How the new year begins

The first kisses were chaste — the roommate on both cheeks in the French style, her husband in the same manner. In the first minute of January first, I swapped spit with an anonymous stranger by the Thames and then with several others.

Saying goodbye to my friends, I wandered the crowded streets of the city. Under a vault leading to cobbled mews, I bartered a quaff of champagne from a soldier for a snog. He kissed fabulously. His leg threaded between mine. Back bent into an arch, I kicked off one foot. His arm supported my waist, and his tongue made itself a home inside my mouth. As I straightened, he took a generous feel of my ass. Standing on the tips of my toes, I kissed him again.

Probably, I should have stuck with him for the night. Masterful kisses supply a superlative recommendation for cunnilingus at least.

Instead, I slipped into a cocktail lounge at a hotel and one hour later took an elevator up to the fourteenth floor in the company of a Canadian man. The first fuck of 2012 was a drunken shag of absolutely no consequence or merit. So, too, was the second. I beat a retreat in the morning before he woke.

There is better sex yet to come. Amadeo has claimed me for Wednesdays as usual. I will see Frank on the weekend. I have been in touch with Marshall also.