19. Mr Delicious
NINETEEN
Mr Delicious
Saturday, 8 June, 5.00pm
Waiting for Izzy to pick me up in my red-hot dress. It’s an evening wedding so it won’t be going on all day like an interminable fairy tale. Hopefully, there’ll be lovely food and drink (freeloading60s.com) and a hunk. #SexStarved60s
Sunday, 9 June, 7.30am
The wedding was UBER-glamorous with the London skyline in all its glory as the backdrop to the ceremony on level 39 of The Gherkin. We both teared up at the bride’s whimsical dress as well as when they said I do. I realised the tears were for the joy of seeing two people in love. I wasn’t crying for me. There was no sadness in me for being single. I have a good life and I’m enjoying it. I wouldn’t want to get married even if, by some miracle, I meet Mr Right.
Thankfully, Izzy and Michael had been seated away from each other, so there was only one awkward moment when the four of us came face to face as we headed to the upstairs bar.
‘Hello Izzy,’ Michael said breezily, as if they were still good friends, ‘and Sophia, I haven’t seen you since … Peru.’
Izzy said a meek hello and shifted on her feet, looking uncomfortable. It broke my heart seeing her like that. I couldn’t have him acting smug and thinking she was sad and lonely without him, even if she was feeling exactly that.
‘I don’t know the beautiful newlyweds, but I begged Izzy to bring me as her plus one. Her gorgeous young man had to go away on a last-minute work trip to the US. It was a shame, wasn’t it, Izzy?’ She furrowed her brow then caught herself.
‘Yes, an important meeting he couldn’t miss,’ she said.
‘But his loss was my gain. I’ve always wanted to see The Gherkin.’ I was pleased Izzy didn’t let Michael see she was still hurting. We reached the upper level and were relieved when they wandered off.
‘Thanks Sophia, you genius.’
I gave her a hug and we clinked our glasses.
Dinner was exquisite. The creamiest burrata and heritage tomatoes to start, turbot with watercress and pea mash, and chocolate tart with raspberries and white chocolate sauce. Matilda’s dad gave a heart-warming speech and then it was the best man’s turn. OMG. He gave a speech fit for a raucous stag party, with stories about the groom’s many conquests and their adventures in Amsterdam’s red-light district and coffee houses. The top table were squirming in their seats, with frozen smiles, but the best man was oblivious. There was a pause, alas not to wrap up but for dramatic effect. He held up an innocuous-looking Tesco carrier bag containing a gimp mask and a whip for the wedding night. One of the grandmas whooped. Matilda’s mum had had enough by then. She stood up, head tipped and smile fixed, hugged and thanked him and gently pushed him back down on his seat mid-sentence. There was a mass sigh of relief, followed by a moment’s hush before the DJ saved the day by playing ‘Embarrassment’ by Madness.
But the speech drama aside, the most exciting part was the gorgeous man sitting at the next table. I could see him out of the corner of my eye (as he could me) and thought, hello! He was in a slim cream suit with white leather sneakers and had salt-and-pepper slicked back George Clooney-style hair and a thinnish beard. And wow, such a sexy smile. After coffee, as soon as Izzy went off to chat to her friends, we locked eyes, and he came over and introduced himself.
‘Isn’t it a stunning view?’ he asked.
He was stunning. And hot. Tsss.
‘It sure is delicious,’ I said, looking at him instead of the view. ‘What a lovely wedding.’ I was trying to stay cool and hot-flush-free but being menopausal is much like being a teenager when you meet someone you fancy. Your hormones take over and you turn into a sweating lobster.
‘Did you enjoy the food?’ he asked, while looking handsome.
‘Oh, absolutely delicious, especially the chocolate tart.’ I’d savoured the richness of it in my mouth. Exactly what I wanted to do to him.
‘Matilda asked me to help her with the menu. I’m a friend of the family. And you? How do you know them?’
‘I’m an imposter. Well, I came as Izzy’s plus one. Are you a chef?’ He had all the right ingredients, put together in the most appealing way.
‘No, I don’t make the food. I eat it and write about it.’
I wanted to eat him and write about it.
‘A restaurant reviewer? What a delicious job.’
‘You like delicious things, don’t you?’ He was definitely flirting with me. ‘I love your dress by the way … how shall I describe it … it’s … delicious,’ he said, turning up the heat.
Then he checked his watch and picked up his mobile. ‘It was lovely to meet you. I’m afraid I must go. I have to submit an article before midnight.’
