SecretSadist had a wonderful turn of phrase and a wicked sense of humour that set me a-swoon from his first sentence. He was my domcrush from the start. I suggested we exchange photographs. Keen, I know, but sometimes you have to be bold.
The final candidate, VladofWallachia, was so terse his message skirted the borders of hostility, but his photograph was so stunning I discounted this. Shallow, I know, but my eyes were tired and something so easy on them was a rare treat. Plus I needed to look at something pretty that wasn’t Superhead Marks. I needed that man’s image right out of my mind’s eye.
I wrote back to Vlad, thinking that I really ought to enclose a photo myself. Which one should I choose? Not one with Gareth in it for a start. One wearing my glasses or not? I went for a specs-free shot of me on the Isle of Wight ferry with my hair tangling all over my laughing face. It sounds awful, but it’s one of my favourites, and makes me look almost presentable. Perhaps, though, I thought, having pressed “send”, I should have chosen a picture of me looking submissive. Except I didn’t really have any of those. Oh well. If he recoiled in horror and never wrote back, there was no harm done. This was fun, an adventure. I was expecting some bumps and ego bruises along the way.
I forced myself to log out rather than hang around waiting for replies and went to bed.
Wednesday morning (I wasn’t able to resist this time) brought replies from all five.
StrictButFair expected me to pay for his exclusive service! The nerve of it. ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ I trilled, dropping his reply into the recycling bin.
MasterAndCommander asked for a photograph.
SirLancelot had written a long rhapsody on a theme by Paganini. Well, not a theme by Paganini, but all sorts of impressionistic ramblings about life, art, culture, touching only tangentially on BDSM. Tangentially was good though. I could see the virtue of taking things slowly. I gave him a mental nod of approval and filed him away for later.
SecretSadist made me shout with laughter and, while he claimed to have no recent photographs, he described himself as having a devilish smirk and a nice high forehead. ‘Let’s get better acquainted,’ he suggested, ‘perhaps in one of these newfangled online relationships before we take the plunge into (the harbour) a meeting.’ OK, you’re the boss, I saluted him, reading further down his list of attributes. Nice eyes, greenish brown. Large nose. White shirt. Olive skin. Mmm, I think I could …
‘You are pretty,’ said Vlad, ‘let’s meet.’
Oh! So soon? Was this wise? Bugger wise. I hit “reply”.
‘Maybe a coffee? Saturday morning?’
‘You can come to my place.’
‘No, I think a coffee first would be best.’
‘OK.’
Shit! Do I mean this? Do I really want this?
‘So you and Superhead are putting on a show.’
Louisa sounded wistfully jealous and a mite suspicious as she placed the Friday evening pints on our table at the Admiral Nelson, our preferred post-school pub.
‘Yeah. Auditions are on Monday.’
‘I know. Sounds like half the school are going to try out for it.’
‘Good. The buzz around this is really encouraging – I didn’t think anyone would be interested.’
‘All the girls are crushing on Superhead. It’s because he’s directing. You’ll be lucky to get any boys. And Romilly is spitting chips.’
‘Hmm.’
Romilly was Head of Drama. It was a highly appropriate job title, given her general demeanour. She was understandably offended that Marks hadn’t left the directing to her. Served her right for being a lazy baggage who hadn’t bothered to put any plays or performances on for three years, then.
‘You weren’t here, were you, for Romilly’s production of Bugsy Malone?’
The legend of Bugsy Malonewas so familiar to all at St Sebastian’s that we gave it a minute’s silence.
‘It was Superhead’s idea anyway,’ I moved on briskly. ‘If she wants to be mad at someone, she can be mad at him.’
‘Hard man to be mad at,’ said Lou wistfully.
‘Yeah, well.’ I needed to change the subject. No more discussion of Mr Marks. ‘I was wondering if I could ask you a favour, actually.’
‘Ask away.’