The third one

Back home. My home is too large for a single person, I enjoy the emptiness and dance alone. Suddenly single, in lockdown, in London.
The divorce is going well. I can now date in this city. I can date in lockdown, I have done it in another city, as dark and empty as this one.
Using a different app, I am the one writing to fabulously looking men, no one can reach me unless I decide. On top of a profile that show very little of my face and body. Not faceless but discreet. This is how I start chatting with some men. My rule is to write only if I genuinely laugh at something they write or show. And then I also discriminate on looks, but I try to be honest with the genuine effect the profile has on me: I trust the fun. And with this man, it was the perfect combination: fun and looking fabulous.
Quickly he answered, we chatted, I suggested he gave me his number, the following evening we talk over the phone and we laugh during two hours. Both bold, full of stories, two chatterboxes, with the same vision of fun in life. And of its gravity. During a two weeks we talk several times, each time two or three hours, of laughing, dirty talk and everyday life chat.
I am going to fuck this man - is what I think each time we talk. And one evening, we are talking and it is late, we obviously start a sex picture conversations. It is a school day, but the following morning he is at the station near my home. One of these glorious days in autumn, one that feels like summer. Wearing a dress and underwear, I go meet him and we have a hot drink and a walk in a park. We do not touch each other, he was even wearing his mask at first.
After an hour of a conversation of the same level as on the phone, I invite him home. Sat on the sofa, we obviously start kissing and quickly we are fucking on the floor, facing the mirror of my living room. We started to fuck and we did that kind of great fucking each time we saw each other the whole month we broke the lockdown rules to see each other.
Each time at my flat. Each time we would get a banana bread before coming into my home. And then no time was like the other one. We had clicked on the freedom we see in sex. We had talked without taboo from the first minute. We had shared our most memorable, sensual, changing, extreme, thrilling, unforgettable experiences. We were all about coming for each other, repeatedly. Two border lines having a lot of fun, each time.
Two bodies, tall and muscular both, hairless and tattooed both, thrown into a common desire, directed towards a similar vision of pleasure. We had so many hours of that unique kind of great fuck, in so many places, anywhere we could in lockdown, in London.
One day, around the day I ovulate, I made a comment on his genes in relations to his fabulous look. Mistake, he went broody. No thank you.
We had one last great fuck in a hype hotel, escaping the rules, away from my single woman who happens to be a mother home, and I went home, we had said goodbyes.
He was the third and made me realise I need to fuck a dad. Eventually. But not a married man, I do not do that. Obviously.