Damn. He left as I hid my disappointment, but before he was out of sight, he stopped and walked back.
‘I was thinking. Would you like to have a delicious dinner one night and discuss all things delicious?’
Cheeky. But yes.
‘That sounds fun. You can help me broaden my food vocabulary.’ I didn’t want to look too eager. But yes, yes, yes, yes, as Sally said to Harry in the New York diner.
4.30pm
He just texted and asked me to dinner at his house. Hurrah! Going to have a lovely long bath and pamper myself now.
11.50pm
The taxi dropped me off at an apartment block on the river near Tower Bridge. Flat no. 25 was the penthouse. Gorgeous, foodie, and rich. Jackpot. He looked so handsome when he opened the door, wearing a floral shirt and white jeans and smelling of expensive cologne. I wore a blue satin slip dress that swished beautifully as I walked in my silver sandals. I left a red lipstick mark on his cheek. The apartment was softly lit with a warm sensual feel. The Bee Gees were singing ‘How Deep is Your Love?’ Was he trying to tell me something? I headed for the terrace and took in the twinkling London skyline. He followed, and standing close behind me, reached around my waist and offered me a glass of champagne with one hand, caressing my arm with the other. I took a sip. He swept my hair back gently and nuzzled my neck as we watched the flickering lights, our fingers intertwined. This guy knew how to woo a woman. Then he led me to the dining table.
‘I’ve prepared a surprise tasting menu for you.’ Ooh, what a great idea. ‘But I have rules, and you must obey them.’ He sounded so confident and masterful my stomach turned to jelly.
‘I can’t wait. What are the rules?’
‘You must guess the main ingredients of each dish, or you’ll forfeit an item of clothing.’ I was ready to agree to anything but remembered I was only wearing four things. Not that I minded taking them off, but that would only take us through half the meal.
‘I agree to your rules, but I have some rules of my own. If I guess right, you have to forfeit two items of clothing.’ I knew that my refined palate would have him stripped naked in no time.
‘You’re on.’
He walked to the open plan kitchen and brought over two dishes. I took a mouthful as he watched.
‘Tuna, spring onions and lemon,’ I said. He sighed and took off his shoes.
The next course was equally easy. Beetroot, walnuts, stilton cheese. I even guessed the reduced balsamic. Socks off.
The third course was tricky. I guessed beef with artichoke and tarragon sauce, but it was venison. He eyed up my dress, but I took off my sandals instead. He raised an eyebrow.
The fourth course was prawns with chilli and tomato. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Squeezing was what I wanted to do to him. He stood up, undid his cuffs and shirt buttons slowly, and threw his shirt across the room. Then he took the waistband of his trousers and yanked them off in one move. Was that the scratchy sound of Velcro?
He got up to get the next course and I watched his delicious body. Firm and smooth, exactly as I’d imagined. And he was wearing Calvin Klein shorts. Of course.
I guessed pheasant for the next dish, but it was partridge. I reached down the back of my dress, undid my strapless bra and in one move pulled it out from under my dress and held it up high, before throwing it aside. It landed on the sofa on top of his shirt. Even our clothes couldn’t wait to get together.
The first dessert course was a chocolate tart with a twist. There was another flavour I couldn’t work out. It turned out to be basil. I lifted my dress and slowly pulled it over my head, releasing and flicking my hair – ouch, a little too violently.
So, there we were. He in his Calvins and me in neon orange briefs to cover our modesty. He brought out the last course. Strawberries and cream. He led me to the sofa, where he dripped the luscious dessert onto my breasts. The cream started to melt, and the strawberry pieces slipped down the sides of my chest as they oozed their sticky juices. He licked and kissed me, his face smeared with strawberries and cream.
I woke up to find I was lying on my sofa, gripping a spilt mug of tea over my chest. I’d been snoozing after my hot bath. Wishful sofa dreaming. Or was it a prophecy and going to become reality when I see Mr Delicious next week?
Monday, 10 June, 11.30pm
Dad phoned earlier and said an envelope had arrived for me.
‘Who’s it from? Did you open it?’
‘Oh, no, no I didn’t open it. I didn’t look inside at all. Really, I didn’t.’
‘That’s OK, Dad. I thought you might have opened it by mistake. Who is it from anyway? Is there a stamp or address?’
‘Oh no, no. I didn’t open it at all, but it says Soho Photography Studio on it.’
Shit. He must have seen my topless photos. Thanks Mr Ageist Arse.
