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The Kitchen, the Cook, the Meat and Her Lover.

“Look if you want
you can cook for
me on Saturday.”

I told her.

“You choose the meal
and get the stuff
together and cook
it as a surprise.”

She’d wanted to
cook for me
since about two
weeks into this
thing and I’d
always put it
off for no 
real reason.

Quite why
this simple
act was so
important
to her I
had no idea.

The next thing
I know I’m
sank deep
into a bath with
a glass of wine
balanced on
the shelf that
straddles the
tub and she’s
chopping away
at some poor
vegetable or
herb or meat.

We’ve made love
twice already
and now it’s
just past noon.

She wants to
pamper me.

So there’s
the meal,
the love
making,
the wine
and then
later massage
oils and more
love making.

There’s only
so much love
making a man
can endure
before 
fucking needs
to be 
performed.

In the bath
I wonder
just how I
got to this point.

An 18 year old
girl friend
with me 30,
nearly 31.

It’s something
that shouldn’t
be questioned
I decide and 
take a slow
sip of wine.

I think about
the love
making.

It’s a fair
description
of the first
clinch but
the second
can only be
described
as fucking.

Her on all
fours,
backside high
in the air
as I thrash
into her
until we
collapse.

The chopping
has reached
fever pitch
and I hope
that this is
a good thing.

I slip
down into
the water
and the
chopping
disappears.

I resurface 
for a sip
of wine.

Decent white
stuff from
the local
supermarket.

A drink is
a drink is
a drink.

Her voice
breaks
my meditation.

“Are you nearly
ready?”

She questions.

“If you are.”

I say.

“You’re ok for
a while.”

She informs.

So there I
lay…up
to my neck
in hot water.

This is
good stuff.

I like the
wine and
the fucking
and the
love making
and the 
chopping
and the
bathing.

It’s all
good.

I lay there.

Stupid.

Smiling.

Half sleeping.

I always
have trouble
separating
the good
from
the bad.

But this 
is without
a doubt
good.

I’m sure.

More sure
than usual.

“It’s nearly 
ready.”

She calls.

I’m just
about ready
too.

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