60 - When Plans Misbehave

60 - When Plans Misbehave

The woman makes a plan.

A long-term, strategic, beautifully orchestrated plan. She’s proud as hell because she managed to carve out three days and two nights with her partner without the child asking suspicious questions like why I suddenly need to go to the hardware store so often. At some point the kid will think I have a second life aisle 17 between screws and garden hoses. 

(Which is nonsense. Obviously.)

And just when everything is perfectly arranged, fate lets out a tiny cosmic fart, shakes my carefully constructed schedule like a snow globe—one good hard shake—and grins like someone who already knows the last puzzle piece is missing.

In moments like that, you have exactly two options:

1. Stand in the corner and cry.

2. Get creative.

I think you can guess which way I lean.

So instead of greeting Leif at my door on Friday morning—wearing little more than a whisper—I drove to his place in the countryside for the first time. Out to the kind of place where the fox kisses the bunny good night.

Partly because I wanted to be a good wife and not send the mister to the office for the fourth time that week. Partly because I was curious—about his project, his self-built tiny house, his little refuge.

After a romantic lunch date—both of us already slightly worked up because we hadn’t seen each other in four far-too-long weeks—we still had about three hours to kill before we could finally go to my place. So we decided to make the most of the lovely November weather and go out into nature.

I showed him various hiking routes, but he chose a simple walk instead. So I kept my golden ballet flats to match my dress instead of switching into the  hiking shoes I’d brought along. He looked at me as if I’d announced I was walking the Camino de Santiago in stilettos—justifiably, as it turned out.

We set off, reveling in the closeness, the silence, and the fact that not a single soul was anywhere nearby. It didn’t take long until my dress no longer covered my ass. But to our personal despair, we realized we’d left the condoms in the car—because he was carrying my backpack instead of his.

Tragedy.

Torture.

A Shakespearean-level case of Lust vs. Logistics.

But being the gentleman he is, he decided it was enough if one of us suffered—and focused his attention fully on me. So fully, in fact, that I soon regretted my choice of footwear.

Not because the shoes were uncomfortable. 

Not because I twisted an ankle.

No.

I squirted into my golden ballet flats.

Cinderella would be proud. Probably that’s why she lost her shoe in the first place. Completely soaked feet. Fantastic. I had never before contemplated “waterproof hiking shoe” as a sexual safety feature.

Leif, of course, was visibly amused—though he heroically refrained from saying “Told you so.” For the rest of the walk, it was impossible to tell what was wetter: my feet, my pussy, or Leif’s fingers.

When the mister was finally ready to vacate the house for the night, I was allowed to take off my soggy shoes. At least until the next interruption on Saturday at noon. But that story is for next time.

The evening afterward, Leif and I went to Paris—first to Sacré-Cœur, surrounded by thousands of selfie-taking tourists (sacred architecture meets influencers: an unholy collaboration), then to a Tigran Hamasyan concert. A breathtakingly intimate evening, one of those nights where I could feel Leif’s love for music in my own body as he held me in his arms for two hours straight.

Afterward we drove back to his house at the edge of the forest. I was his chauffeur, he was my DJ—and we spent our first night there together.

Everything felt right.

So right.

Like I had finally found my place—in his arms, in my own life, and in my now perfectly broken-in golden ballet flats.