From that spring day in the end of March, where I met the Chef for the first time, we had been together many times. We were childfree in the same weeks, and if it was possible, he came visit me every other week. Sometimes twice a week, if we could make it work.

We were enjoying ourselves immensely and the sex was still amazing. On our first date he talked about his kink, which wasn’t something that I personally had experimented much with. But we started also to play with that part, and it was both exciting and fun. I had to push some boundaries, but I soon found it as a natural part of our sex. And I loved to see the way it aroused him. We were great together that way. Our sex was playful and fun and warm and so, so hot. And we had great conversations and fun together otherwise as well, I really enjoyed spending time with him.

He was both attentive, compassioned and empathic, he was fun to be with and even if he was so much younger than me, it was never hard to keep up a conversation with him.

I have been writing with other men in their thirties (several times in fact), but the Chef was much more mature than the others his age. He had gone through some horrible things with one of his kids (health wise), and experiences like that does mature people significantly. It also had given him this wonderful positive view of life. That each day was a gift, and it should be embraced, which always showed in his morning greetings and always made me smile and made my day brighter. In general, he was a well-balanced and positive man and I liked that. Men my age … they are some grumpy old sods sometimes.

There was no point in denying that I was really growing fond of him. Even if I tried. (Both the denying part and the growing fond of him part).

Biker Dude, which I had been telling about my dates, slaves and very much also about the Chef, suddenly said in one of conversations:

“Do you realize that your voice becomes warmer, every time you talk about the Chef? I think you really like him.”
“Of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t spend as much time with him,” I said, dismissing his statement.
“Naah, I think there is more to it,” Biker Dude said, but I didn’t let him continue that line of conversation.

I knew he was right, even if I wasn't going to admit it. I WAS beginning to get feelings for the Chef, but I didn’t want to. It was an impossible situation. He was 31, for crying out loud. And living 120 km (74 miles) away from me. AND he was actually living at home.
Not at home HOME, but when he got divorced, he moved back to his parent’s house, where they now had built an annex where he could live. In this way there was always someone home when the kids got sick or came home from school, and with the working hours as a Chef, I perfectly understood the arrangement. Actually, I kind of envied him, because I never had a great network when my daughter was younger. And I know that in many countries it is completely normal to have 2-family houses with 2 generations in it. But we in Scandinavia are just not used to it.

Anyway … it wouldn’t be wise if I fell in love with him. It wouldn’t lead to anything good because he wouldn’t want me that way. Not for the long run. He was too young, and he couldn’t possibly want an old hag like me, so I would eventually end up getting hurt. Hadn’t I just gone through a heartache? That hadn’t been fun at all, and I was not interested in opening my heart again. Not to someone who wasn’t for me, someone who would realize that this wasn’t a good idea and then dump me.

When I open my heart, I really do. I have a lot of love to give, but there was no way that I would open for a wrong person again.

But I did notice that his messages had become warmer, and I noticed a small difference in the way he was writing. Small hints here and there, and I was wondering if he was moving in the same direction as me? It seemed so. But he couldn’t … Surely it was me, overthinking as usual. Seeing things that weren’t there.

One day he had the possibility to come a bit earlier than usual, so we agreed to go out for dinner. And we did. And there, in the restaurant, he took my hands across the table, caressing them with his thumbs. Looking at me with those beautiful eyes and smiling.

I got shy. I loved that he did it, as in really loved, but it also made me shy and at the same time so sad. It couldn’t be us! It would never be us!
He was way too young, so there was no way I could give into the feelings which were fluttering inside me. Suddenly, he would grow tired of me and my wrinkles and sagging body, and would leave me, and I would again have opened my heart to somebody wrong. And then I would sit back with yet another heartache.

Besides … I didn’t know if what I was noticing was right. I HAD to be wrong.

On the way back from the restaurant, he held my hand.
I know, I am strange that way, but this also made me shy. I had sex with this man many times, he had seen me naked and seen my orgasm-face countless times, but holding his hands was immensely more intimate. Holding hands shows feelings, it makes you vulnerable, and honestly … I was really scared to get hurt again. I was so conflicted. I liked the feeling of my hand in his. The warmth from his palm. The thought of being in a loving relationship again. 

I remember I asked him:
“What is this we are doing?” and he said:
“I don’t know, I thought we just were FWB’s, but …”

He didn’t finish the sentence, and didn’t elaborate what he meant, and I wasn’t sure ... He wasn’t the player type, but still … he couldn’t feel anything else than warmth and sympathy. How could he?! Why would he?! And if he temporarily did … it would soon go away.

There was one day in August, where I had the possibility to visit him. His parents were on vacation, and he was childfree, as was I. And I drove there, and … he had a home, which he invited me into. With pictures of him and his parents and his kids on the walls. A real home.

If you have read about my relationship with the Bodyguard, you might understand what an impact that small thing had on me. I saw his end and it was real, and he was willing to let me in. That meant surprisingly much to me.
On that occasion we didn’t even have sex. He made me dinner and we ate together, kissed and hugged, but that was all, which Biker Dude really liked to point out for me.

“You know that is very much looking like something more than FWB’s? I have never heard of any FWB’s who just meet up for dinner.”
“Yeah yeah,” I said. Again dismissing him.

I was also invited to a friend’s 50-years birthday, which was located 2½ drive away from my home. I was invited with a + one with an overnight stay, so I asked Chef if he wanted to join me. And he did. He wanted to go with me to a party, where he didn’t know a soul.

But what did it mean? This was clearly not normal FWB behavior. Not from me, as i asked him to join me, and not from him, as he said yes. But I liked the idea of going to the party with him, and just being with him.

Finally, I couldn’t keep it back anymore. In a message I admitted to him that I was getting crazy about him. Sent the text and waited for a million years (or maybe it was just a reasonable amount of time) before the answer came back.
He was also crazy about me.

Or so he said, but … how could he be? (I know I am repeating myself, but I was SO conflicted) Was I just confusing him with this amazing sexual chemistry that we have had from the beginning? It HAD been exceptional. I have never experienced such a sexual connection before, even if I have had some pretty good relations, but never anything like this. And I could understand if he was blown away from it. It must surely be what he was experiencing.

I was extremely confused and very much torn about what to do about this.

Thumbnail picture by Geralt from Pixabay