Mr. Wrong

While I was overseas I met with a Queensland based Brit. A three hour coffee date at a motorway services was a laugh. Despite having totally different backgrounds we had a bit in common.

I drove away from that meeting with no hopes of ever seeing him again but it’s been just the opposite. He’s become my almost constant telephone companion, he’s been to stay and we’ve attended a rope bondage workshop together. We both came to the conclusion rope look really pretty, but is a pain. Cuffs are much quicker.

We went to a club and ended up making out like a pair of teenagers in a dark corner. We were both dressed in rubber and it was the perfect night for it. We squeaked together on the back seat of the cab and laugh about the next person jumping and sliding right through because of all the silicone on the plastic seats.

We went to the Blue Mountains and took random pictures of things and talked endlessly about allsorts of random crap. We laughed at daft things. We ate chicken and chips out of paper while looking at the Three Sisters and he discovered the wonders of chicken salt. Then we went for a walk and discussed coming back at night wearing latex for a photo shoot.

He looks amazing in latex stockings and suspender belt and my ballet shoes.

He remembered my birthday and sent me postcards from various travel spots.

We came to the conclusion that we are both wrong. And in this case, two wrongs, really do make a right.