My First Beard / Christ Has Risen

What is the obsession with men and beards? I am really sorry but I just don’t get it. Give me a clean cut chin that I can slobber with kisses any day. Not a mouth full of hair! Urg! I’d make a terrible lesbian!

Mr Beard is an old friend from Twitter.  Some of you may recall his blog.  A fantastically sexy writer, he’d blog about his sexual exploits and his pursuit of the female variety.  I used to enjoy a little read on my way to work each day, leaving me wondering about how gorgeous and sexy he might be in the flesh.  We exchanged tweets for a while and then he asked me out on a date once I revealed changed my avi to the real me.  When we actually met, I was surprised that he wasn’t the beautiful man I was expecting to see.  He had a full on beard.  I’ve never been out with ‘man with beard’.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about thick facial hair. But I went with the flow and there was something about him that hooked me in.  He kept his gaze on me throughout our first date and he subtly touched my legs during conversation; this left me feeling slightly woozy by the end of the night.

Fast forward many months.  I hadn’t seen him in 12 months, in fact.  He’s a prolific online dater, Match, Guardian Soulmates, POF, Tinder, he’s done them all (and continues with the aforementioned).  So I wasn’t too fussed about seeing him again and I have been dating others myself, don’t you know?

Anyway, Sunday afternoon he messaged me whilst attending his granny’s 90^th birthday (why he thought of me at an old woman’s birthday, I’ll never know!).  It was a casual ‘I’m thinking I could come round tomorrow with a bottle of your favourite’.   And so I obliged.  I knew what the following night would entail and I was already getting excited.

We’d sent flirty texts all day whilst at work.  He told me to answer the door naked.  I would have done so but I have neighbours with children to think about.  Instead I told him, I’d leave the main door open to the flat and he could come upstairs and knock on my actual door and I’d let him in.  It worked.  But I wore a very nice underwear set with killer heels.  Once through the door, I wasn’t quite prepared for the sight in front of me!  A larger than life, basil brush-type broom sat on his face! Urggghhhhhh!  He had let it his beard grow waaaayyyy too long! I was quite repulsed! I just don’t do beards!

He lent down to kiss me and I shut my eyes and pursed my lips, whilst this wiry, fuzzball tickled around my lips. I could just about access his mouth.  Really, there is no need for it.  I told him off for growing his beard and that I was struggling to get my horn on.  But it was he who told me to close my eyes.  Soon enough his hands rid up and down my body and it wasn’t long that we christened my kitchen table.  Beard and all.

Let me resume.  Mr Beard did not leave me alone all night.  I have never had a man spend so much time on my own ‘beard’.  I have no idea what he was doing down there but can only imagine he groomed, pruned, gave me a short, back and sides with a head massage thrown in (sorry, couldn’t resist).

Later on, after I fed him (and probably assisted further beard growth with five-a -day), I laid next to him in bed (not a pillow but said beard, very comfortable) and said: ‘You know,  you are looking like a Greek priest and I am going to church this weekend for Greek Easter. Every time I see the priest, I am going to think about you and what you did it to me tonight’.  We both laughed.  I may be thinking ‘Christ has risen’ this weekend but I will have thoughts of other things having risen.  God, please forgive me in advance for any bad thoughts.  It’s not you, it’s your beard.