I imagined Valentine sex would be different than regular Sunday morning sex. Spunky, fragrant as plumaris, a dianthus supurbus experience.
Three weeks ago, I made a date with Vee and insisted she block time for us in her calendar. She agreed only when I promised to stick to the schedule.
A romantic rendezvous with a woman who metes out her time like a florist counts roses is dangerous. Pacing was important and I thought I had it worked out perfectly. A beginning, a middle, an end all within one hour which was 45 minutes more than usual, a test of our mettle, yes, but a worthy test.
Vee meditates for an hour every morning, rain or shine, on the screened-in back deck overlooking the Kootmacs harbour and the glacier. While she centred herself ohming in the fog siphoning through the screen, I changed the sheets. Vee does not like satin. It’s cold. Instead, I went with soft rose flannel. I laid out the new solferino pink nightie I bought for the occasion although I hoped she’d choose not to wear it. I pinkified the bedroom with essence of carnation. I made a nice pot of Rosehip tea (it helps her arthritis), draped the cozy over it, slid under the covers, pulled off my briefs, and waited. My bosom heaved. Vee teases me about my lack of tone.
Ten minutes before the appointed hour, I heard her clattering around the kitchen. “Harry! Have you seen my Minton tea cup and matching tea pot?”
“Up here, darling!”
Then everything went quiet. My head settled into the pillow. The flannel settled between my legs and stroked my arms as I shifted and waited. The foggy light filtered into the room diffusing the pink like champagne spray.
At 8:45 Vee woke me up. “You looked so peaceful and happy while you were sleeping, so I let you snooze.” She was wearing the nightgown I bought her, sitting up, balancing her teacup and saucer like the lady I love. Her bosom heaved. She was ever so pleased that we stuck to the schedule.