It must be something to do with pheromones. That, or his enormous...

Honestly, mis queridos. I hardly know where to begin.

I am a broken woman.

I am knackered. I am dehydrated. My neck is sore.

And the limp of which I was so desperately in search during my last trip to Spain?

Located.

And DIVINE.

Hokay, I need a cigarette before I can get into this.

*lights*

*inhales slowly*

*exhales*

*smiles*

Bueno.

We begin.

First, it should be noted that our plans changed at the last minute. For very uninteresting reasons having to do with various work commitments (his and mine), I did not go to Mallorca as planned with the Replacement Spaniard last week. Instead we went to Toledo - a beautiful little city about 40 minutes outside of Madrid.

Observe.

















































Toledo is an absolutely gorgeous little place - full of tiny, cobbled, labyrinthine streets weaving their way between the former homes of Spanish royalty in twisting paths so distracting in their complexity they have proven insurmountable by foreign armies. A place where the seal of the Nights Templar is still visible on the sides of buildings and where Gothic churches sleep peacefully beside 15th century Arabic mosques and and next to towering stone synagogues.

At least that's what I read on the plane home.

I didn't see a f*cking thing in Toledo.

We arrived at the flat at lunch time on Thursday and didn't emerge again until 2 o'clock Sunday afternoon, at which point I went directly back to the airport in Madrid, trying desperately to wipe the satisfied smile from my lips and to feign the unaffected nonchalance of a woman who has seen it all (and done most of it).

Okay, that's not all entirely true.

We went for dinner once.

It was nice.

In short, Naughty Ones, I have had the kind of sexual experience every woman should have at least once in her life.

***

Author's Note (mostly for the boys):

Sincerest apologies for the next two paragraphs, which are decidedly 'girly' in nature - a tendency to which you know I'm not often prone - but which are also rather necessary to thoroughly set the scene.

Furthermore, chaps, if you'll just bear with me, I promise there will be some note taking opportunities forthcoming.

You'll be afforded the opportunity to ask questions at the end.

***

Bueno, vamos a empezar, si?

First, the man is beautiful.

And I mean every. Single. Inch of him. Stunning.

Black hair, blue eyes, a broad, cheeky smile. He's lean without being skinny, broad without being overbearing, muscular without being bulky. He's tall, his skin is lightly tanned (and alarmingly soft) and he's exceptionally well groomed. (An absolute sexual imperative.)

Seriously, people, even his dick is beautiful.

I wish I had photographs of it.

We arrived in Toledo to a flat which can only be described as breathtaking. Not at all overdone or pretentious, the building was very similar to a Moroccan Riad, all multi-leveled and full of open courtyards, but without the ostentatious carvings and moorish decor of the traditional riad. The flat itself was simple and spacious, with wood floors, open beamed ceilings and 16th century wall decorations, discovered during renovation. Furnished in heavy wood and light cotton, there was an enormous open fire and floor length linen curtains which only lightly veiled a view of both the Alcazar (the huge building with the towers in the photo above) to one side and down to the river on the other.

So.

Beautiful man. Exquisite flat. Gorgeous city.

Are we all on the same page?

Bueno.

Now the sex (which, let's be honest, is what you've all come for).

I've given a great deal of thought to why this man was so absolutely phenomenal in bed, but I confess, I'm struggling. I mean, he did all the right things, of course -

- He was attentive.

- He was gentle when necessary and intense (almost violent) when appropriate.

- He was almost always kissing some part of me (no matter the primary activity).

- Boys, if you're not already taking notes, start.

- He kept whispering to me in Spanish (which sounds revolting but is actually really REALLY hot).

- He was a cradler.*

But I've experienced all of that before, to varying degrees of intensity (and success). It was more than that.

His body was exactly the right size to fit with mine. Our two rhythms were completely in sync. For two (relative) strangers, we just knew what to do to please the other one. Without all the missteps and fumbling typical of a first times with new partners.

We just KNEW.

And I'm not ashamed to admit it, Kittens -

I was utterly blown away.

As we lay, breathless, drenched and sharing a post coital cigarette, even his sweat smelled amazing. I positively dragged myself from the bed that Sunday (partly because I was exhausted and limping, but mostly because I could have very happily DIED there).

Honestly.

I've never experienced this kind of connection - one which I can only assume exists on a hormonal level - with another person before. I've read about it, sure. But I always thought those stories merely the ramblings of an undersexed populace who thought an orgasm equalled ever-lasting love.

Not, of course, that I'm in any danger of falling in love with him. If I'm completely honest, I found him rather inconsequential with his clothes on (average chat, poor knowledge of current affairs and/or economic interdependency and a rather lack-luster sense of humour).

But to actually crave the smell of someone's perspiration**?

It's just wrong.

And also so very.

Very.

Right.

So, my lovelies?

What did YOU get up to last weekend?

*winks naughtily and lights another cigarette*





* A cradler is one who holds the head of a woman as they fall into bed, so as to cradle her landing. It is both thoughtful and incredibly sexy. Write it down. And then practice.

** In actual fact, there was not a single bodily fluid of his which I did not find decidedly appealing.

Yep. Even THAT one.

Brilliant.