Harry invited me to his house to watch a film for our fourth date. I agreed even though it would mean sitting in what I’m calling the shrine all evening but when I arrived, he said, “Shall we go straight up?”
Up? I thought we were watching a film?” I replied.
Harry said, “Yes, don’t worry, we are but I never sit in the living room as it reminds me of my wife and makes me depressed. I always sit in my bedroom.

His bedroom looked like a teenager’s bedroom. There was crap everywhere. The floor was piled high with paperwork, pizza boxes and clothes, including his late wife’s clothes even though she’s been gone four years and, of course, there were even more photos of her on the walls and all of her little knick-knacks still on her side of the bed. It was even worse than the living room.

Harry invited me to sit on the bed and choose a film or he said we could listen to some music if I preferred. I really didn’t want to sit and watch a film while sitting on the mattress he used to share with his wife so I opted for some music instead in the hope that he’d change his mind about sitting upstairs. Harry had created a playlist just for us.

He put it on. It was slushy, romantic, get her into bed music. Before long, Harry made his move. He kissed me gently and tenderly before laying me on the bed and undressing me. He swiftly moved down my body until he was between my legs and said that he loved pleasuring a woman and would happily do it for as long as I wanted as he got more pleasure from the woman’s orgasm than he did his own. 

I had a difficult choice to make.

I whipped off the rest of my clothes and tried to get comfortable on their bed. Harry stood up to undress. Shirt first, then he unbuttoned his jeans and started to slide them down giving me a glimpse of his choice of undergarment. Briefs. Skimpy ones. The unsexiest of underwear known to man. I was instantly turned off. I said he should take them off as I wanted to see all of him but he said he wanted to keep them on. Oh God. This was never going to work.

Harry laid at the end of the bed, parted my legs and snaked his way back up, stopping at my clitoris where he began gently warming me up. The soft, slightly depressing music played on, a little too loudly; it was very off-putting and no matter how good Harry was with his tongue (in any other house he’d have been amazing), I just couldn’t stop thinking about the surroundings, his late wife’s skin still in the mattress, her staring down at me from the shrine on the walls and his fucking pants.

Harry told me to relax. He took my unresponsiveness as nerves. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise so I tried again. I took another look at his wife’s clothes, her knick-knacks, all the photos of her and at his hideous briefs, closed my eyes and tried to let the magic happen.

Nothing. Not even a slight pull of arousal from my barely alive vagina. Harry insisted on carrying on, confident of his abilities. After about half an hour of this farce which included me opening my eyes every few minutes to see if his wife had had the decency to turn around yet and spying Harry’s skimpy briefs each and every time, I decided to put an end to it and fake it.

I started to breathe a little heavier and threw in the occasional sigh for effect. Harry, urged on by my change of breath, licked a little more enthusiastically. At that point, the soppy love song that had been playing changed to one totally different to all of the others. I’m pretty sure Harry hadn’t actually meant to include a heavy metal rendition of The Sound of Silence but as I was still going on with the fake heavy breathing and slight moans, he obviously was not going to stop to change the track.

The singer’s deep, gritty voice began to send shivers down my spine. Those shivers carried on their journey and began to reach all the right places. The deeper his voice went and the more the song went on and the louder the singer began to scream and growl at some of the notes, the more aroused I became until at three minutes and five seconds into the track (I definitely downloaded that one and listened to it a few times when I got home), as the singer aggressively growled his crescendo, I kept my eyes screwed very tightly shut and I growled mine.

That’s what a call a good fourth date and for that, I could possibly get used to the underpants and the shrine.

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