Tuesday, 11 June, 7.30pm
Spoke to Mum. She has another modelling job. Go Betty! Mr Snappy (AKA Mr Ageist Arse) introduced her to an agent. Is there no end to her talents? I’m pleased for her but worried about Dad. He was hoping the modelling was a one-off, but now she has a second job, he’s been grumpy about being left at home on his own and giving Mum the silent treatment.
Wednesday, 12 June, 11.30pm
Texted Sara and asked if they all wanted to come to me for her birthday but she was evasive as usual, and said she’d get back to me. I won’t hold my breath.
Thursday, 13 June, 1.30pm
Just had a text from Mr Delicious confirming the time and his address. Hurrah! I suppose it’s OK to go to his house on a first date?
Saturday, 15 June, 2.00pm
Brunch with Leila. She’d spoken to Grace but apparently, she didn’t want to talk about her health and changed the subject when Leila asked. I worry Grace is not coping and she’s bottling up her feelings. Time to send her more flowers and chocolates.
Leila talked about investing in Jude’s startup but she’s not sure if his recycled bags are a viable business proposition. Oh God, if he’s a serial cheater and they break up, she’d be heartbroken AND lose her money. If I hadn’t found out he’s a total knob, then I wouldn’t be in this indecision hell. Life is so complicated.
4.30pm
Sitting on Leila’s sofa, I was trying to tell her about Jude, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Finally, I gathered my courage and blurted it.
‘I have something to tell you. It’s awful and you’re not going to like it.’ I was shaking.
‘Don’t look so worried. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.’ She was so calm and happy, and I was about to shatter her life.
‘Jude’s been sleeping with other women,’ I blurted and braced myself.
‘Is that all? I know, honey. We have an open relationship.’
WHAT? When did that happen? It’s so not like Leila to share her man. Jude must have forced it on her.
‘You never said. Are you sure you’re not angry?’
‘No, I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’ll let you into a secret, honey. He sometimes brings his women home, and we have threesomes.’ She winked.
‘Really?’ I asked, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I felt relieved but how come I didn’t know about her new predilection?
‘We’re always looking for fresh meat.’ She paused. ‘Maybe you want to join in next time?’ She ran a finger over her glossy lips.
I screamed and sat bolt upright on the sofa. It was a prosecco-induced afternoon nap that ended in a horrible nightmare. Or wishful thinking that Leila won’t be angry. I’m never lying down on my sofa again. My dreams are becoming wild.
Sunday, 16 June, 10.30am
It was a balmy evening, so when I arrived at Mr Delicious’s Bethnal Green Victorian terrace last night – not quite the penthouse flat he had in my dream last week – I imagined an intimate evening in the garden surrounded by romantic fairy lights. He greeted me at the door wearing a long cream silk kimono. Were we having dinner first or what?
‘Did I miss the memo about dress code?’ I laughed. The kimono, stopping short of his ankles and open at the neck, revealed his furry chest and legs, and when he stepped back to let me in, it opened, revealing other hairy parts. I’d got the hairiness wrong in the dream too but hoped the evening would involve strawberries and cream. Preferably eaten off my body.
On the way to the kitchen at the back, I caught a glimpse of the dining room which had a long table but only one chair. The back of the house had been extended with sliding doors revealing a cute garden. No fairy lights, but there were Japanese lanterns spreading a warm glow, a small wooden table with a vase of peonies, and two chairs. It was all different from the dream but equally romantic.
I sat at the breakfast bar watching him arrange the sushi on a beautiful blue and white porcelain dish and pour saké into shot glasses. Ooh, sushi, saké and sex.
‘You might have gathered that I’m doing a Japanese dinner,’ he said, looking pleased with himself.
I gushed about his culinary skills and admired the lights as we took the food and drinks out into the garden. I didn’t mention not being keen on sushi. The food was not important. He was enough for me. Do balmy evenings make everyone horny?
‘This is for starters. I have Nyotaimori planned for the main course.’
‘How lovely.’ I had no clue what Nyotaimori was, but it sounded adventurous. ‘Is it a tasting menu?’ I asked, hoping.
‘Sort of,’ he replied and smiled.
There was plenty of flirting over sushi, and the saké was slipping down smoothly. We even had a kiss before he went off to prepare the main course. A sweet kiss on a warm evening left me eager for what was to come. I Googled Nyotaimori as soon as he’d disappeared. Wikipedia said:
Nyotaimori – often referred to as‘body sushi’, is the Japanese practice of serving sashimi or sushi from the naked body of a woman.
