The Games We Play I

I promised this post to my good Sir yesterday. Unfortunately, because I was caught up rearranging our lounge then I couldn’t get it written, however, I did put it on the schedule for today. This post relates largely to my naturist swim days, which I hope my readers (and Sir) will enjoy.

Had a thought of watching you swim.

I smile to myself. Isn’t it so fun when you’re on their mind like that?

I won’t mention that I used to go to a naturist swim and I used to tease the boys then. Oops 😉

I was a naturist for many, many years – First attending Rudgewood Sun Club in Somerset when it used to be good, in my younger years, and then a naturist swim in south Wales some years later. I was too young to be into men and boys when I was at Ridgewood, but I was definitely into boys when we started going to “swim”.

Really, boys plural isn’t the correct term. I teased the boy, singular, a boy called David. I was friendly with the other young boys there too, but none moreso than David. As a young person, what do you when you’re in a group setting where there are only two or three other people your age? You all hang out and try to be friends of sorts.

So we did.

A lot of our time was spent playing a game which involved diving for a rubber block. Don’t ask me why, but it was a very competitive game and near-wars were fought over that thing. When we had possession of it, we used to dive down and place it on the lowest step of the ladder in our corner that we possibly could, or at least until someone wanted to get into the pool. The lowest step was like the safe haven for the block, you wanted the block to be there and the opposing team wanted to take it from you. Foul play was rife, with tackling, trickery and espionage. We played boys vs girls – as boys and girls typically would – with my brother, Matt (not my Matt, but another Matt) and Jake on one team, and Alicia, Freya and myself on the other. Alicia and Freya were younger twins, and I was the oldest at 17.

For the most part, the game was a fairly even 3-a-side. Sometimes David and Jamie would join us, who were older, both in their 30’s or so. David was one of those people who would banter and play with anyone, and so we clicked.

Growing up, I was pretty much forced to support Bristol Rovers. I still am in a sense, my mother, husband and father-in-law all very much support The Gas. If I declared all of a sudden that I now support The Robins? Dear Reader, I don’t know what would become of me.

But unlike my family, David and Jamie supported Bristol Ciry. As it stands, Bristol City often do better than Bristol Rovers, it’s just one of those things.

“Boo! Down with The Gas” David would tease.

“I see Shitheads (another, more crude nickname for Bristol City) lost the other day too? You might want to swap sides yet” I shoot back. David stays near the side and talks to me while I float and relax. I’m not at all bothered by his presence, I let him be.

Rule number one with me – actually, rule number two, because “always be kind until they give you a reason not to be” is my rule number one – is that I don’t chase men. Woman of worth do not chase men, it’s self-sabotage. I might watch men, sure, and I might smile if we happen to make eye contact. I might ackowledge them or chat to them if they speak to me too, or message them first occasionally if they’re normally the first to message me (it’s only polite). But if they want me after that? Well, then they’ll just have to approach me.

It’s how we separate the men from the boys, okay? Trust me.

But it’s the men who aren’t afraid to approach that really pique my interest, because making that approach takes balls. Originality? That’s hot. They’re not using some corny pick-up line or whatever, they’re just being… them. They’re real, and real is hellishly sexy in my eyes. One of the best I ever had was when I was supposed to be meeting a date at the train station and his (supposed) train was running late, and I spoke to someone next to me who also commented on said train being late. It turned out that my date had actually got an earlier train and was now standing right behind me and waiting for me, and he said “yeah, I suppose he’ll be here any minute, won’t he? You alright?”. Bam! Unforgettable.

Bristol Temple Meads and me have a kind of long romantic history, I digress.

David wasn’t afraid to approach me, and I suppose that’s why I warmed to him. He wasn’t intimidated by me, and moreso, he liked to play with me. We liked one another, we flirted often.

I’ll admit, I used to tease David just to see how far I could go and what the consequences might be. I wanted more, I wanted to encourage out the inner Dominant I thought David might have had. I suppose that’s how us playful types weed out our suitors from the unsuiteds; do they play nasty or nice, or do they even play at all? I’d shower longer in front of David (the showers and changing rooms were made unisex for our session, because what good is sex segregation when you’ve already seen one another naked in the pool?), taking longer to get extra sudsy and letting out the occasional slight moan because the water was “just right” (if often wasn’t, but it was all a part of my game). Often I’d make eye contact with David, smile, and then ignore him completely for the rest of my shower. I knew that he wanted my time and attention, he just wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be disturbed while I showered. That was all part of my game plan, too. Rule three: Never be too keen.

After swim, many of us used to converge in the sports bar for a cup of tea and/or a bite to eat before we headed home. I do remember the time David bumped into me at the vending machine in the foyer, picking out a KitKat because I was hungry.

“Just getting something to eat, would you like anything?” I smiled coyly. I knew what I was doing.

He never did make that move.

David and I did bump into one another some many years after I stopped attending the swim, and he did add me on Facebook and we did text for a while. He admitted then that he had a crush on me, and I on him, but for as much as we conversed then he never did understand my needs. David had some learning difficulties, but they weren’t so severe that he didn’t know how to treat people. They were enough, however, that David didn’t know or understand what BDSM was. Nor, seemingly, did he care.

You and me make love yeah hun xxx

A little part of me recoils and dies inside. It’s not that I’m against lovemaking – sometimes I like making love – but I do need that… more. I need a man – men, even – who will call me on my shit sometimes, who will play with me, who like playing with me. Men who like playing the games we play, nicely.

Sadist + masochist = equilibrium, Bill writes. He isn’t wrong.

“Would you like an ice cream?” Matt asks. It’s raining heavily outside and it’s definitely not ice cream-appropriate weather, but the ice cream van is doing the rounds and my husband quite fancies himself a comedian. It’s game on.

“Sure” I smile.

“Really?” he asks, “what do you want?”

“A 99, please. No sauce”. Soft serve vanilla ice cream in a wafer cone, normally topped with strawberry sauce and a rippled chocolate Flake. It’s a British classic.

“Fine” he says.

“Fine” I reply. My eyes don’t leave his – I’m not backing down.

The once-99p ice cream now costs £2.99, and to replace the strawberry sauce that I’d maybe be allergic to, I’ve instead got sugar sprinkles. I am convinced now that my ice cream van has the best sugar sprinkles in town: they taste of sweet victory to me.

“I offered Helen as ice cream earlier but it didn’t go very well for me” Matt tells his Dad.

Rule one for men: never, ever throw down the gauntlet unless you’re fully prepared for me to pick it up.

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