Fader updates us on her antics over the past month …. If only this blog post came with an accompanying photo! 😉
Miss Twenty-Nine xxx
When I started writing for 30 Dates as an Experimental Dater, my instinct – given my job – was to sign up for the Education experiment. I had such sensible plans: teacher-based dating sites; dating lessons; going on dates with both phDs and those educated at the School of Life. I enjoyed a tremendous Experimental Dater Blind Date with the genuinely wonderful Mr Mischief, and whilst I haven’t been on one of the infamous Experimental Dater nights out yet (curses, living so far from London: an ED weekend costs me about £200!) I hope to rectify that really soon.
Just recently, however, things have taken a decidedly unexpected turn.
The youngster I snogged at Christmas, and subsequently bonked mid-Feb, has turned out to be very surprising indeed.
I must admit, when I accidentally slept with him after that work night out a month or so ago, I felt awash with the excitement that FINALLY getting together with a chap had given me. I felt liberated. I felt satiated. But above everything, I felt so normal. And I didn’t think I’d see much of him again.
But what’s this? He texted me the next day, and then came the wicked, naughty streak latent within me.
I could teach this fellow a lot of new tricks. Oh yes. Follow me you will, my sex-Padawan.
Thus we embarked on a tentative text-flirt spree that lasted all of about three days before we’d set up a night of Call of Duty and rum at my place. Of course, we both knew this was code for “sex and rum”, but neither of us was saying it. Gotta keep that element of surprise, right? Oh goodness gracious me, I’d say, late that night. I never thought we’d end up in bed together again. What a jolly surprise!
I was well-practised. Could I pull it out on the night?
Turns out I didn’t need to.
The Prefect (as he will now be called, and I will explain later) was making all the first moves. After a good old rant about work, and a lot of rum and ginger beer (seriously: drink this. Heaven), he leans forward and bites my knee.
“Oi!” I cry. “What was that for?”
He looks up at me, shrugs, and says simply, “I like to bite.”
Perhaps at this moment I should have realised I was more his sex-Padawan than the other way around.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. Genuinely, it was ridiculous. We got up the next day – he had a shift at work, so I got up to drive him in – and regardless of any morning breath or smudged eye make-up, he was not only up for doing it again but he demanded it. Then I ran him a bath and made him a bacon sandwich.
Pretty ace all round.
Since then, it’s been quite insane. All my Fader-instincts have, well…faded away. I respond to texts straight away. I glaze over in boring meetings and relive particularly fruity experiences. Far from being somebody to teach, he has taught me: he’s taught me to have fun again, to not define myself through work, to rediscover the naughty side that I’d assumed was gone forever.
We talk on the phone every night and just laugh. There are naughty things involved too, but afterwards we just laugh more.
Three hours a night. Holy crap.
So, why’s he called The Prefect? Well, he’s a preppy schoolboy type; dad very high up in the Army, very well spoken. He’s blond-haired and blue-eyed, the complete opposite to my usual ideal of scruffy brown hair and skinny jeans. He owns a pair of red chinos, about which I tease him mercilessly. He’s also turned out to be the world’s best student: he is up for anything, but equally he relishes the chance to bring his own thoughts and experience to situations.
The best bit is that everyone at work thinks he’s very shy, innocent and quiet.
My goodness: they couldn’t be further from the truth.
Since we began seeing each other (just over a month ago), the Prefect and I have explored a range of brilliantly naughty avenues. On the phone last night, he was talking about how the best bit was that there were so many yet to explore, and that he couldn’t work out which he wants first.
A very forward-thinking attitude. I love it.
Last weekend was particularly brilliant. I won’t give too much away, but this very proper, posh Army family boy spent the night sitting in a pair of my pink knickers, because I’d beaten him at Call of Duty. Yes: a girl beat an Army boy at Call of Duty. I needed a forfeit to make him feel suitably emasculated, and thus the knickers were born!
Not only did he embrace it, but he posed for a particularly brilliant picture.
We haven’t felt the need to have a discussion about what we are. We’re just very happy with whatever it is that we are. There is no drama, no confusion. There are so many laughs. We’re going away to Devon next weekend along with a few others from work, and we have a few plans that I might need to blog about on my return!
I’m proud of myself that for once, I’m just enjoying what I’m involved with. I’m incredibly, disgustingly, filthily happy…though it’s not because I’m in love, or anything. It’s been about five minutes, my goodness. And he is six years younger than me. I’m fully aware that at some point soon, we’re going to have to discuss what we want, and I think we may find ourselves entirely misaligned.
But that’s okay, because I’ve sort of found myself again. And I’m educating, yet allowing myself to be educated. And every day is a bloody good laugh.
I reckon that deserves at least a B+, don’t you?