The Postman

We met in a bar and he scribbled his number on a flyer. And thus began an odd arrangement, unlike any I’d had before. .

He lived in a bedsit somewhere in South London. The bed was a futon and when we fucked it always felt like it was breaking. I always went to his, he’d cook something involving pasta and cheese, we’d fuck like rabbits and then he’d go to his night shift and I’d stay the night, leaving either when he got back or earlier the next morning.
The bus I’d have to get back home always said “Penge” which never fails to make me giggle.
He was hung like a horse. Tall with big hands. Dark and brooding. Again, the memory of the sex is sketchy but I do remember him once holding me down hanging off the edge of the bed while he pounded my cunt from behind. It was uncomfortable but did the trick on more than one occasion.

Of course I couldn’t sleep after he left. I’d go snooping. I couldn’t help it, I’m too inquisitive.
There was a baseball bat under the bed. A shoebox of holiday photos with a girl in the wardrobe. Tampax in the bathroom cabinet. Sometimes condoms in the bin. Once, an empty packet of contraceptive pills.
It ended when he started cooking beans on toast. I just couldn’t go with that one.

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