John had come early and done some shopping before picking me up where I was meeting him as requested off the train. He was discreetly tactile on the back way home where he showed me his shopping: roses, a card, a coat, a top, gloves and a book, The Naked Civil Servant, all for me. In return he got one glass of pink Veuve Cliquot – he didn’t want to risk more in case of a spot check by the authorities on his return to prison – smoked salmon on brown toast with a tomato and red chicory salad, special strawberries dipped in yoghurt and icing sugar, and sex. I didn’t myself come though he likes sucking me and wants to be fucked. The feeling’s good though; it’s fine at the time.
His chest is shaved and looks like breasts. Not much taller, he takes large size or extra large. He showered twice and says he has OCD. He’s not going to be housed by the sea after all but in London as if he’d picked up what I’d written in the letter he wanted me to write for him to read in the train before reading it. It makes me think he is picking what I think up through the instrumentality of my man (peripatetic unconscious will or daimon) who can do that sort of thing and is quite likely then embodying him. He says he’s my man and wants me to be his.