark, wiry hair around her warmest depths.  And then, once joined, we made love for an eternally long time, until at last I came and came and came.

We slept in each other’s arms and finally awoke to the strained cries of the 6am alarm.  We then slept a little longer (until 6.45am) and then got up and got dressed, silently smiling.

But in that way that it so often does my intelligence was shouting at my instinct, yelling: ‘Why did you do it?  Yes, you enjoyed it.  Yes, it was tremendous.  But was it necessary?  How do you stand with each other now?!’

Miranda drove me home, then returned to bed.  I went to work at the Lorry Yard, both drunk and hung-over at the same time.  I felt terribly ill until about 12pm when I had some lunch.

‘Great Gig In The Sky’ – Pink Floyd

This evening, Miranda picked me up and we went to The Angel.

Why does she insist on wearing shoes with holes in the bottom?  Damned strange.  But I suppose we’ve all done it.

The pub was very dull, the atmosphere very tight due to some violence last weekend, instigated by casuals.  I only saw Mooney and a few others.  I was so tired and shagged out, so Miranda and I returned to her place and she made me coffee. 

I guess the atmosphere died a little, as I kept drifting into sleep on her big rug (in spite of myself).  It must have been a cause of great irritation for her.  When I WAS awake, we talked about the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy books.  We both have an immense love for the character of Fenchurch.  Miranda sat on the bed and I lay on the floor (with a spider).  I was really too tired to do much and she was playing The Dark Side Of The Moon, which was too hypnotic.

She kindly offered to drive me home, and I accepted.

As I exited the car, I turned to give her a peck on the cheek.  But it turned into a kiss on the lips, to which she responded with full-on French kiss verve. 

‘Strange,’ I said.
‘I know,’ said she.

I went in.

[Images subject to control of individual Copyright Holders including works originated by Elton Townend Jones, but excluding any images or design attributed to ‘The Situation’ which are copyright of The Situation (see specific acknowledgements in the ‘Thanks to…’section below) / ‘Berwin Groomstool’ is an iteration of the Situation character ‘William Whicker’ and falls under joint copyright of Elton Townend Jones and Waen Shepherd / Based on true events and designed as a study of parochial British cultural and emotional life in the late 20th century, this blog is a work of fiction – cultural icons excluded, all characters and incidents featured are entirely fictional / This blog is non-profit; all video clips are used for illustrative purposes and almost always come from YouTube / No copyright infringement is intended – just trying to get things into context. Never forget: no man is an island. If you think anything I’ve used is damaging you in any way, please comment and immediate action will be taken to minimise offence / This notice was amended on 1 July 2012 and is intended to cover this and all posts on that precede it]

Next time: ‘Perception/Possession…’

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