As my transfixed gaze took in the detail of the garments suspended in the glass case, I wondered about the women who had inhabited their forms, the bodies once swathed in fabrics coarse and refined. I wondered about their curves, their skin, their scent, their sensuality, desires and cravings, my eyes absorbing the shapes and textures, attempting to place my fair flesh within them and within that time and place.

Standing in the shadowy museum light, I willed them to speak their secrets, their stories of love and lust and loss. I willed them to whisper the tales of these women. If only to reassure me of my own place in the world. If only to reassure me that my voracious and often limitless carnality is not merely a product of the here and now, but rather a hunger we carry, we bear, we release through each and every lifetime.

After more than a week, my body continues to lag half a day behind craving the cold and the sleet and grey clouds hanging low and the 76 to Waterloo, my daily view of St Paul’s and the long meandering walks from Ludgate to Fleet to the Strand and the sea of dashing men with that certain sparkle in their eye, the hustle and bustle and crowds overflowing and Penn and Picasso and Matisse, cinnamon porridge and builder’s tea and the Turkish pastry shop up the road brimming with the goodies I love.

And strong arms firmly pressing a warm body against me.

My stomach leaps in that familiar, excited way as you walk towards me. Your tall, lean body next to me, against me in moments, your soft, sweet lips, your needy, assertive tongue, urgently seeking me out, dipping in for your last taste, our last taste.

Sitting languorously together in our favourite cosy corner, legs tangled, your arms wound around my waist, hands tickling the bare skin peeking from between my shirt and jeans, mine along the broad expanse of your shoulders intermittently caressing your head and nape, we are uncaring of the others surrounding us. Fondling, caressing, touching, in full view once more, our faces a whisper away as our mouths upturn in small smiles, the two of us looking into one another, seeing, appreciating, desiring, memorizing.

Relaxed in each other’s company, talking, laughing, touching, hands seeking out skin and flesh, it is also a strangely intimate meeting for two people who have spent such a short time together. We talk around the subjects that bind us – love and loss and words and writing and sex and fucking and our need for more. More of each other, more time to explore these lustful bodies and the way they seem to fit so perfectly together with each meeting.

But we have had enough talk. You lean into me, kissing me lightly, sensually at first, your lips grazing and brushing and somehow tracing my own soft pink peaks with the slightest touch. Into your mouth I sigh then moan, a barely audible response to the witnesses around us yet just enough to tell you exactly what I want and need. Deep and hard now, your lips and tongue overwhelmingly greedy as they fuck my mouth, your hand slides up my top to my breast and nipple, massaging, circling, tweaking, mine moving down from your chest to your lap to stroke the pulsating bulge I love so well. As we lose ourselves in the moment, my body responsive to your every touch, I am reminded of that day, our naked intertwined bodies, your mouth devouring my cunt, your cock hard and slick with precum dancing across my tongue, the sight of you sliding in and out of me, your fingers in my curls, mine digging into your back, bodies slapping, smacking, squelching, our synchronous orgasm loud and hard, surprising and delighting us both.

With that picture running through my mind, screaming across my body, we part. It is again time to go our separate ways. Coats, scarves, layer after layer, we recompose ourselves for the cold outside. Kissing and hugging, we are acutely aware of the time ticking by and the commitments we need to honour. But we part only to be drawn together again, kissing, kissing, kissing, hands roaming, bodies clinging.

One last gentle kiss and we break for the final time. You walk away and as I look back you do the same. With a wink and smile you turn the corner and are gone, out of sight, out of touch. Even though you are no longer here, even though we have now said our goodbyes, as always you linger, the scent of you on my clothes, the taste of you on my lips, the trace of your touch seared onto my flesh.

And oh how that makes me smile.