My Date With Tom….. Hardy

I fret all day about what to wear, which is only exacerbated by my general physical malaise.

Is turquoise still a desirable hue this summer? Do sequins still accentuate my bootleg jeans in a tasteful, yet undeniably suggestive manner? Have my thighs become the unwitting victims of afternoons on the couch with Ellen, Oprah, Maury et al?

These are the questions that haunt me throughout an already fraught day, culminating ultimately in tears cascading down my rouge cheeks, terminating upon my loafers as I rock gently on the latrine. A gentle breeze slithers between the window and its frame, caressing my glistening brow; I know peace.

Stimulants are avoided like the coagulant plague they surely are, lest my bladder becomes a foundry of broken dreams and my pores a gelatinous sieve. Electrolyte-Gasms and Vita-Fests shriek at me from shelves and vending machines as I ghost past; solidarity becomes me in the face of such a treat that is Tom…. Hardy.

Dusk descends on all I know. I bathe slowly, allowing the billowing water to course from my eager lips onto every sinew – a gentle mist hangs in the loft, crowning the desire to be both alluring and yet aloof.

Flattering attire is at a premium, however after much preening and the letting of approximately 43 millilitres of velvet anguish, I decree that a powder-blue skivvy, allied to cream corduroy slacks will be my vehicle; the clean pastels balancing delicately abreast an otherwise formless figure. Italian leather adorns my feet, the soles a bracing force amidst the levity of the situation.

19:32 – the urgency radiates unto me from the fabricated precipice of but one global conglomerates’ trinket. A mere 28 minutes separates me from this ethereal being, this Tom…. Hardy.

I meet my reflection once more, fastidiously searching for any unwieldy blemishes and applying an extra layer of imitation cologne with which to mask both my desperation and insecurity. My hair glistens anew, the pronounced part acting as a conduit between the playfulness of the right and the staid calm of the left.

19:58 – the rapping of knuckles upon my door, a rhythmic pulse.

One more furtive glance into the mirror reveals eyes brimming with anxiety, and yet simultaneously sweltering with the thrill that lies just beyond the keyhole. A swagger materialises from a place unknown, and suddenly he is there.

The pale glow of a distant moon in conjunction with the filament of decades long-gone reveals the muscular presence that has graced many departures from reality; a gentle fragrance speaks to me in tongues previously unheard. The gentle, yet definite timbre of a man enraptures me; it is time.

A hint of light-stubble accentuates what I hope to be the first of many embraces; a kiss most delicious nestles upon my swooning cheek and suddenly I find myself riding shotgun in the cockpit of a cultured Western-European saloon.

Positive tension hangs in the cool night air as we waft towards our destination – a quaint, yet elaborate Somali restaurant on the outskirts of this suburban enclave. Talk of current weather progressively evolves into anecdotes of working life and meal-preferences for the evening, imbued with a sense of subverted longing.

We arrive at our destination already intoxicated by the simple economy of our being; the neon-livery of the facade illuminates the asphalt with a beautiful melancholy, which is at once at odds with the vibe, yet also provides a counterpoint to the flight-of-fancy I am so near to undertaking in the thrall of this Tom…. Hardy.

Refreshments are served, and finally I am able to take stock of this tremendous privilege I have been afforded. I examine the object of my desire: his hair a perfect tapestry of fine-breeding and incessant grooming; his jaw seemingly carved from a hybrid formation of fine-clay and limestone; the fullness of his lips serves as a potent reminder that his flesh transcends that of mere touch and sensation; a quiet menace whispers from his hulking torso, suggesting a lover of both tremendous strength and instinct. I remain fixated by the gunmetal of his eyes as he holds my gaze for what seems like an eternity, my defences now spayed.

Hot meats accompany seasonal vegetables, a plethora of grains are on hand to facilitate eclectic tastes. Another glass of Merlot passes our collective palates as talk shifts to his experiences as a boy; a happy childhood is shared, although flecks of sadness garnish snippets at times. A love of family is expressed with a smile that instantly disarms me, providing a platform for reflection that is met with empathy – a crease of understanding develops upon this most stunning of faces and I have inevitably plunged irretrievably into a love sought for so long, but that which seemed unlikely only hours ago.

A bridge is crossed, emotional shields have been discarded and I now find my right hand warmly enveloped in that of his left and hence time and space have lost all meaning. Our waiter for the evening – a lovely young man shorn of his wife and children for some time – produces a bill which suggests that it is time to depart.

The journey back is sombre – a formality after the raw honesty of the preceding hours, however a comforting solace emanates from my partner and once more my hand rests within his, the other prompting the steering wheel as we traverse the barren streets that earlier boasted the throng of the young and adventurous.

I cannot deny the passion that burns under the numerous folds of my being, his musk spicing that which I fear will remain unrequited. However disappointment becomes elation when we arrive at my abode; my tendons race as this gentleman escorts me to my door. This Tom…. Hardy.

The metallic symphony of my key piercing the lock is met with a look that induces rains over Northern Africa and I invite him inside.

Our lips meet almost instantly as the door clicks behind our raging bodies; the taste of his torrential mouth is a heady mixture of dark fruits and wanton fury. I am swept up in his colossal arms and whisked to the master bedroom.

The forgotten lamp in the corner still burns from 2 days ago, and illuminates the most devilish of bodies as he discards his shirt like an unwanted catalogue. Trousers, socks and underpants follow swiftly and reveal a whole that demands attention.

Words have failed, and lust is all that remains as my garments taste the rug that serves as a canvas for what will surely follow.

We make love.

Our union initially is that of two fierce panthers meeting in a jungle-clearing, sizing each other up and demanding combatant satiety from our most worthy adversary.

The taste of his neck and body overwhelms my senses, pheromones gallop wildly upon this field of carnality with no sign of abetting until one body lays prone and motionless, the collateral sacrifice of a passion so many would ignorantly decry yet welcome as the recipient were it thrust upon them.

Overpowered, I yield to his rippling mass and offer my posterior as fair game should this reach the crescendo it deserves. My mouth has known no rest, but still yearns for the divine smokiness of his rigid flesh.

The pain is sharp and instantaneous, inducing a mixed feeling of delight. Stretched to within an inch of sanity I feel his hot, moist breath tickling my inner-ear as sweat kisses my lower-back. A sauna develops within these four-walls, fuelled by Tom…. Hardy.

A mutual climax builds and materialises with tremendous force, sustained by the realisation that this is the greatest night of my life.

As I drift to sleep encapsulated within his seismic arms later in the evening, I am soothed by the hope that this could be the kaleidoscopic bloom of something beautiful.