Pumpkin spice latte and cinnamon muffins


I love all the seasons: summer for its fun beach days and the warm sun rays recharging one’s soul; winter for its beautiful scenery, when the world is covered with fresh snow and for all the winter sports; spring for the flowers, bees, and the scent of nature’s awakening. But none of them sings so much in tune with the melancholic little girl, who lives in the forgotten depths of my soul, like autumn with the changing colours of the leaves and the calm of cosy nights in front of the fireplace on crisp evenings.In the daytime, we are still basking in the warm sun rays but the mornings and evenings have a bitter nip already. It’s not chilly enough to turn the heating on just yet, but cold enough to get the blankets out, along with my favourite autumn spices. Everyone likes a nice creamy pumpkin spice latte but for me, it brings back some very special memories.A few years after the turn of the bursa escort bayan millennium, I was living in the Big Apple and I briefly dated a guy called Robert. He was much older than me, in his late forties, possibly early fifties – I never asked – and I was in my early twenties. After working in the city all week, on Friday evening or Saturday morning, I drove to his place and stayed for the weekend. He lived in a small but beautiful ranch-style house on Long Island; offering a paradise of calm and serenity, a perfect antidote to my hectic city weekdays.When I arrived, sometimes very late on Friday night, I often just fell asleep in his arms, waking up the next day to the scent of freshly brewed pumpkin spice coffee, cinnamon muffins baking in the oven and his arms around me, or the playful ticklish sensation görükle escort of him blowing gentle kisses all over my body.We always slept naked under a thick double duvet and it was too cold in the morning, so he made sure I could stay under the warm cover as he delved under the sheets and made sure I’d woken up fully, numerous times, if you know what I mean. He was such a selfless, gentle lover. My pleasure always came first and he knew what most don’t: one is never enough.A huge smile is spreading on my lips now as I’m sipping my salted caramel latte (because pumpkin spice is so 2003) thinking of him, his virtuoso tongue, and his uh-m lovely chunky fingers.Sometimes, I wonder why on earth are we left with the particular memories of our exes – or people in general – that we do. If you’d ask me what size he was in other departments, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. But other, seemingly insignificant details have stayed with me forever: the sound of his bare feet walking on the hardwood floor, the crackling of the fireplace, and the beautiful sunny but breezy afternoons we spent sitting on the dock of the bay kissing and indulging in a slightly scandalous foreplay, bringing outrage to the faces of his elderly neighbours. And of course, the scent of those autumn spiced, heavenly multiple-orgasmic mornings.Gentlemen, I can, with great reassurance confirm that size does not matter, if you can offer another, long-lasting experience.Reminiscing about those heated incidents on the dock, it occurs to my now more experienced, more kink-knowledgeable mind that he must have had an exhibitionist streak. Because not only was he a fan of – what’s nowadays fashionably referred to as an acronym, PDA – public display of affection, but every time we walked back to the house, still involved in frisky snogging, he ‘forgot’ to close the curtains on his big bay windows. His house was on a quiet, abandoned stretch of beach but still had the occasional dog walker passing by, which didn’t seem to bother him at all.

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