It was an unexpected, although extremely welcome, phonecall. His dulcet tones purred comfortingly into my ear.
“My meeting finished early, and I’m about an hour away from you. Can you get out for a short while?”
Could I? Hell, yeah.
It had been the day from hell at work, and I was glad of any break, but one which involved being in close proximity of Purrrrvert was more welcome than any other. It was one of those days when, through cosmic intervention, we had wanted to meet but couldn’t — originally… but now it seemed that Fate and the Parking Karma gods were on our side.
I did the patented Elegant Slut happy dance at my desk, and then turned my attention to the voice on the end of the phone line.
“Fabulous, darling. Call me when you’re downstairs, and i’ll come running.”
Now when i say “run”, I am perhaps somewhat overstating things — after all, when i run i give myself and anyone around me black eyes, but I certainly moved with great vigour and enthusiasm. Next thing I know, I’m sitting in his car and we’re speeding off to a little out-of-the-way place in the middle of the countryside, about five minutes from my office.
This place, let me tell you gentle reader, looked gorgeous but the stuff they served…. holy fuck-me-slowly. They can serve me any and all of it in heaven. Or hell. Wherever I end up, I don’t care if the food is iced or flambe. It’s simply fucking delicious.
We sat, and he took my hand, as we breathed in the surroundings, and the flora (and fauna?) that waved appealingly at us through the windows. Perusing the menu, we discussed this and that (Shibaricon, jazz music, the annoying habits of middle management over perceived peons, new tricks to try next time we were both naked in a room together — that sort of thing). All the time we were both comfortingly aware that this was pamper-us time — unexpected and therefore more precious than any other. Time to be savoured, if not exactly savoury (from a culinary perspective, anyway).
Having decided upon decadent dessert indulgence, he chose an item involving Belgian chocolate and truffles moulded on top of a cinnamon stick, and i ordered a pear tart tatin.
“How is that served?” I asked the very pretty young waiter, as he hovered attentively.
“With a scoop of ice-cream, on the side. Vanilla.”
“Of course. Ice cream — everything that vanilla should be.”
The waiter nodded, and bustled off to fill our orders. Purrrrvert’s eyes met mine, his face a study in restraint.
“I take it you’re going to blog that…?
(Happy birthday Purrrrvert. May there be many fun vanilla and non-vanilla times in our future!)