Tuesday, 23 February 2010

The Dance

My housemate, Saladin (see older posts), came home tonight. I hardly see him because he is dutifully looking after his ailing mother. He did not stay long.

We were in the kitchen, inspecting the damage that the leak from the flat above had caused. It flooded us a week ago, and things have been slowly drying out. There was banter, the usual kind, the kind where I feel as if I am disadvantaged because he unnerves me.

He informed me that I have got off lightly because he has not been around very much, but as soon as he is able to spend more time in the house, he will resume patrolling around, making sure everything is just so. He is the only person I know who is more OCD than even my mother. I am a tidy housemate, but no one is ever immaculate enough for Saladin.

I admitted to him that perhaps I am not the best there is at washing up. I squirmed as I found myself confessing that all the previous men in my life have complained about my appalling incompetance at the kitchen sink. It's not that I don't do it- I do- it's just that no matter how hard I try, I never seem to shift all of the dirt.

That won't do in Saladin's house, oh no.

He casually leant back against the counter-top, but stared at me intently.

"Have any of those men actually shown you the correct way to wash up?"

I answered in the negative, and then smiled slyly and told him it was all simply because they had not put an effective reward/punishment system in place. He agreed and began mentioning something about a cane, I became flustered... I am not quite sure what was said, but it ended in the description of his latex coated cane.

I protested. I would not entertain such a thing. Far, far too painful. And I was quick to point out that I am a purist, it's the biting kiss of bamboo for me. But Saladin never listens to my complaints, and left the room, returning seconds later with a fairly thick cane, thinly coated in black rubber.

He told me to hold my arm straight out to the side, so that my hand was level with my shoulder. I was about to decline, but he flashed me a look and repeated his order. I obeyed. He stroked the cane across my palm, and a battle of wills began, as he taunted me, repeatedly raising the stick as if he was about to strike. I refused to flinch, and looked away. He instructed me to look at my hand, and so I did, and still, I refused to flinch.

All the while he was speaking to me, calmly, matter of factly.

His words made my cheeks burn. Very few men make me blush.

He brought the cane down on my hand, but not unbearably hard, so I teased him.

He began speaking to me again.

He brought the cane down again, and I squealed in pain.

I began to complain, but he cut my words off with talk of scattering rice on the floor of the living room... I blushed harder than I have in a long time. I actually hid my face in my hands. I said,

"I am going to my room now,"

and I ran away.

Rice? Well, that's a story from some time ago. Back when I began this blog. One of my first entries related to what Saladin described to me around two years ago, when we went on a date.

We have been on three dates now over a period of two years, and then three weeks ago, I moved in as housemate. Over two years, we have kissed but once, and he has smacked my palm with a cane.

This is a long, slow dance...


  1. I...love this story.

    And am jealous of the man with the cane.

  2. Really? I had you pinned down as a subbie boy... How interesting.


You kiss your mother with that mouth?