Talking II
29 July

Well Ross and I have begun the process of talking.

He arrived on Thursday night, got into Lime Street and organised a taxi for himself independently.

I'd been out earlier with some folks from work. We sat out in Concert Square and drank lager in the sunshine. It felt almost Mediterranean. Maybe Easyjet is to blame. As well as Scousers going to Nice and Barcelona and Madrid and Geneva and Amsterdam, there must be traffic coming the other way.

I got talking with Carl and Andy, who is new to my ambit but is possessed of a sunny disposition and pert buttocks. Somehow (it was the lager), we ended up revealing the most outrageous place in which we had had a wank. For me, it was the London Underground somewhere between Finsbury Park and Kings Cross; for Carl, it was a church; for Andy; it was somewhere on Merseyrail. No-one else in the group, like Ian or Joe would divulge.

We had some good food over the weekend - I cooked a rather splendid rice and fish in a dish meal on Friday and some excellent roasted vegetables for Sunday lunch. Saturday we ate out at Roland and Colin's which was v pleasant as there was wine and cigarettes to help the conversation.

And, as I said, we talked.

Not the heavy head-banging talk of my time with Richard. But more with a sense of trying to understand each other and what the aspirations were and where the difficulties lay.

Ross wants to stay in London for the present to continue developing his growing independence under the guidance of various agencies. But he also wants to move to Liverpool to be part of home-building here and is vexed by the dispersing of valuable energies between two homesteads and on the travel in between.

I want us to live together but I don't want to do it at any price. I'm fearful because of the other times I've tried to set up home with someone and it has failed. I want to be supportive rather than self-sacrificing.

There was a lot more than that - but you get the picture. We are talking. Which, in Llandudno, we weren't.

We also had lots of fabulous sex. Sex is always a great lubricator for intimate talk.

Tommy Beecham said that a good performance of the overture to Mozart's Marriage of Figaro should take about the same time as it takes to boil an egg. Judging by our activities on Saturday, Ross and I take the best part of the first Act to shag each other into an adrenaline, serotonin and endorphin induced state of catatonia.

It continued on Sunday morning when Ross first fondled me and then spread me before vigorously ploughing me into the mattress. We needed our breakfast of sausage sandwiches after that. Back upstairs in the sunlight and the warmth, Ross took me for a second time, legs over his shoulders. And having pierced me, he swallowed and suckled me at the same time. I balanced out the karma by banging him in return before spraying an inordinate shower of cum all over his chest. By that stage, we were ready to jump over the broom and sign up for another year of penile servitude.

Big Brother came to an end. The last four in the house were Elizabeth, Dean, Helen and Brian and that was the order in which they emerged. Obviously, the sensible people in the country weren't wasting their money by voting so the children came top. You can be snide and selfish or thick and loud and still stand a very good chance of winning. It must be another case of the powerless in the land sticking up for their own.

So the horny little devil won.