I didn’t know the name for it, but I had heard of this practice, or art form as it’s called. Though it can look beautiful, I think it’s degrading for women to be used as a food platter or an ornament. In any case, I didn’t want a third person on the date.
He’d been gone a long time, so I Googled ‘how long does it take to arrange Nyotaimori?’ and ended up looking at the images instead. I don’t know which was more disturbing: the ones of people prodding at the poor woman’s pubic area with chopsticks, or the ones trying to pick up sushi with their mouths. I was thinking how the main course was looking less appealing when he called me.
‘Dinner is served,’ he shouted.
I went inside and into the dining room. Double OMG. It was Nyotaimori all right, but with a twist. No beautiful young woman in sight. Mr Delicious was serving the food on himself. Triple OMG.
‘Wow, this is … unexpected.’ Why did he go and do that? It didn’t follow the aesthetic when the prawns were nestled in pubic hair, and the scallops were snuggled in chest fur. By then, I knew why there was only one chair at the table. I wanted to run out, but instead I sat down. I can take politeness to extremes.
‘I suggest you start in the chest area and work your way down,’ he offered, pointing his hand up and down his body as if to say, ‘Knock yourself out, babe’.
I picked a tuna sashimi from the least hairy part of his chest. Weren’t you supposed to put a palm leaf or something under the fish? I inspected it quickly for hair and put it in my mouth. It was indeed delicious. Emboldened, I took a piece of salmon, this time further down his chest. Again, it was beautifully fresh and tasty. But then. Was that a chest hair in my mouth? I quickly took it out and carried on. The plump scallop above his navel was so fresh and went down without any hair garnish. I picked one of the cod pieces near his groin, which started to stir on being touched (the groin, not the cod). I put the fish in my mouth and there it was again. A hair. Oh no, yuk. Two hairs. Even I couldn’t take politeness this far.
‘Sorry, I just can’t,’ I said meekly, and pushed my chair back. He flinched, sat up quickly and got off the table with bits of fish and vegetables flying off him. He stood for a second, naked with a semi-erect penis framed by pieces of seafood still stuck to his body, then rushed upstairs. I waited for ten minutes thinking he’d come down once he’d cleaned up, but he didn’t reappear. I called up to him from the bottom of the stairs but no reply, so I left. I texted him in the taxi.
It was lovely to see you again. Thank you for all the effort with the food. Sorry about the main course. S x
He didn’t reply. Hairy sushi aside, I liked him. I wonder if he’ll see the funny side of it today and call me.
Your sushi made me feel juicy
The omega 3 made me want to be a floozy
Sensual pleasure of the slippery cool kind
The kind that makes you want to grind
Ginger and wasabi are so warming
I’m looking forward to you performing
All those vitamins raise my energy
Sushi and saké, like us, have synergy
Let’s dip into something saucy
Let’s get hot together, you and me
Wait, is that noodle on your nipples?
Pollack on your penis, and bass on your bollocks?
Wait, is that chest fur in my sashimi?
And that? Is it pubic hair in my zucchini?
I’ve gone right off the sushi, saké and sex feast
This Japanese foreplay is now ceased
Monday, 17 June, 11.00pm
Nothing from Mr Delicious. I guess his ego was too bruised to face me again. He was brave enough to display himself as a food platter and I liked his confidence, being a sucker for a confident man as I am. I don’t think I would have the guts to do something like that. I would fret about where my boobs might end up when I lay down, or feel the need to shave off the pubes, in which case I’d worry about the shape of my fanny. Naked Attraction has a lot to answer for. I never knew there are so many different shapes and sizes! Anyway, it’s a shame he was upset about the hair incident. BUT onwards. #TooHairyAnyway
Tuesday, 18 June, 11.30pm
I persuaded Grace to come for a walk on Hampstead Heath today. Finally. Ajay bought her the cutest Yorkshire terrier called Terry, so we took him with us. She said she can’t face going back to work and she’s concentrating on getting better. I never expected Grace to be like this. I thought she’d accept her condition and deal with it like she deals with other problems: directly and efficiently. But it’s turned out very different.
P.S. We stopped and talked to lots of people with dogs. Lots of men with dogs. I might have to borrow Terry for a flirting walk.
Wednesday, 19 June, 11.30pm
Texted Sara to wish her happy birthday and ask if she liked the flowers I’d sent. She just said, ‘Yes thanks.’ I despair. Will she remember my birthday?