Warsaw

You say that I am beautiful and interesting. I am flattered, because I am a little drunk. You are very cute and quite old fashioned, true and fair and that is nice. We kiss a lot, I kiss your mouth, you kiss mine, I kiss your neck and you kiss mine. Your skin is soft. You kiss my forehead. You stare at me a lot and play with my hair.

I ask, "Would you like it if I came back with you? I mean, to your house?"

When I enter your room all I can see is art, beautiful paintings. Hand made copies. One impression of two women curvaceous and beautiful, lounged on velvet chairs and Van Gogh, starry night over the Rhone. Another of a flower, which I tell you I dislike because the colours are garish and one of just blues and purple, radiating from a central circular core of green, swirled out. I tell you this one if my favourite and you ask me how do I know that this one is the best. I think I can just feel it. I ask "Did you do these?", you say no, your Mother. I compliment her work.

We lay on the bed and begin to kiss again. There is some music playing that neither of us listen to. I slide between your legs and you moan and say "You must be an angel" I laugh and say that I don't agree that giving good head will get me into heaven.

You pull my clothes off, quite expertly, desperate to touch my skin. We have sex for a while and then you reciprocate. It feels beautiful, like your painting, all oily swirls and colours bleeding from a central circular core. Your tongue is so wet and firm, I could come like this and I do. I say "You're good at that" and you reply that you like to do it.

We cuddle, kiss more, You make me feel quite beautiful, its very pure and honest. You ask please can you have my number. I hesitate but let you have it. I think I'd like to see you again, but I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings. You have been so nice to me and taken me away for a while. Art is the only way to escape without leaving home.