Champagne baptism

Champagne and nipples, he said.
You could tell them just that.

I could.

But I feel compelled to add that he drank much of that bottle of champagne from the channel that runs down my back. He drank a good bit more from my hands and tits, my hands serving as cups for both the aforementioned tits and the champagne. He drank more from some lovely Finnish champagne glasses I brought along for the occasion, a remnant of my first marriage. As well as from the bottle. I sipped a small amount. It was good champagne. We clinked glasses and held each others' eyes as we took our first tastes.

He had been with friends before arriving at the hotel and consumed quite a bit of alcohol then as well. He doesn't drink most days, but when he does, he makes up for lost time.

We all know what too much alcohol does to male performance.

It took me hours to get him off.
The beast was very impatient.

The next morning, he texted:

"You were magnificent."

Which probably refers to the champagne trough as much as to anything else.

And later:

"You may tell your blog fans about your stick-to-it-iveness."

Ah yes.
Maybe I should have titled this post The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cocksucker.

In other news...

He called me "sweetheart".
Twice.

After the first time, he paused, looked at me quizzically, and said "Did I just call you 'sweetheart'?"

And.
He said the three magic words.
Except there were 4 words.
The three,
followed by "too."
I did hear them.
They were soft and clear.
Somewhat matter-of-fact.
I'm not surprised at what he feels.
I'm surprised that he said it.
Soft and clear.
And then went on.

I wonder why?
I wonder why he confessed?

Summary: it was a very mixed weekend.

But at least the bottle of champagne is no longer living in the back of the bottom shelf of my refrigerator, where it had been stashed for the last year. So that's something.