New City, New…

ELIZABETH ROSE

“One Englishman, an idiot; two Englishmen, a sporting event; three Englishmen, an Empire” – George Santayana

I have been living and dating in Toronto now for almost two years. Prior to that London, UK was my main stomping ground. Often one of the first questions I am asked by Torontonians (after they tell me how much they love my accent) is “So what made you move to Toronto?” Now to this I usually reply with one of a few banalities: “I wanted a change”; “It was getting stale in London”; “Fancied an adventure”; “For my job”; etc.

The truth is somewhat cloudier than any of these trifles can state, and is something that shouldn’t be shared on a first, second or even last date. It derives from a morning gym session, during the time when I was fortunate enough to live in “downtown” London (or Covent Garden as it is known locally). Unfortunately, my luck didn’t stretch as far as a functioning shower. There was a shower, but its function seemed to be to trickle scalding hot water at the same rate as glacial movement. So, being a fatalistic optimist (there’s an oxymoron in there somewhere) I took the opportunity to join the local gym. I have been a member of many gyms throughout the globe, but this one had the edge as there was a wonderful power shower equipped with a thermostat and everything. If I wanted the shower, I had to enter the gym.  More often than not I arrived there in sporting apparel, with the intention to exercise and even break a sweat.

On one particular morning, as I was sacrificing feeling in my glutes for the luxury of hot running water, a rather dishy young man caught my eye. At this point I stopped squatting and decided to move to the elliptical trainer where I could retain some element of sex appeal (red faced sweaty squatting could be off putting for a future husband and I was already concerned it made my bum look big). This also gave me an excellent line of sight to watch the father of my unborn children on free weights, both rear view and his face in the mirrors. I was happily daydreaming about our honeymoon destinations as he strained to lift a particularly hefty weight (I like to think he was trying to impress me). In that instant his face transformed into the mask that hovers between pleasure, pain, joy, disappointment, exertion and utter relaxation. In other words — his cum face.

Please understand he didn’t cum. What I mean is that his weight-lifting face was the same as that he pulls at the moment of ejaculation. I know this, because I had previously seen that same expression inches away from my own while participating in a decidedly different sweaty pastime.

Shock. Utter shock. The fine figure I had seen fit to fantasy wed just moments before was in fact a previously tried and rejected model. Not just that — I didn’t even recognise this until he showed his “true colours”.

To avoid any further run-ins with that chap, I changed my morning routine. But that incident sparked a worrying chain of thought. Had I run out of men in London? Were all single men now to be discovered as past rejects or previous encounters? Had actually I run out of new penis?

And so this is the shocking truth. I, Elizabeth Rose, moved to Canada because I had already shagged all of London – or at least every man there worth fucking. So here I am, new continent, new city, and plenty of new cock.

Bookmark It